Notes
Yes, I know. I didn’t post last week. It’s really hard to write at my parents’ house because my mom keeps popping her head downstairs to ask what I’m doing. I’m writing about football players having raunchy sex, Mom! Yeah, she would not appreciate that answer. But we’re pushing through and we’re making it work.
Plus, I should be home next week. The fire damage wasn’t as bad as initially thought. I might get some new kitchen appliances though. And a new paint job. We’re going to count that as a win.
Rowan
Once again, the sound of someone knocking at my door pulled me out of the book I was trying to read.
I didn’t bother putting it down when I went to answer this time, because I doubted it would be Ethel pushing her way into my apartment to invite me to brunch a second time. We had a game the next day, and she had a nephew in the league. She would know better than most that game day meals were fairly regulated. No one needed to attempt her cooking before a game. (At least, if it were her, I would claim this.)
I didn’t expect it to be Milo on the other side of the door.
We hadn’t talked much since the night in his condo. We certainly hadn’t had the conversation we claimed we’d have after we cleaned up. We’d mostly seen each other at practice, and that was hardly the time or place to discuss the fact that we’d gotten off together. I didn’t know what he’d been doing outside of practice. A part of me wondered if maybe he regretted it, and that was why our paths hadn’t crossed in the gym or in the hallway.
Maybe that was why he was there now, to tell me that the other night had been a mistake.
Honestly, if it was, he’d chosen the worst time. We had a game the next day, and we didn’t need the distraction of finally havinga conversation about what had happened between us. This was not a part of my pregame ritual.
But I still let him in. He walked straight over to the couch. “My brain won’t shut up,” he moaned as he plopped onto my sofa with a loud thud.
“And you decided to come over here?” Color flooded his pale cheeks, and I felt a pang of regret. Why had I said that? He probably thought I didn’t want him there, and I wouldn’t have blamed him one bit for it. I pulled in a deep breath and tried to figure out a way to dial it back. “What I meant was—uh—” Fuck. How did I dial this back?
“Do you want me to go?”
His voice was small, so different than the wrecked voice he’d had in his bedroom or his usual boisterous loudness. It sounded wrong coming from his mouth, and I hated myself even more for being the reason that voice was leaving his lips.
I shook my head. “No.” The word rushed out of my mouth, and I only hoped that he would hear the conviction behind it. I was genuinely surprised by how much I did not want him to go. I was surprised by how much I’d missed his energy the past few days.
He leaned back onto the couch, relaxing against the leather. His hands fell to his knees, and my eyes followed them. His thighs were surprisingly thick for how lithe he was, and I knew how much strength was in those thighs. I’d seen him on the field as a Scorpion, and before then, I’d seen him in highlight clips on SEN. He’d been a consistent feature for the Scorpions over the past few years, even when the rest of the team did not always perform in a way that guaranteed a spot in the SEN highlight reel.
I wondered how strong his thighs would feel wrapped around me.
Silence settled over us as we sat on the couch. It was neither a comfortable nor an awkward silence. It was just silence. Judgingby the way Milo’s fingers began to tap against his knee after a few minutes of it, he might have found it awkward. I looked over at him and sighed. One of us had to break the silence. I had a feeling that this would be a good time to have that conversation about what had happened between us.
Unfortunately, I was a coward.
“Have you eaten?”
He turned his head to face me, a sheepish expression on his face. I knew the answer before he said it. “No. I—uh—I meant to eat lunch today. I actually microwaved it and everything. Then Ray called, because he had thisdisasterof a date last night, and he had to tell me all about it. Then we started talking, and I kind of forgot about it. By the time I remembered, the food was not edible.”
I laughed. How did someone forget that they had food cooking? I’d never been able to do that.
“I was thinking about making chicken alfredo tonight, and I always make too much.”
His gray eyes lit up. “I love chicken alfredo, and it’s great for carb loading before a game.”
“I know.” It was one of the reasons it was a staple of my in-season diet. That and the fact that it was just one of my favorite foods. I had perfected my recipe in high school, and I didn’t deviate from it. I had already pre-shredded the cheese for the sauce, and I had all the herbs ready to be diced. I had a full box of protein noodles in my pantry. I already had the chicken marinating in the refrigerator, and there was enough for two.
There was enough for more than two. Coming from a large family, I’d never learned how to cook for one.
I was pretty sure I had salad fixings in the fridge, too.
“Oh!” Milo’s shout broke me out of my mental meal preparation. “I made cookies last night. I can provide dessert!”
I remembered the cookies he’d made when I’d first come to Tucson. I remembered the other two failed baking experiments he’d passed onto me, and I shook my head. “I try not to eat sweets before a game,” I lied. Luckily, he hadn’t seen me eating too many sweets on game days, so his feelings could be preserved. “I usually do fruit and whipped cream.”
Or that was the dessert I already had planned for that evening. There was no need for him to know that it wasn’t my usual dessert. (Frankly, I was very fond of baked goods. I just didn’t trusthis.)
