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I send her gourmet pretzel deliveries at work, she sends me pictures of Zamboni standing alert on the couch back, sleeping in a sunbeam, and carrying one of my socks into his bed. Last night she shared a video of him racing from one end of the apartment to the other and back, a tiny squeaky carrot Mel gave him from the corner store in his mouth. I love to see him so happy, but the best part was hearing her laughter in the background.
There’s just one thing…
* * *
Lara
Here’s the thing. No one knows about us.
It doesn’t bother me. Not really. I mean, we’ve never talked about going public.
And I could have said something to Piper or any of the other girls on those nights when we met out at the Five Hole after a game, but when I realized Ben hadn’t told anyone, not his teammates, not his friends, not his family… Well, I didn’t either.
But tonight, there’s a girl.
Okay, we’re at the arena and there’re always girls. The number of handmade signs propositioning Ben at every game, home and away, are staggering. And they don’t bother me. It doesn’t even bother me to know that he’s probably been with more than a few of the women flaunting the proposals and invitations.
His past, no matter how fast or varied, is just part of what makes him who he is today.
And today he’s mine.
But the chick in skintight jeans wearing what looks like a child-sized jersey with Ben’s number barely covering her admittedly spectacular boobs doesn’t know that. And she’s waiting for him too. That’s what she told whoever was on the other end of her phone as she sauntered past, hips swinging hard enough she nearly checked me into the wall. And there’s something about her. She’s too casual, too confident. Too oblivious to me standing by one of the giant concrete pylons… also waiting for “Boomer” as she speaks into her phone.
“I’m getting wet just thinking about how sweaty he was between us… Those pictures… So hot…”
She giggles and I cringe, trying to convince myself to walk away. Not to listen.
“…They’re going to have to put him back on IR after I’m done with him tonight…”
Injured reserve?
My mouth drops open, and I look around to see if anyone else heard this woman joke so casually about what Ben refers to as the most uncertain, terrifying time of his career. But Piper is chatting with one of the PR guys who’s still trying to sell her on a Slayers wedding and?—
“…no, I gotta go. Here he comes.”
I swing around to where Ben is shouldering past some press, nodding and smiling as they pat the pads he’s still wearing. He’s beautiful. Hair a wet mess, cheeks still ruddy from those last intense minutes of the game. And even as he thanks the guys complimenting him, his eyes are on me.
Because he’s mine.
Whoa. That’s some feral attitude surging to the surface of my psyche. But yeah.
Mine.
Ben has nearly closed the distance between us, and my heart is doing that racing, too-emotional thing again. Like it can’t wait to get closer.
I can’t wait.
I take a step toward him but stop when baby jersey girl bounces in front of me.
“Boomer, oh my God! That shot!” She grabs his shirt, going to her toes in five-inch heels. “Sexy as hell and just the way I like it. Remember? Hard and fast.”
Ben’s hand goes to the bare skin of her midriff, and I stop breathing.
But when I look up, he’s still looking at me over her shoulder, brows all screwed up like, who the heck?—?
Except then I see it. The lightbulb turns on, and he looks down at her as he uses that hand to gently move her aside.
Hello, air.
