11. Brynn
Chapter eleven
Brynn
T he instant I step into his dark bedroom, I realize I’ve made a colossal mistake.
The sounds coming from behind the half-open bathroom door should be enough to send me scurrying to my room and locking myself in, then spending the night reading something virtuous. Like Anne of Green Gables . Or my well-loved, brittle copy of The Secret Garden .
Because mixed with the calming white noise of the shower spray are other sounds…deep, guttural, manly sounds. Sounds that make me squeeze my thighs together and send my pulse racing.
Rather than bolt, I stand stock still, my toes digging into the plush tan rug, and listen to my roommate practice his own self-love. Mom would give him a gold star.
Clutching the folded T-shirt and joggers that somehow got mixed up in my laundry last weekend, I inch closer to his bed. I’m only venturing into Griffin’s room to return his clean clothing. That’s it. When my knees hit the end of his bed, I lay the pile on the plush comforter.
But I don’t leave.
Instead, I approach the bathroom door, playing a very dangerous game. If he catches me perving on him, I’ll have to move out. Not only out of this apartment, but out of the whole dang state. My dignity would demand it.
The threat isn’t enough to stop me. Swallowing my worries, I step closer. Closer. So close, the steam from the shower caresses my skin. I keep my eyes downcast, afraid of being discovered, but when another low grunt reaches my ears, I’m powerless to stop myself from seeking more.
The fog on the glass doors hides most of him, sending a fissure of disappointment through my gut. All I can see are his wide shoulder blades and dark head, which is bent forward under the spray of the shower. One hand is visible, too, where it’s braced on the wall next to the round dial, and his other hand…
It’s hidden from view, but the rhythm with which his arm moves is unmistakable. I spy, mesmerized, as his grunts and groans become more frequent. Tingling sensations flood my body and my panties go damp while my heart pounds so hard it’s a drumbeat in my ears.
God, he’s getting close. His growls and moans are frantic now.
I clench my fists and force myself to breathe evenly. How easy it would be to slip my hand inside my shorts and find the pleasure he’s unaware he’s prompted me to chase.
When he reaches the peak, my knees weaken, but then a growly “Fuck, Brynn” escapes his lips, and my spine snaps straight.
Holy hell. Did my friend-turned-roommate-turned-unrequited crush growl my name when he climaxed? Is there another Brynn in his life I’m unaware of? Was he thinking of me the whole time he was jerking off?
All these questions, and more, rush through my mind as I sprint for the door, across the living room, and up the stairs to my bedroom. I don’t even attempt to keep my mad dash quiet, hoping like hell he can’t hear me over the sound of the shower. Once inside, I lock my door and fall back against it, chest heaving.
I clamp a palm over my lips to quell the giggle that bubbles up from my chest, while my lashes do battle with the sudden wetness that stings my eyes. A maelstrom of emotions surges, threatening to pull me into hysteria—a mixture of confusion, lust, pride, longing, doubt, amazement, and hope. Hope, most of all.
So much damn hope that the desire I’ve been harboring isn’t one-sided.
Somehow, I lull myself into a deep slumber a couple of hours later. It takes two gold-star sessions to accomplish that feat, but I awake clear-eyed and determined.
It’s time to have a real conversation about this undeniable chemistry and the flirty touches and the almost-kiss. (But not about the shower thing, because I might combust.) Because I need answers. I hate this treading water status our relationship is in currently.
I’m going to do it. This morning, before I lose my nerve. Even though he has a game in a few hours—one he insists I attend—I can’t go one more day without bringing up the eight-hundred-pound gorilla that’s become something of a third roommate.
Confronting him is a huge risk. There’s no guarantee he wants anything more than friendship. But I’ve wasted five years of my life already because I was too scared to take a leap and put myself first.
Maybe those “thirty and thriving” magazine articles I’ve always dismissed are right. Maybe this is the age of self-awareness. They were spot-on about the unexplained phantom back pains and more frequent bouts of acid reflux.
Resolute, I run through opening-line options in my head as I shower. When I have a clear direction, I shut off the water and stand in the stall to center myself, calm my breathing, and whisper a pep talk into the steamy air. “You got this, Brynn.”
As I open the shower door and reach for my towel, the door to the bathroom bangs open, startling me so badly I jump and nearly slip on the wet tile. At the sight of a shocked man in the doorframe, I shriek.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He covers his eyes and flops back into the hallway, his back bouncing off my closed bedroom door.
“Who are you?” I yell as I scramble to wrap the towel around my dripping torso.
Blood rushes in my ears so fiercely I almost don’t hear Griffin shouting my name from below or the pounding footsteps on the stairs. As he appears, I blink to clear my sudden double vision.
Because there are two Griffins standing in the hallway. There’s my Griffin, clothed in shorts and a T-shirt that strains against the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Then there’s the intruder, wearing only a pair of black joggers slung low on his hips. His sculpted chest and every inch of his arms down to his wrists are covered in colorful tattoos.
As I blink again, the differences between the two men become more distinct. Tattoo guy is a couple of inches shorter, and his hair—the same dark brown–black as Griffin’s—is long enough to curl at his nape rather than buzzed like Griffin’s. And his cheeks are covered in a light stubble, unlike the short beard my roommate has.
“Tucker, what the fuck?”
Ah. I take in a deep breath for the first time since the door flew open. Now the pieces slot into place. This tattooed intruder is Griffin’s younger brother.
To his credit, the younger Lacey keeps his hand over his eyes as he says, “Shit, I’m so sorry, naked stranger. I had no idea someone was up here.”
“Why are you up here?” Griffin barks, crossing his arms.
Hand still in place, Tucker clears his throat. “I crashed here last night. Came over so Lux could put some finishing touches on my sleeve. After, we went down to Beale. I was too shit-faced to drive home. Didn’t want to wake you, since you have a game today, so he used his spare key to let me in. I was asleep the second my head hit the couch. That thing is hella comfy, by the way.”
With a glower, Griffin swats his brother’s arm. “Uncover your eyes, dumbass. She’s wearing a towel. And you couldn’t bother to send a fucking text to let me know you were in town?”
Tucker slaps a hand to his heart. “Sorry, it slipped my mind. I didn’t even head this way until after nine.” He gives me a little wave, and his eyes—the exact shade as his brother’s—crinkle in the corners. Then he hits me with a dazzling Lacey smile. “Hey, I’m Tucker.”
His charming swagger is so like his brother’s, but there’s a boyishness about him that Griffin lacks.
I pull my dripping hair over one shoulder and clasp the towel tighter across my chest. “Brynn.”
The three of us stare in awkward silence. Griffin’s gaze drifts down to my chest and lingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he looks away, catching his brother doing the same, he smacks him on the back of the head. “Quit looking at her.”
“Shit. Sorry.” With his hands in the air, Tucker tips his head back and groans. “I’m so hungover. Make me breakfast before I die, Griff.”
His brother huffs, though it’s a mostly good-natured sound. “Fine. But put on a fucking shirt.”
Tucker nods, then he blinks at me. “Brynn. It’s nice to meet you. Sorry about the naked stuff.” The way his cheeks go pink and the sheepish smile that tips his lips only make him more adorable.
“Oh.” A nervous laugh escapes me as cool air hits my skin, causing me to shiver. “Um, yeah, no worries. I guess.”
Griff’s eyes flash a stormy gray as his brother walks away. “Seems shower privacy is hard to come by in this apartment.” With a quirk of his lips, he’s gone.
I slam my eyes closed, and the fire of a thousand suns burns me from within .
Holy hell, he knows.
Yep, death by mortification.
Oh God, I’ll never admire his gorgeous eyes again. And forget that relationship conversation I have all worked out in my head. Maybe I should feign an illness to skip the game. Go full stealth-mode. He’ll come home to find I’ve moved out like a thief in the night.
When I finally coax myself back to reality, Tucker’s voice echoes in the stairwell. “I’m telling Mom you’re living with a woman.” His statement is followed by a breathy oomph —no doubt a result of his brother’s physical response.
From below, Griffin’s deep baritone commands, “Join us for breakfast, Brynn.”
So much for my plan to avoid him at all costs.
I go through the motions of blow drying and styling my hair, applying makeup, and dressing like a dead woman walking, a deep sense of dread weighing down my limbs. With a fortifying breath, I descend the stairs, ready to face my fate. But when I make it to the main floor, the sight of a two-time world champion dishing scrambled eggs onto his younger brother’s plate softens every tense muscle in my body.
“Scrambled okay, professor?”
Nodding, I take the stool next to a still-shirtless Tucker.
“You’re a professor?” the younger Lacey asks through a mouthful of eggs.
Griffin answers for me. “She’s working on her doctorate.”
“Cool.” His brother nods.
We eat in silence—Tucker and me at the bar, and my roommate propped against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he scoops forkfuls of eggs into his mouth. His intense scrutiny makes me twitchy .
“You got a tattoo last night?” I study the intricate shapes and patterns etched into Tucker’s skin. There are so many colorful details, it’s hard to decide where to focus first.
“Yeah, had this bottom part of my sleeve finished.” He holds up his right arm where what looks like a strip of plastic wrap circles his wrist. I survey the design beneath it, then work my way farther up Tucker’s arm to the wing that’s inked onto his shoulder and left pec.
The sound of a plate clattering to the granite countertop startles me, and I spin to face my roommate.
Griffin storms into the living room and snags the T-shirt that’s crumpled in a chair. He balls it up and chucks it at his brother’s face. “Shirt, dickwad.”
“All right, asshole.”
A giggle breaks free. “Do all siblings call each other such endearing names?” I turn to Tucker. “I’m an only child, so I have no experience in this department.”
Shrugging, he gives his brother a fond smile. “Shaw’s way worse than we are. I can’t remember the last time he called me by my given name.”
“True.” Griffin rubs a hand along his short beard and checks his watch. “I’ve got to get changed. Tuck, take care of the dishes.” He points at his brother. “And don’t bug her.”
Dutifully, Tucker salutes his brother. Then he hops up from the stool. As he rinses the dishes and loads them in the dishwasher, he tilts his head and asks, “So what’s with that?”
The white board on the pantry door was probably hung to be used for grocery lists or reminders, but Griff and I have given it a new role.
“Crossword clues,” I explain. “We leave clues and draw the empty boxes for one another’s guess. We build off each other’s words until we run out of space, then we start again. ”
I came up with the idea after I discovered the tiny dragons all over the apartment. My first clue— we’ve been invaded —was written underneath a horizontal chain of seven empty boxes. He got the answer correct on his first guess, then drew a vertical grid that contained the R from dragons and wrote you are not a fan as his clue. The answer? Gherkins .
Tucker scoffs, but there’s affection in the sound. “Griff and those damn puzzles.” When he’s loaded the last plate into the machine, he closes the door and uses a dish towel to wipe the counter around the sink. “He got hooked in college. Mom picked up a book of them while she was shopping for his favorite snacks and put it in a care package.”
The kitchen is spotless when Griffin emerges from his bedroom looking like a GQ model. He’s wearing gray dress slacks that hug every muscle so perfectly that I mentally add to the tally of cookie bouquets I’ll send the tailor if I ever discover their identity. On top, he’s layered a dress shirt in the lightest baby blue under a fitted sport coat a few shades darker. And to top it off, there’s a navy and white polka dot pocket square peeking out.
Tucker wolf whistles, garnering an eye roll from his older brother.
Slipping his phone into his inside breast pocket, Griff considers me. “I have something for you in the truck, professor. Walk down with me?”
I gulp down my nerves and slide off the stool, then I follow him out without a word. The entire trip downstairs, I’m convinced he’s going to ask me to move out. He probably just doesn’t want to do it in front of Tucker. Flames of discomfort burn my insides so hot that even the crisp late-October air is no match. As we stop next to the silver Ram, I square my shoulders, preparing for his censure.
When he withdraws a blue gift bag from the back seat—one that reads Hound Town Merch and is printed with a picture of King, the Blues’ mascot—my stomach knots in confusion. He dips his chin in encouragement, his expression easy rather than hard, so I reach inside and pull out a soft navy T-shirt.
“I know you don’t wear jerseys, but I can’t let you go to a Blues game without the proper attire.”
“Th-thank you.” I hug the shirt against my chest and smile up at him.
His eyes are exceptionally blue today.
Having Tucker Lacey as my guide is a lot like being escorted by a rambunctious puppy.
“Ooh, Brynn, hold up. We need nachos.”
I shift the soft pretzel, soda, and box of popcorn I’ve been juggling into one arm to take the proffered tray of pulled pork nachos. Tucker’s arms are laden with hot dogs, a couple of cans of beer, and a personal pizza, along with the funnel cake he insists we’ll share.
I’m so focused on making sure none of these snacks splatter on the concrete that I don’t have a real chance to freak out about meeting Griffin’s family for the first time.
Only when Tucker stops at a door that displays a Reserved sign do my scrambled eggs threaten to reappear.
When we arrived at the stadium, I promised Tucker that I’d be fine to find Paige and the other WAGs on my own, but the same bottom-lip pout he used on his brother this morning had me folding like tissue paper.
It’s ridiculous to be so nervous about meeting the Laceys, yet here I am. I’m desperate for his people to like me, to want to know me. But my anxiety about meeting his family is doubled when Griffin isn’t here to act as my security blanket .
The security guard at the door slaps Tucker on the back. “Tuck, good to see you. Hope your big bro kicks some Devil ass today.” Then he eyes me, one brow lifted. “Who’s this?”
“She’s with us,” Tucker says, adjusting the trays in his arms. “Griff’s cleared it with the team. You should have her credentials.”
The guard yanks his phone from his pocket and consults it. “Ah, Ms. Nelson. You’ve been added to the permanent guest list for Mr. Lacey’s suite. Hope you enjoy the game.”
Holding my breath, I turn to Tucker for an explanation, but he’s already pushing the door open with his foot.
While he greets his family and passes out snacks, I stand back and take in the details of the suite. Two rows of eight stadium seats face a huge window that overlooks the field. Directly behind the seating area is a long, narrow wooden bar with a row of navy leather stools tucked underneath. Three round pub tables fill the main space and are covered with drinks, food, purses, and phones.
“Brynn, come meet everyone.” The youngest Lacey brother has already relieved himself of his snacks and takes mine from me as well.
When he steps away, I’m met with several pairs of curious eyes.
“These are my parents, Donna and Fred.”
Both Lacey parents wear number 89 jerseys and warm smiles. Donna is my height and curvy, with a white-blond bob, while Fred has a silver-gray goatee that matches his hair.
“This,” Tucker continues, “is Shaw, the oldest.”
A striking, but wary, pair of ocean-blue eyes study me as he gives me a subtle chin dip. He’s as handsome as his brothers, and even though he’s the shortest of the three, he still stands inches taller than everyone else in the room, save for Tucker. His hair is several shades lighter, too; the medium-brown strands are cut in a length somewhere between Griffin’s buzz cut and Tucker’s longer locks.
“Brynn, so glad you could join us today.” A lanky older woman wraps my hand in a solid shake. With one look at her features, I can tell she’s related to Donna, though she’s leaner and her shoulder-length hair is cinnamon colored, streaked with silver. “I’m Aunt Dot or Dottie—I’ll answer to either one. And this is Griff’s cousin, Trixie.”
A petite redhead with spunky pigtails sidles up. “She’ll answer to anything except her real name,” she says, her tone all sass. “Isn’t that right, Dorothea ?”
Dot gives her daughter a playful pinch. As she does, I get a glimpse of an insulin pump on the back of the younger woman’s arm.
“Respect your elders, Beatrice ,” Tucker taunts.
With a scrunch of her nose, Trixie grumbles something unintelligible.
A super cute dark-blond guy appears at her side and drapes his arm across her shoulders.
Tucker introduces him next. “This is my best friend, Cam.”
The hazel-eyed man salutes me as Trixie attempts to shrug him off.
“We call him the fourth Lacey,” Donna explains, her smile warm. “He and Tuck have been close since kindergarten.”
“And they still act like kindergarteners.” Dipping low, Trixie spins away from Cam.
Tucker scoffs, “Whatever, Trix,” right as Cam states, “We’re not the ones with a record, Silly Rabbit.”
Waving at them dismissively, Trixie grasps my hand and tugs me toward the food. “Let’s grab a snack before these vultures eat it all, then you can tell me about how you met Griff.”
I sit between Trixie and Tucker during the first half, and both prove to be valuable commentators. Trixie dishes on the personal lives of some of the players and spills a little about what Griffin was like growing up. Tucker explains the nuances of the game and answers all my sports-ignorant questions. I get caught up in the excitement that rolls through the stadium every time the Blues make an impressive play. By the end of the second quarter, I’m so invested in the game, I jump out of my seat without waiting for clues from those around me and cheer along with Griffin’s family when he scores a touchdown that ties the score.
At halftime, Paige texts where are you? Before I can answer, she’s skipping down the steps to join me in the front row of the suite. After quick hellos, the Laceys gather at the tables or dash off to get more food, giving me and my friend some privacy.
“Griff’s having a great game. Five catches and a TD.” Twisting a strand of her honey-blond hair, she leans in close. “And it looks like your future in-laws have already welcomed you into the fold.”
“Paige.” With my heart in my throat, I peek behind us to ensure she wasn’t overheard. “No more talk like that, please.” I debate whether to share my shower spying session from the previous night, but since his mother is standing a few feet away, I decide to save it for another time.
“Okay, okay.” She raises her hands. “But I told you—my gut is scarily accurate about these things.”
She stays and watches the third quarter with us, giving my hand a comforting squeeze when Griffin takes a hard hit mid-field and is slow to get up. I swear the seconds he lies unmoving on the turf take years off my life. But when he pops up and leaves the field on his own, my heart settles back into his normal rhythm.
I don’t know how Paige and the other WAGs do this every week. It’s like a piece of my heart is on that field, in constant danger of being trampled, with little more than plastic and foam to protect it.
Paige leaves to join her other friends at the end of the third, and I spend the rest of the game on the edge of my seat. In the end, the Blues emerge victorious. And even though it was a close game, Griffin’s eight receptions and two touchdowns were crucial in securing the win. Final score: Blues thirty-five, Devils thirty-two .
As we exit the suite, Tucker stops me from following the signs to the parking lot. “Come with us to the family zone. We’re gonna meet up with Griff when he’s done with the media.”
Trepidation washes over me. “No, that’s—y’all go ahead.” The last thing I need is to bump into Jack while surrounded by Laceys.
But Griffin’s family—and Cam—watch me, expectant and hopeful. Except Shaw. He narrows his eyes in scrutiny.
Trixie trundles back to where I’m frozen in the middle of the concourse. “Don’t fight the Lacey love. They’ll just smother you with more.” She wraps an arm around me, nudging me forward.
Giving in, I shake my head and pick up my pace to keep up with the crew as they navigate the halls.
“You’re the first woman Griff’s ever invited to sit with us for a game. Did you know that?” Trixie gives me a conspiratorial wink. Charm must run in this family’s genes.
“Really? But what about—”
“Nope. Not even her .” She scowls. “Thank heavens.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to repeat my default reminder: We’re just friends.
But this time, I don’t even bother with the lie.