Page 20 of My Brother's Teammates

“Lydia has someone who cleans the apartment. I can send you her info.”

Roman opens his mouth to respond, but quickly shuts it. He’s probably realized there’s no good response here. If he doesn’t take the info, it looks suspicious, but if he takes it, then he runs the risk of follow-up questions at a later date. Or fuck, what if this chick randomly shows up to clean and Charlie is home?

“Speaking of underwear, you’re looking at the newest model for Tommy John. They have a hammock pouch. It's a pouch for your ball sack.” Did I need to put extra emphasis on the words ball sack? No. But I now have Harrison’s undivided attention, and he’ll hopefully forget all about sending a house cleaner our way. “I’m hoping they can make me a pair with an elephant trunk. You know, for my dick. I could try to get you a pair.”

Harrison shakes his head with a chuckle. “Pretty sure Lydia would rather set them on fire than let something like that in our place.”

Mostly because she’s a wet blanket, but instead of telling him that, I shrug. “Her loss.”

He shrugs again, but this time his expression is blank as he stares down at his clenched fingers. “If we’re going, we better get a move on. I’ve got to get home before dinner.”

Roman catches my gaze as Harrison grabs his towel and heads off to the showers. “Underwear model, huh?”

“Yep. They actually signed me last week, although I don’t think I’m going to get that elephant underwear. It’s a real shame.” I shake my head, pulling off the rest of my gear.

I expected Roman to make a joke, tell me how ridiculous I am. Something. But he doesn’t say another word—he probably joined Harrison in the showers.

With a sigh, I run my hands through my hair. When I turn back toward my locker, I stop short. Roman is still here, jersey balled up in his tight fists. His face is completely stoic as his eyes roam up my body, lingering on my boxer briefs, dragging over my chest. Is he… is he checking me out?

Surely not. Right?

Right?

I quirk a brow as I meet his gaze, and we stand there like that for what seems like hours. There’s a small fire in his dark brown eyes, and I’m not sure if I want to stoke the flames and let it burn us both, or douse that shit like our lives depend on it.

My cock twitches, and I will that fucker down with every ounce of strength I have left in my body. This is not the time. Not when we’re surrounded by our teammates. Not when he’s my best friend. And certainly not when I’m convinced this is all in my head.

I do know I’m not going to say anything, not going to acknowledge whatever storm is brewing between us. Nope.

Eventually, he looks away and runs his fingers through his beard. When he turns and meets my eyes once again, the heat, the moment, everything, is gone, and I can move again.

I can breathe.

“I better… I just…” Roman’s hand goes to his beard, his palm scraping along his jawline. Up. Down. Up. Down.

“Yeah,” I manage to croak before doing us both a favor—I walk away.

I don’t know what the hell that was, but one thing’s clear. Charlie has fucked up our dynamics. I just don’t know if it’s good or bad.

NINE

Charlotte

“How’s it going, Peanut?”

I purse my lips and give Harrison some serious side-eye. He knows exactly how I feel about that nickname, but he refuses to relent. He’s been torturing me with it for as long as I can remember, but since I’m harboring a secret that would epically piss him off, it’s better if I keep my mouth shut.

And you know, maybe hope he takes the news of my breakup in stride and doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. Unlikely, but a girl can hope.

Harrison just smiles, man-spreading his entire body across the little corner booth in Jazzed-Up Java—his favorite coffee shop in New Orleans—taking a sip of his usual coffee. It’s one of those thirty-five-word orders that is essentially hot frothed milk with flavoring.

I’m more of a tea girl, and even after years of coffee dates, I still can’t remember half of what he mixes in there. I can tell you, lamenting about all the ingredients swirling around in that cup of his is a great distraction.

But the more I sit here, thinking about his coffee order, the more those brows of his inch toward his hairline as he stares directly into my soul.

That’s right, he asked me a simple question. One I can’t seem to answer to save my life. My palms are slick with sweat and I can’t meet his gaze, at least not directly. I’m hoping he’s too distracted by the brunette with a very low-cut shirt working behind the counter to realize that I’m nothing more than a ball of nerves in a cute pair of lavender heels.

How the fuck do I answer this?

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