“You could say I was more interested in your apartments tonight.” He walks into my kitchen, also unlit. “Anything to eat?” He opens the fridge, and for a moment he is all I see. A big, hulking figure illuminated by the interior fridge lights.
“I’ve got a salad I picked up and didn’t eat. You can have it,” I say.
He pulls it out of the fridge while I get a fork from a drawer and hand it over to him.
I don’t want to turn on the lights and wake up Trent, but we somehow manage to make our way to the round table in the small dining area.
I don’t really understand Tahoe’s reason for visiting tonight but sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t simply want someone to talk to that he doesn’t have to seduce or be fun with all the time. Maybe he enjoys my company like I do his. Maybe I calm him like he sometimes calms me. Except for the few moments when his looks quicken my pulse—like a little bit right now—he’s the one person I seem to always crave being with lately. At any hour, even in the mornings, when I’m a bit grumpy.
I sense my mood would improve in the mornings simply knowing this blond beast was around.
We sit on opposite ends of the table. He forks a few pieces of salad but keeps staring at me through the shadows. “Turn on the light,” he says.
“I don’t want to wake up Trent,” I hedge.
But the dark makes his voice feel even more hypnotic than usual.
“Turn on the lights.”
“What for?”
“I want to see what I’m eating, for starters.” Pause. “And I want to see you.”
“I’m sort of…indisposed, wearing sexy pajamas.”
“I’ve seen sexy pajamas before.”
But not on me, you cocky jerk.
Sighing though, I go and turn on a living room lamp and come back to my seat. His eyes turn extra blue as he takes me in in a spaghetti-strapped baby doll.
He frowns then, and reaches across the table. “You sleep with this on?” He reaches out and pinches a bit of material, tugging it a little.
“Yep. I don’t sleep naked, thank you very much.”
He frowns when he studies my face. “That too?”
“My makeup? Yes, I like to look pretty.”
“You look pretty anyway,” he says.
I’m helpless not to flush and I’m grateful when he lowers his gaze to finish his salad. He then gets some water from the kitchen.
I settle on a living room couch and watch him return. “How’s your week been? I’m excited to go to one of your games. Have you made an appointment with your barber yet?”
“Nah, I don’t want to jinx my win.”
“You’re superstitious? Why are all athletes superstitious?”
A smile touches his eyes as he sits by me. “That’s for me to know and for you to ponder.”
“Come on.”
I punch his shoulder.
He stops my second punch by opening his palm to catch it.
“Gina?” a voice calls from the bedroom.
Tahoe looks at me ruefully, raising his brows.
I giggle and go tiptoe up the hall and close the bedroom door, not before apologetically whispering, “We’ll be out here talking, okay? Tahoe just stopped by for a snack.”
“Fine. Don’t wake me please, babe.”
I shut the door and pad back into the living room. “He’s grumpy when he’s tired.” I drop back on the couch. “I’m glad you’re here, I actually couldn’t sleep. I’ve been circling advertisements as much as possible.”
“What have we got here? Humboldt Park?” He scans all of my circled classifieds but keeps his finger on the Humboldt Park option that has a double circle around it. “There’s no way you’re living there.”
“I don’t know, Roth, it’s starting to appeal. Maybe it’ll keep you from visiting at ungodly hours.”
“But it won’t keep the rapists, killers, and gangsters away.” He lifts his brows.
“You’re so picky. What do you think of this one?” I show him another.
He laughs sardonically. “No way in hell you’re living there alone, Regina. Let’s find you something in the Loop.”
“I live near the Loop already, it’s a bit more expensive.”
He doesn’t listen as he grabs my pen and starts circling some other places. “Bring your laptop, let’s get a look at some pics,” he says, patting my butt fondly as I get up.
I swear it burns for the whole hour afterward with the imprint of his hand.
We end up spending the next couple hours looking for good places for me to live. For the first time since the Pier, I feel like I’m actually talking—really talking—again with someone. I feel a little more alive than I was before he stepped through my door.
“Want to know something, Regina?” He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head with a thoughtful look on his face. “A friend of mine owns a prime piece of property at the best location in the Loop. They’re demolishing it to rebuild new apartment complexes but permits could take up to a year. I bet he’d let you rent something for pennies in the meantime.”
My heart stops from the excitement. “You think so?”
“Hell, I know so.” He rumples my hair and flashes his pearly whites, which look extra white against his scruffy blond beard. “You’ll be set up for at least a year. Gives you time to figure out exactly where you want to go.”
“You’d call him for me?” I ask dubiously.
He presses a button on his cell. “I just did.” He winks and lifts his phone to his ear, then proceeds to leave a message, his voice low.
Smiling, I shut my laptop and fold the newspapers neatly into a pile, exhaling a sigh of relief. I never realized I was starting to feel homeless until now, when the real possibility of finding a new home has come up.
* * *
Less than an hour after he leaves, after I’ve showered and am ready to hit the bed, I get a text from him saying that it’s all set and that his friend William Blackstone will show me the apartment as soon as I’m ready.
Me: Thank you, amazing T-Rex!!!!!!
Him: Don’t make plans next Friday afternoon. You’re coming to my game.
GAME
I missed the game, and I am haunted by it. The same day of Tahoe’s lacrosse match, Martha needed me to cover for one of my coworkers. I’m so mad about that. Because the reality is that he is always there for me. And I want to be there for him. So half a week after the missed game, I lie in bed, sleepless, and glance at my “missed calls” screen, where his name is written next to a (2). I decide to stop avoiding the issue, put on my big girl panties and call him.
“I can’t sleep,” I say immediately after he answers.
There’s a long silence, as if he’s taken aback by my call. At this hour.
“Why can’t you sleep?” His voice is raspy, as if I caught him sleeping, or maybe even having sex.
“I want to go to your next game.”
Another silence. “You’re messing with me.” His voice sounds completely disbelieving.
“No! Why? What? I’m not invited anymore?” I prod.
“I’m not in the city,” I hear a squeak as if he gets out of bed, a soft moaning protest, and then a door shut, and silence, “but I’ll be there for this weekend’s game.”
“Cool.” I grin happily.
“I’ll text you the time. On one condition.” There’s a warning in his voice.
I groan in dread.
“You’ve got to paint my number on your cheek,” he says next.
“Um, no?” I say.
“Well then, it was nice saying hi.”
My heart stops when I realize he’s about to hang up. “Fine! What is it? Sixty-nine?” I ask with mock boredom.
“Double zero.”
“Fitting, ’cause you’re a whole lot of nothing,” I say drolly.
“You’re a mean girl, Regina.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Now sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when you do.” I hang up, smiling down at t
he phone.
I’m still thinking about him when I finally turn off the lights. I’m still thinking about him in the middle of the night when I wonder where he is and who he’s with. Some girl he thinks he’s good enough for, even when he thinks he’s not good enough for me.
Well she’s welcome to him, really. I have Trent, who makes me happy, and who I’m good enough for. Trent only needs me, not a battalion of women like Tahoe does.
* * *
I’m sitting in the second row of bleachers at the large lacrosse field of Tahoe’s men’s league when the players shuffle out onto the field. I spot him instantly. Double zero. One of the tallest, largest forms out there. He wears a white jersey with red numbers. Cleats, shorts, shoulder pads, thick white gloves, elbow pads, and a helmet streaked in red and white. He’s wearing a helmet with a facemask—all the players are. But Tahoe also wears a visor underneath the facemask. It’s a swirl of colors, starting with red at the center, fanning out to orange to yellow to blue. I can’t see his eyes; but I can feel his stare as he looks up at the stands.
He looks as intimidating as shit as he heads straight to the middle of the field. He faces off against his opponent, hunches forward. They’re nearly nose to nose, their lacrosse sticks down on the ground.
He glances in my direction. My heart flips in my chest. Nervousness fills me for him, for the game or for some other reason, I don’t know, but I squirm a little in my seat.
“About to face off,” a voice through the speakers says.
I’m holding my breath by the time the whistle sounds.
It all happens so fast. Lacrosse is so quick, it’s hard to keep up as a spectator, hard to understand without prior knowledge. Muscled guys in uniforms run around the field, swinging their sticks. But I actually googled the game before so I know a little bit about what’s happening now.
The men hold their lacrosse sticks; they call them shafts or handles as well. They’re alloy metal or titanium, with a pocket that holds the ball. This ball is their ultimate possession. This ball is what Tahoe just scooped up, and the announcer yells, “Possession Red! Pinch and sweep, and he’s off!”
He moved so fast, the opponent fell, face flat to the ground.
He holds the stick low to his chest as he charges forward at full speed. Defense moves in; he stutter-steps and then split-dodges to the left, fooling the defense, and then throws over his head.
“Score Red!” the voice calls.
I try to catch my breath, but once again they’re facing off. Tahoe hunches low, glancing in my direction for just a second. It’s only a second, but it’s enough to make me suppress another squirm. He’s very menacing. No emotion on his face as he turns his head just a fraction, his colored visor flashing with the move.
Each team has ten players. The goalie, three defenses, three midfield men, three attackers—then two referees. Tahoe is the center midfield man, the one who faces off and fights for possession of the ball every time a game begins or a goal is scored.
He’s super quick, muscular in form and as athletic as a pro.
On his second face-off, he makes a fast break—claiming the ball with a flick of his wrist, a run, and a perfect pass. His team member catches and throws, and when team Black’s defense steps in to scoop up the ball, Tahoe charges forward.
“Check him, check him!” someone cries beside me.
Tahoe checks him by slapping his stick into the other guy, throwing checks left and right as he fights to recover possession. Before I know it, he’s not only scooped up the ball, but immediately passed it to a team member a foot away from the goal.
“Score Red!”
I can tell he’s comfortable with both hands, even his off hand. I can also tell he’s an aggressive, no-nonsense player. If anyone has the ball, he wants it, and he’ll check and use his speed, his wits, his everything to get it.
During the third face-off, he looks at me again. I came alone, am sitting here surrounded by strangers, but I don’t feel alone simply because he keeps turning his head to look at me in a way that makes me feel as if I’m with him.
His head remains tilted in my direction—they face off.
“Possession Black!”
His opponent runs with it; Tahoe gets so mad he charges forward and trucks him to the ground. “Unnecessary roughness,” the announcer says. “Illegal procedure number zero-zero, penalty box, thirty seconds.”
“Oh, that always happens,” someone beside me tells his friend. “He plays so aggressive, he always gets a penalty.”
I watch Tahoe grip his stick angrily as he storms to the box, seething as he drops down on one knee, his head canted up at the clock, waiting impatiently. A trainer approaches to offer him water, and he declines with a shake of his head.
The backup does the face-off, and the announcer soon calls, “Score Black!”
As the teams position at the center of the field again, Tahoe charges out of the penalty box.
He leans forward, in position to face off. He’s seething testosterone as he scoops up the ball and runs with it, so powerful that he throws the ball from far away. The ball blows up-field and the goalie sweeps to the right, but the ball hits the top shelf, right at the bar, then bounces inside.
“Outside shot, score Red!”
I can feel the energy in the stands increasing, people excited that this is going to be a big-scoring game.
They face off again. Eye to eye—his head turning a fraction.
God, will he stop looking at me?
I watch him intently, noting how he puts his head over the ball, pitches it upward with his wrist, swiftly scoops it up, and runs like the devil. Defense charges forward; Tahoe fakes it, and when they fall for it, he takes two more steps and puts it in. “Score Red!”
“Score Red!”
“Score Red!”
“Holy shit, that was a 105-mile-per-hour shot!” someone near my seat cries.
During halftime he’s the only player who doesn’t remove his helmet or take water. He’s ready to go out again, eager to play.
I cannot take my eyes off him when he’s back on the field. I hardly know what’s happening with the other players because I’m watching only him. I wonder why he wanted me here. Why he wanted me to see how he possesses that ball, how strong he is, athletic he is, how fucking hot he looks with that visor. Passing fast, facing off, possessing the ball, time and again, shooting high to high, high to low, shooting into the ground at an angle that bounces in front of the goal and goes in.
The game lasts about two hours. Red wins 20-1, completely squashing their competitors.
The crowd cheers and whistles as their victory is declared. The players shuffle out, but rather than leave, I watch with accumulated nervous energy and excitement as zero-zero heads toward the stands.
He jerks off his sweaty jersey with one gloved fist. His visor tips upward in my direction.
He balls the fabric and in one powerful throw, just like the ones he did on the field, he throws his dirty, sweaty jersey directly onto my lap.
My seat neighbor reaches out to catch it with a thrilled, hungry little gasp.
“Nope,” I tell her, yanking it free from her hands.
I frown when I realize how possessive I sounded but, thankfully, double zero is already striding toward the lockers. Thank god he didn’t see me get territorial.
I can smell the testosterone on his shirt as I head down the stands and into a sheltered hall with exits to the parking lot.
“Hey! You with Roth?”
A guy from the Red team is looking at me questioningly.
I nod.
“Get over here.” He motions me to follow him, then leads me farther down the hall and straight into the men’s locker room.
I follow him, a little bit uncomfortable at all the men in nude and semi-nude states.
“So fucking cold today, you get hit with a metal stick and it hurts like hell,” some guy says.
“Don’t play on off-season then,” another retorts.
/>
“T, swear to god, you’re the only lacrosse player who whips ass and likes baseball too. Real men play lacrosse. Hell, you almost killed someone today. All baseball guys do is stand there and hit the ball.”
Following the voice coming from the second row of lockers, I head down and around the corner. I spot a pair of white custom gloves with Roth embroidered on the wrists on a wood bench. The guy who had been speaking presses ice against a burn on his thigh, and I notice the long, tanned, muscular arms of Tahoe bearing the same burns.
I glance upward, and he’s in a towel, his chest bare.
I try not to notice the damp rivulets trailing down his torso, dipping into the dents between the squares of his abs.
He senses me and turns. Seeing his blue eyes without the visor sends a shock of electricity through me. His face breaks into a smile, and he’s so amped up I can feel his energy.
“My lucky charm,” he drawls.
He lifts me up and twirls me so fast I get dizzy. I hear him chuckle and it makes me laugh, then I punch his shoulder so he’ll put me down.
His eyes darken a little when he lowers me to my feet.
“Always this noisy in the locker room?” I ask, not knowing why I’m whispering.
“That’s the sound of victory.” He takes me in as if he’s thrilled to see me, then he turns back to his locker and pulls out a clean long-sleeved crewneck and shoves his head and arms inside. “It’s dead quiet after a bad game,” he says with a wink.
“Really?”
I glance around. The players are hyped up, slamming doors and slapping each other’s shoulders with good energy all around.
The coach walks in with two other coaches flanking him. One clap from him, and the players fall silent.
“That was good, but keep working on your shit—no more of the streak we were in. Got it?” He scans the players, all nodding happily, then locks his gaze on Tahoe. “Good work, Roth.” Respect and admiration echo in his voice.