Page 14 of Play Along

“You never indicated how fast I have to drink it. Could take me all night, really.”

“Can we get out of the road? Jesus, we’re going to get run over.”

“Only if you agree to do things my way tonight.”

“Isaiah...”

“Kenny...”

The car honks again before the driver swerves around us, flipping us his middle finger.

“Fine,” I agree. “Can we please get out of the middle of the road?”

Isaiah finally moves, continuing to the other side of the street. “What size shoes do you wear?”

“What?”

“Shoe size.”

“Six and a half.” The statement comes out sounding more like a question. “Why?”

He takes a sharp left, holding the door open for me to a shopping mall attached to one of the hotels. Even after midnight, stores are open and busy.

Isaiah doesn’t slow down, walking right into the Vans store and finding the women’s section.

He grabs a pair off the wall. “You like red, right? You’re always wearing the red team gear.”

“Those aren’t red. Those are hot pink.”

“Really?” He cocks his head, looking at the shoes in his hand before setting them back on the wall. “Do you like checkered? Max has checkered Vans.”

Max—his two-year-old nephew that he’s in love with.

“I don’t really—”

“Nah, checkered isn’t you.” He scans the wall again before zeroing in on a pair of black high tops with a single white stripe and a platform base. “These ones. Do you like these ones?”

I won’t lie, they are cute. I don’t wear much other than neutrals, unless I’m in the team colors of red and royal blue. And the platform will give me some height. Being 5’3” isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it’s a little difficult when you work with a bunch of giant men and already feel like your boss is looking down on you.

Metaphorically that is, but still.

“I like those.”

Isaiah holds them up to the cashier. “Can we get these in a six and a half?”

“What are you doing?”

“Buying you shoes. Your feet hurt.”

I pull my credit card out of my clutch, but Isaiah snags it, slipping it into his back pocket without looking at it or me. He simply continues to peruse the aisle, pulling a pair of socks off the rack by the register before unhooking the hanger of a denim jacket and holding it up for my approval.

“I can pay for my own shoes.”

“And I said I was buying you a drink.”

“This isn’t a drink.”

“This is part of the drink. This is my one shot, and if you’re uncomfortable the whole time you’re never going to want to have a drink with me again and I can’t blow my one shot because it’s cold and your feet hurt.”

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