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The team flightattendant asks if I would like a drink, and I decline, choosing to sit and brew in my seat with a growly-ass attitude instead. I’m actually really fucking thirsty, but I don’t call her back, not trusting myself not to snap at the poor woman more than I already have on this flight.
We lost tonight, and I’m in a terrible mood. Game five of the second round, and we got our asses handed to us. Turnover after turnover, and most of them came from me.
I scrub a hand over my face and scratch at the thick playoff beard. I’ve never liked growing a beard, but playoffs are my exception. Braxton hasn’t said whether she likes it or not, and maybe I should ask.
Fuck.Braxton.
She should have been sitting beside me right now, head on my shoulder and legs tossed over mine as she slept beneath the dim aisle lights. She should have been in the arena cheering for me. My good-luck charm was missing tonight, and I felt it. That woman is as much a part of me as my right arm, and I played about as well as I would have if someone had chopped it right off.
I exhale a long breath and unlock my phone, our last texts still open on the screen.
Me: I missed you last night.
My Girl: Just last night?
My chest shakes with a laugh. That’s an understatement. I’ve missed her from the moment she left my penthouse yesterday morning. Her job is almost as needy as mine, and as proud of her as I am to see how successful she’s become, I’m still feeling like a scowly asshole when it comes to sharing her.
I kept her with me as much as I could over the past few days, either holding her hostage in my bed or showing up at the clinic whenever I got the chance, even if I had to sit in the waiting room and be gawked at while she was with patients. She was supposed to fly to Arizona with me yesterday but had an emergency with one of her patients that couldn’t wait. Now I’m antsy to get home and spend the next two days in bed with her.
Me: No. But you knew that already.
My Girl: For a fake boyfriend, you’re sure needy.
Me: Say it again, baby.
My Girl: Say what again?
Me: We’ve never been fake. Remove the word from your vocabulary.
My Girl: *Gasp* Really?
Me: I’ll be in Van in three hours. Stay up for me.
My Girl: I’ll be waiting. Love you.
Me: I love you too.
I stare at the text messages for a few seconds longer before tucking my phone away and attempting to calm my heartbeat. This girl is my own personal version of paradise.
“You look like a blushing bride,” Bentley teases, flopping down on the empty seat beside me. He reeks of cinnamon, and I arch a brow.
“If that’s a new cologne, you need to toss it.”
He pinches the collar of his hoodie and brings it to his nose. “What if I bought it just for you, baby? You’re telling me you don’t like it?”
“I hate cinnamon.”
He nods. “Is that right? Huh, do you wanna tell me the story behind that? I’m bored out of my skull.”
“Do you remember the cinnamon challenge?”
“The one where you had to suck back an entire spoonful of pure cinnamon?”
I snort. “Yeah.”
He barks a laugh. “You did that, didn’t you?”
“Braxton’s idea. She thought it was hilarious and posted the video online after. You can probably still find it. I haven’t touched the stuff since.”
