4. Babysitting Gig
BABYSITTING GIG
ANDERS
When I get home from the tavern, I don’t expect there to be company.
But when I finally made it inside, I saw Parker and Logan Bishop are shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen counter, both leaned over a sheet of paper like they’re planning a military operation instead of whatever hockey-related bullshit has them so insanely focused.
Parker looks up first. The second his eyes land on me, something in his face softens. “I thought you were gonna be home for dinner.”
Bishop turns next, immediately cheesing. “Holy shit,” he laughs. “I thought this asshole was joking when he said he had a live-in babysitting gig.”
“Bish,” Parker warns flatly.
“What?” Bishop snorts before opening his arms dramatically toward me.
I laugh under my breath and let him pull me into a hug because Logan Bishop has always been impossible not to like—despite being a walking STD. He smells like pricey cologne and wintergreen Zyns, and he always squeezes me hard enough that I nearly burst at the seams.
“Look at you,” he says, holding me at arm’s length afterward. “All grown up. I swear to God, last time I saw you, you were sitting on Luca’s shoulders eating arena pretzels.”
“I literally saw you two months ago at a charity thing.”
“Shh. We’re having a moment, Anderson.”
I snort, finding it impossible to hold back my laughter around him.
Over Bishop’s shoulder, I catch Parker watching us with an unchanging expression.
Someone normal wouldn’t recognize it, but I’m obviously not normal.
His jaw is tightly set in that subtle way it gets when he’s annoyed, but trying not to show it.
His forearms are braced against the counter with his sleeves shoved up to his elbows and his broad shoulders squared a little too stiffly.
God, those fucking tattoos always get me going.
His left arm is a tangle of dark ink and sharp lines, all nature-inspired.
I think the coolest one is probably the spider that’s perched against the inside of his forearm like it’s just waiting to pounce.
The designs weave together seamlessly, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his shirt before resurfacing farther down his skin.
His right arm is less crowded, but just as impressive.
My favorite, though, is the script across his chest. A single line of Russian inked just below his collarbone.
Heat curls low in my stomach, followed by a ping of guilt because I should know better by now than to gawk at him so shamelessly.
“No wonder Parker keeps you hidden away in this townhouse,” Bishop continues. “If I looked like that at twenty-one I’d never shut the fuck up about it.”
“Bish.” Parker’s voice comes out sharper this time. “Leave him alone.”
The shift is immediate enough that Bishop actually pauses. A grin slowly spreads across his face as he glances between us. “Oh my God,” he laughs. “You’re not fucking with me.”
Parker exhales through his nose. “You’re annoying right now.”
“It’s called being observant.”
“What are you guys doing?” I cut in before Bishop could say something even more incriminating.
“We’re plotting to win Vandy Rookie of The Year,” Bishop says, tapping the paper on the counter. “Very secretive, technical stuff happening here.”
“Whatever.” Parker folds the paper in half immediately. “You hungry, sweetheart?”
Bishop physically recoils. “Oh, this is bad,” he mutters. “You’re asking him if he’s hungry now?”
Parker shoots him a warning look. But he should have known that was only going to bring trouble, Bishop only gets more entertained.
“I leave for one offseason and suddenly you’re playing house with a college student.”
“Jesus Christ,” Parker mutters.
Bish shrugs. “Look, man. All I’m saying is—”
“No.”
“What?” I smirk, leaning against the kitchen island and folding my arms across my chest. “C’mon. I wanna hear this. Let the man speak.”
“No you don’t,” Parker says quickly. “Don’t encourage him.”
“Oh, yeah. I definitely do.”
Bishop points at me like we’re allies now. “Thank you. Finally, somebody reasonable.”
Parker stares at both of us for a long second before shaking his head and cursing under his breath.
“I’m gonna go upstairs and call Emelie before she starts accusing me of being dead,” I announce eventually, pushing away from the island.
“Tell her I said hi,” Bishop says.
“Will do.”
“Hey.” Parker glances up at me again as I start toward the stairs. “You ate already?”
“Not yet,” I answered.
“Okay. If you can hold off until we’re done, I’ll make you something to eat.”
I stare at him for a moment.
Parker immediately snaps me out of my trance. “Okay?” he asks me, voice still. “Dinner? Yes?”
Bishop makes the loudest, most obnoxious sound of disbelief I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Yeah,” I mutter slowly. “Thanks.”
“This is adorable,” Bish retorts, gesturing between us.
I bite down on a smile and head upstairs before Parker can murder his teammate in my presence, but halfway up the stairs, I stop when I hear Bishop lower his voice.
“You know his brother would kill you,” he warns Parker quietly.
There’s a beat of silence. Then Parker lets out a rough, tired laugh that settles sharply beneath his ribs. “There’s nothing going on. We’re friends.”
I like how he only uses the word friends when it’s convenient for him…
“He’s half your age,” Bish points out. “The kid is not your friend.
My entire body goes still. The banister creaks beneath my grip. For one reckless second, I don’t breathe.
“I’ve got it covered,” Parker mutters plainly.
I don’t let myself stick around to hear the rest of the conversation. Mostly because I can’t stand to hear him lie right to Bishop’s face.