“One last question for you, then I’ll go,” I rush to say before she tries to start physically pushing me toward the elevator.
“What is it, Fletcher?”
“So, you’re not allowed to fraternize with the team…”
“Is there supposed to be a question in there somewhere?”
“Would friendship be considered fraternization?”
She looks taken back by my question. “Considering I’m friends with Elizabeth Harding? No, I wouldn’t say so. You want to be friends?” She tilts her head, her question laced with skepticism.
“Yeah, I do,” I say seriously.
“Why?” I can tell she’s still skeptical, but she’s also curious.
“You’re one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ve laughed with anyone as much as I’ve laughed with you. And you’re real. You’re not trying to sleep with me, or date me because of my job, and it’s refreshing honestly. I don’t meet many people who treat me the way you do, and when I find that, I like to keep them around me.”
She tilts her head and examines me as if she’s staring into my soul. With a shake of her head, she finally speaks up. I can already tell I’m not going to like what she has to say. “Listen, Ryan.” Her use of my first name shoots straight to my dick, which completely contradicts everything I’ve just said about wanting to be her friend. “I’m flattered, once again. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. A friendship wouldn’t be as big a fraternization issue compared to if we were fucking.” Her hypothetical about us fucking has my brain running off to play in the gutter and create so many fantasies about us doing exactlythat. Me on top. Her on top. From behind. In the shower. On the kitchen counter. In my car like a pair of horny teenagers. Even in the fucking locker room. “But it’s also a thin line between friendship and… more. And that’s not even to say how it wouldlookbeing friends. The appearance alone could come across as more friendly than it really is.” With a sigh, she pins me with a sympathetic expression. “I think it would complicate things too much and I can’t risk my job—mypromotion—for the sake of a friend. I’m really sorry. You seem like a great guy, Fletcher, but I don’t think I’m the friend you need.” Her reverting back to calling me Fletcher cuts deep.
Exceptshe is.
I just need to find a way to make her see that.
SEVEN
WHY CAN’T WE BE FRIENDS
ISABELLA
I groanas I roll over, slapping my hand down on my alarm clock that is blaring like a WWII air siren. Some people use songs as their alarms. Not me. I use a good old fashioned digital alarm clock that screams bloody murder to wake you up. Nothing else works well enough to pull me from the depths of sleep.
I pull my phone off its charger and squint, bleary eyed at the screen. 5:30 a.m. I groan again before flopping back on the bed. It should be illegal to be awake before the sun. And yet, here I am. Getting up at 5:30 a.m. for an afternoon game.
I let out a resigned sigh before dragging myself from the comfort of my bed and into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I make quick work in the shower, my hair tucked up in a shower cap so I can douse it in dry shampoo and avoid needing to blow-dry and style it from scratch.
Changed into my pantsuit for the game, I start my five-minute makeup routine: SPF, mascara, and a lip stain. I value my time for sleep over applying a full face of makeup to sweat it all off anyway.
I take a quick peek at my phone to check the time. 6:02 a.m. I’ve got eight minutes to collect myself and then race out the door to make it to the stadium for 6:30 a.m.
I head into the kitchen and check the cabinets for something I can eat on the go, only finding a single Rice Krispies Treat.Thanks, Jordan. You’re not truly an adult until you eat sweets for breakfast, right?
I head over to the hall table where we ditch our keys, snatching my purse from where I left it last night and slipping my feet into a pair of sneakers.
Heading to the door, I halt before my hand makes contact when I remember that my car is still at the stadium from last night.
“Cazzo.” I suppose I could wake Jordan for a ride but she’s worse than me about sleep. I should’ve asked her last night so she could mentally prepare for the early wake-up call. Letting out a resigned sigh, I pull my phone from my pocket and tap into the Uber app to order a car on my way downstairs. I hope there are enough drivers out at this hour that I won’t have to wait forever.
I open the door and freeze at a person with their hand raised to knock.
“Um, hi?”Why is there a stranger at my door?
“Isabella?” the stranger asks.
“Uh, yes?”Why does the stranger know my name?
“Great! Here’s your order. Thanks for the tip!” he says, passing a very large coffee cup and pastry bag into my hands. I take them hesitantly.Why is this stranger handing me food?
“I didn’t order anything.”
