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I laughed, glad there was humor back in the air. “I wouldn’t exactly call you my best friend.”
That damn adorable smirk made an appearance on his face. “Oh, we are. You’ll see.”
CHAPTER11
AUSTIN
My downtown high-risewas a swanky place that Brandy had picked. I’d originally bought it because I needed a place closer to the stadium, easier to get to when I had practice or a game or I was flying out.
I waved to the security guard on duty, Abby, by the revolving doors. Sydney lifted her head, taking in the expensive chandelier hanging from the condo lobby and backlighting against the wall by the circular reception desk.
“Welcome back, Mr. Callaway.”
“Sienna.” I tipped my chin to the receptionist.
We walked past an elevator bank and rounded the corner to a set of mini mailboxes.
“Can you do me a favor?” I asked Sydney.
“Mr. Callaway, I’ve been doing you a lot of favors today.”
The smile on Sydney’s face lightened my insides. I was glad that for a moment, we could get a reprieve from the tension of today.
I grinned. “I know, best friend. And I’m keeping a tally. Know that I repay all my debts.” I tipped my head and motioned toward my back pocket. “Can you fish out my mailbox key? My box is five-two-three-one. I haven’t been here in ages, and I need to grab my mail before I head up.”
“You’re gonna owe me, buddy.” She playfully pushed her finger into my good shoulder.
“I told you, I always pay up, Sydney. And I’m gonna start payment with lunch.”
“You mean, dinner?”
I glanced at the overhead clock. Usually, I was stringent with my meal schedule. A lot of discipline from my on-season life filtered into my off-season life—eating, working out, sleeping.
“Yes, I guess I mean dinner.”
“All right, bend over.” She laughed.
I stood there for a second, surprised at Sydney’s playful side that hardly ever came out.
After I turned around toward her, she fished out my keys and grabbed my mail.
I led us through the lobby and to a secluded set of elevators. Once inside, I pressed P for the penthouse suite.
Sydney let out a low, hoarse whistle. “Niiiice. Is there anyone else who lives on your floor?”
“It’s just me on this floor. There is another guy on my team that lives in this building, but he’s not here when it’s off-season. He lives in New York.”
The elevator pinged before opening, and I motioned for her to exit first. We stared at each other for a moment before she walked out, and I followed right behind her.
A part of her slick, straight hair was tangled. And it took all my energy not to run my fingers through it.
“How long is recovery?” she asked as I keyed into my place.
“Months. But I refuse to be out for the season.”
“Will you be? What determines that?”
I flipped on the lights and walked farther into the room. It had been months since I’d been here. I made a mental note to call the maid service to dust and to stock up the fridge.
