I jump at the voice, spilling the water all over the floor as the plastic cup clatters against the hardwood. I whip around, expecting a murderer.
“Oh my God, Wyatt. You scared the shit out of me.” I grab the towel hanging from the oven handle and start mopping up the water.
“I’m sorry.” Wyatt coughs into his hand and I remember that I’m not wearing any pants. Just my high-waisted bikini panties with cherries all over them. I bolt upright, drop the towel, and finish mopping the water up with my foot. “What are you doing up?”
I set the cup on the counter and lean against it, still not looking at him. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“I never did understand how you could drink a coffee right before a seven PM game.”
I turn to face him, and my mind goes momentarily blank at the amount of skin I see. Athletic shorts hang loose around his waist, the soft light of the fridge emphasizing a very muscular stomach. “It’s not the caffeine,” I say finally. I could drink a gallon of coffee and go to bed no problem. “It’s the game. I just keep replaying it in my head. Every stupid mistake I made tonight.” I hold my hands up like I could grab a volleyball and start all over.
“Everyone has off nights.”
I snort sarcastically. “Maybe players on teams with built-in fans do.” I look right into his blue eyes knowing jealousy is plain as day on my face. He watches me right back. “But I don’t.”
“It’s not like if you don’t win the championship this year they’ll cut the team.”
“You don’t know that.” My voice rises. The restlessnessthat spurred me out of bed is at its peak right now. “No one knows that,” I say again, quieter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just stressed. And tired–” Wyatt steps up and wraps his arms around me, hushing the negative thoughts rushing through my brain.
“Hey. The stadium was not empty. I was there.” He puts his hand on the back of my head, holding me to him. “And I promise that I’ll never let a home game be empty. I’ll be at every single one, and if there’s one I can’t make, I’ll send twenty Hurricanes in my place.” I sniff against his bare chest. I think he’s already taking his fake boyfriend duties too seriously. Or maybe that’s just him being my best friend.
“Thank you.” I lean back to look up at him. There’s not many people I have to physically look up to. I love how being wrapped up in him makes me feel small. My fingers move against his bare chest of their own accord…
Alarm bells ring in my head.
I step back. “Thank you,” I start, “For being there for me.” I put another step of space between us so I can breathe without feeling the warmth emanating from him. “I’m so lucky to have you as my best friend.” That is probably unnecessary to say, but I need to remind myself that we are faking it. Because right now, under the cover of night, together in his kitchen, it would be too easy to convince myself that this is more.
I watch as he rolls his lips together. “You’re welcome.”
I start backing out of the kitchen. “I should try and get some sleep.”
His left hand holds onto the edge of his shorts in a tight grip. “Yeah, you should.”
I turn and head up the stairs. For some reason I worry about my pace. I don’t want to go too slow because I’m still only panty clad, but I don’t want to make it look like I’mliterally running away from him. I’m not. I’m running away from the heat his huge hand on the back of my head stirred in my belly.
The whole walk of shame up the stairs I say over and over again: This is what’s best for the team. That’s all.
Chapter Thirteen
WYATT
I laid awake a long time last night, images of Nash in just my t-shirt and her panties danced in my head relentlessly. Something else tugged on my mind that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something that was different.
This morning, I’m more in the mindset of kicking myself in the butt for agreeing to let her move in with me. Even though it’s not permanent and we’re best friends—it’s torture. Seeing her like she was last night, or how she is right now as she comes down the stairs to the kitchen—with pants on this time, thank fuck—all sleep rumpled and yawning. I’m sure she didn’t sleep well either given how worked up she was over their game.
“Good morning,” I say, and she jumps like she didn’t even know I was there. Stealth is not an easy feat at my size.
“Oh, good morning.”
“Did you sleep well?” In response, she just takes a coffee mug out of the cabinet and picks the biggest coffee pod off the little rack. “I’ll take that as a no.”
Now that she’s just on the other side of the counter fromme, I’m reminded of the thing that was different about her last night that I couldn’t quite place. We sit in silence as the coffee machine whirs to life and fills her cup. Without her miles of long legs on display, I can finally think about what it was about her last night and this morning that’s different. The smell of coffee mingles with something else, and then it hits me. “Why do you smell like me?”
She goes ramrod straight. “What do you mean,” she asks, but she’s looking at her coffee.
“You smell like my body wash. I just figured it out.”
She turns to me, clutching the mug like it’s her lifeline. Her eyes meet mine, then the floor, then her mug, then me again, before she says, “Uhhh…”