Page 25 of Triple Play

“Well, you weren’t supposed to see me. Why are you even in here?”

He holds up a limp bath towel. “Returning this.”

“You didn’t hear the water running?”

“Figured it was Forsyth.”

“And it’d be cool if you just walked in on him?” I ask.

“You know the clubhouse showers are pretty much one big room, right?” But there’s a smile playing at the edge of his mouth, like he came here to annoy Blake on purpose.

“Blake let me have the first shower.” I don’t know why, but it’s important Felix knows that.

Felix snorts. “What a gentleman.”

“He is.”

“Didn’t know that was your type.”

“Yes, it’s so strange that I’d go for a handsome, successful, gentlemanly professional athlete.”

“And you’re sure you’re his type?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure.” Except for how I’m not. The problem with Blake putting me on a pedestal is that it’ll be a long fall off it.

“How come he’s not in here with you?” Felix asks. No, not asks. Needles. Like he knows something is up. I open my mouth to tell him to mind his own fucking business when he adds, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Listen, Shira, about all of this?—”

“Whatever you’re gonna say can wait.” Until I’m dressed. Until I’m not worried Blake’s gonna catch us. Until I can stop thinking about you. “Now hang your towel up and get out.”

And I drop the shower curtain and fling myself back under the water so I don’t say something I can’t take back. Like stay.

CHAPTER FIVE

Shira

Out of the shower, I stand at the bathroom mirror that, despite the fan, still bears traces of steam. If I go back to the bedroom, Blake will see me as Felix had: barefaced, hair in wet disarray.

I don’t have much of a choice. All my makeup is in my suitcase. Rookie mistake.

So I rub myself down with lotion, apply toner, facial oil, moisturizer, under-eye cream. I finger-comb my wet hair and spritz it with some leave-in conditioner.

You’re sure you’re his type? Felix said it to get under my skin. At least it’s well-moisturized skin. I could’ve called him an asshole, but that might’ve only proved Felix’s point: I’m not Blake’s type, but I’m trying.

When I’m done, I realize I also forgot clothes to wear back to the bedroom. Double rookie mistake. So I wrap myself in a white bath towel, tucking it tightly beneath my arm. As short as I am, it barely comes to my upper thigh. I’ve been way more naked in public—or the relative public of the club—plenty more times than this. Funny how terrycloth makes me feel barer than lace.

Here goes nothing. I crack the door and peer out into the hallway. No Felix. This should be as simple as making it the fifteen or so feet back to the bedroom.

I walk on tiptoes, like I’m a kid sneaking around after dark. When I get to the doorway, Blake’s back is to the open door, his shoulders tense by his ears with his phone tucked between his jaw and neck. He’s issuing a rapid set of uh-huhs like he’s annoyed with whoever it is on the other line and trying to hide it.

I haven’t asked who he’s talking to when he gets calls like this: who in his life has the power to transform all his Southern politeness into a series of Felix-like grunts.

“Sure, of course.” Blake’s left shoulder, the one he’s been rolling all day, tics up toward his ear.

Whoever he’s talking with, he deserves privacy, or at least to know I’m listening. So I knock softly on the doorframe.

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