“I-I am.” She swallowed.
My finger left her shorts and danced up her toned abdomen she was showing off. I couldn’t stop teasing her; I didn’t want to, either. So much for not touching each other.
“You look beautiful, Brittney. So you, so playful. You’re telling me you and Farrah aren’t going to flirt with anyone tonight? Get a number or two?”
“And what if I did?” Defiance reached her eyes now, her legs opening wider to let me in whether she realized it or not.. She wanted to fight. Good.
“I think I’d have to show your new friend, whoever they are, how you liked to be kissed. Or maybe how you like your nipples pla—” Bee slapped a head over my mouth. I smiled behind it.
“Do not finish that sentence,roommate.”
I want to kiss you again,roommate.
It was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t say it. Not with Olive here, and not when it looked like Brittney was barely keeping her self-restraint together too. This felt like torture. This daily existence we shared—this love for the game neither of us were willing to put in jeopardy.—all hinged on us keeping our hands away from each other. Working hard and not playing hard.
And for the first time ever, I wanted to live more life for more than just the sport. I wanted to see what life was beyond it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Bee
I opened my mouth to shout over the bass of the music, my second drink in one hand as shots two and three burned down my esophagus. It was the second bar we’d managed to find open on a weeknight with decent music and I was grateful. I hadn’t realized how much I just needed to shake my ass.
“If you say something about Nola one more time, I’m going to take your phone and call her myself!” Farrah yelled and twirled her hips in a circle, her eyes closed “You guys aren’t fucking, right?!”
I almost choked on my drink, “What? Never!” I pushed Farrah toward a girl who had been giving her eyes since we got here. Many things happened on nights out with Farrah; it’d been this way since our freshman year off-seasons.
We would lose track of what we pregamed with, which leading to us mixing alcohol and suffering the consequences the next morning. We were also social butterflies, so meeting and talking to strangers had never been a problem for us. Theproblem arose when the aforementioned mixing and the social butterflies created a cosmic force of queer basketball players who couldn’t help but attract attention. Tonight had the makings for a typical night out for us, but where Farrah was locked in on finding someone to entertain her, I couldn’t get someone from home out of my head.
I left our townhome hot and bothered, ready to mount the first hot woman who made eye contact with me. But the first person to buy me a shot just ended up being a fan and then I thought about basketball and then thought about playing against Nola, and then I thought about Nola.
I wouldn’t say I wastryingto bring Nola up in every conversation, but I also didn’t know what to do with this pent up energy. I was seconds away from kissing her in the kitchen, her sister my saving grace from going back on our word.
But what else was a girl to do?
Nola was looking at me like she wanted to eat me alive, and I would’ve gladly let her. The goal of tonight was to get her out of my system, kiss a stranger, dance her away, orsomethingthat could help me forget how I felt in her arms.
Instead, everything reminded me of her.
The problem with being infatuated with someone who deliberately chose not to speak much was that I had little to go on. Nola loved basketball and her family. She would’ve chosen to stay in Chicago forever if she’d had the chance. And she loved the fact that I got under her skin—whether she’d admit that or not.
I didn’t know if she’d have fun at a bar like this. If she’s ever had a drunk cigarette even though everyone in our generation was taught that smoking was taboo. I didn’t know if she liked movies let alone participated in award night bingos like my family did.
Now here I was.
It’d also be easier to forget her existence if she wasn’t responding to each of my story posts. A selfie I took after finishing my hair and makeup, a picture with Farrah at her apartment in her full-length mirror, a stupid TikTok dance I taught her in five minutes. Nola Young was up and down in my DMs, and I couldn’t even tell my best friend.
As former captain of the Jaguars, I knew the precarious relationship between captains and the team. From knowing them in their past lives, to having to be the bad guy delivering unfavorable news, captains had an extra layer of pressure other than performing in front of die hard fans and the misogynists who wanted to see the league flop. It was how I yelled at Danny two seasons ago before I knew her feelings for Perry were real, and not the usual flirting that got her into trouble often.
All Farrah knew was that not only were Nola and I friends, and living well together, we were playing well together, too. If I had to guess, she did her nightly prayers asking for our current bond to solidify and last through the regular and post season.
What she didn’t need to know was that Nola had made me orgasm, and was maybe the first person I thought of every morning.
Baby steps.
So instead of voicing every new thought, I threw back the rest of my drink and texted her instead.
I stumbled into the apartment as quiet as I could physically muster. And then I dropped my keys. And then I banged my shin into the entryway credenza. I was tipsier than I preferred, but that was nothing electrolytes couldn’t solve. That I wouldalsoneed to do as quiet as a mouse.
