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“It’s just me and you. Logan is having dinner with the coach and offensive coordinator of the Bengals tonight in Cincinnati.” She points to the whiteboard. “I made some chicken pot pies to go with the bread.”
I bend down and say to her belly, “You better be glad your mom has another year before you have to rely on her to cook for you.” She swipes me with the kitchen towel. “You and Logan are going to have to eat better when you start breastfeeding.”
“I know. He’s already prepared me. He promises we won’t be like Hagan and Adalee, but I can’t make popovers every night.”
She throws me one, and it’s piping hot, so I alternate it from hand to hand until it cools off, then tear a piece off. It’s flaky on the outside, moist and dense on the inside. Add a pat of butter and damn, biscuits or rolls don’t compare.
“So, Hagan tells me you’ve called it off with Brooke.”
"It was never like that. We simply studied together… nothing more. It's not about Brooke. I'm angry at myself for losing control during hockey. It's the one place where I find solace, and now, my initial thought is that I'm a monster, incapable of managing my own impulses."
“Lie to yourself all you want, Reed Bauer, but you can’t lie to me. Brooke and this incident are intertwined. You think she deserves someone better than you, and that’s simply false. You’re a good guy, but she won’t believe it until you do.”
“Brooke wants to tango with a bad boy, not date one.” Digging into my chicken pot pie, I scrape the crust from the edges. I love the crispy parts. We eat in silence before I kiss her cheek. “I’ll be back after practice.”
“Not going out tonight?”
“Not tonight. I have to read.”
She laughs. “That’s a sentence I never thought I would hear. I have to study for bio chem too. I’ll make some snickerdoodle cookies.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” I grab my bag from the front door and head to practice. Shaking my head, I think about whether I should stay an extra half hour to work off the extra calories Harper will make me consume. Or maybe I should call Brooke and see if she wants toworkout.
Practice goes as expected. I’m getting yelled at by my teammates for not being aggressive. If they knew how much my head hurt and how many Advil I’ve popped, they would understand. Coach hasn’t said a word to me, and that scares the hell out of me. He thinks I’m a monster too.
On the way home, I make a detour. I knock on Brooke’s apartment door. Her roommate answers. “Well, hello.”
“Is Brooke home?”
“Brooke? Umm, no. And who should I tell her stopped by.”
“Reed. We’ve been studying together, and I was going to head to the library. Thought she might want to go.”
She slips her phone from her pocket, types out a message to someone, then says, “She said to call her.”
“Okay.” I walk down the sidewalk and call Brooke.
“Hey, can you meet me at the library? Wait. No, it’s cold. I can pick you up.”
“That would be great, but I only have an hour.”
After receiving her location, I rush back to my car, which has already cooled down during the mere five minutes I was away. I activate the heated seats and contemplate the possibility of studying in the car instead of the library. Thoughts of her slender figure straddling me flood my mind. Damn it. Earlier today, I assured my roommates that there was nothing going on between Brooke and me, yet here I am, surreptitiously following her. Why am I even here when I know, deep down, that I'll ultimately face rejection?
When I enter the building, I shake off my insecurities and see the door sign engraved with Stallion Daycare Center. The entrance is a wooden door into the lobby, but when I follow the voices, I turn to see glass doors. Brooke is a vision in a black leotard, pink tights, and a little see-through black skirt that covers the crescents of her ass.
Delicate. Feminine. Sexy.
Those three words pop into my head when Brooke does some sort of turn, extending her leg and pointing her toe.
Of course, her hair is up in a tight bun. My mind drifts to imaginary images of her hair hanging over her shoulders while she’s riding me and peering into my eyes.
Watching Brooke teach ballet to little kids confirms she’s out of my league. One curly brown-haired beauty makes big gestures. Brooke gets on her knees behind her, taking her arms and putting them in the right place. The smile widens on her face as they look into the mirror, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as well.
Soon, the parents are bundling up their babies, and Brooke is alone. “You’ve been keeping secrets, Cookie,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, looking at her reflection.
She doesn’t look directly at me either, choosing to respond to the image.
“What fun would it be to tell our life story all at once?” she asks with a soft lilt to her voice.
