Page 60 of Near Miss

“I had to,” she says, full lips curving in this stubborn line that makes me want to drop to my knees, before she walks right by me and into my apartment. “For the sake of my eyes.”

“Right. Your eyes.” I close the door behind me, watching as she tips her head back, eyeing the vaulted ceilings and exposed brick. “Can’t strain those before all the big important surgeries you have this week.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, but I think her arms tighten, and she takes a tentative step with a socked foot—these mid-calf, slouchy white crew socks that look cuter on her than a sock should on a woman—towards one of the chairs pushedhaphazardly into the granite island spanning the length of the kitchen.

Greer cocks her head before pulling out a chair and swinging herself into it. “Nice place.”

“Thanks. High ceilings are great for practicing kicks.” I point towards the fridge. “Drink?”

“Whatever you’re having.” She tips her head back again, looking up, and all that does is give me a view of her neck. The lines of it. Where it dips under her sweater and meets her shoulders. Most of her skin is hidden—but I’d like to run my tongue over it. “Can you really kick in here?”

Clearing my throat, I grip my jaw and turn towards the fridge. “Yeah. I have a practice net in the spare room.”

She makes another noise, a smaller one this time.

“Beer okay? I usually have one if it’s an afternoon home game.”

“Only one?” Her voice is just a rasp, but I roll my neck anyway because I think I can feel it burrowing into me.

The bottles knock together when I grab them off the shelf, twisting the caps off and pitching them onto the counter before turning back to her. “Only one. I know I don’t run but I take my program seriously during the season.”

“Reliable, likeable, and dedicated.” Her voice is barely a whisper, and her eyebrows lift in acknowledgement when I hand it to her.

All those beautiful lines stretch across the column of her neck when she raises the bottle to her lips.

Her eyes find mine, and she might smile against the cold glass. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” I swallow, taking a longer sip than necessary. “For coming today. Were the earmuffs okay?”

She really does smile this time—the corners of her lips furling upwards from behind the bottle. “They were. That wasvery thoughtful of you. My sister was quite taken with them, actually.”

“Noted. I’ll be sure to ask for another pair next time.”

Her smile quirks up when she talks about her sister. It’s another little thing I’ve noticed, collected and coveted and placed in my back pocket along with all those other pieces of her.

But it never lasts long. There’s always this initial flash of love, then a tiny twitch in her cheek and she looks like something about all that love hurts her.

I jerk my head towards the couch because I don’t quite trust myself with words. She nods and pads across the living room.

She folds herself down at one end, and her eyes cut to the TV mounted to the wall, where the countdown to the night game plays. She studies the screen for a second before rolling her shoulders and leaning back against the arm of the couch.

Greer swings her legs up, stretching across the cushions like she’s at ease, and I like the idea of that.

I’m tempted to sit right beside her, but I doubt that’s something she would consider friendly, so I sit at the opposite end and wince when I stretch my legs along the sectional. “Can I ask you a question? Just one friend trying to get to know another friend better.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, she takes another sip of her beer and nods softly.

“The noises—at the hospital. Is that why—”

“Why they think I’m mean?” Greer angles her head. She chews on the inside of her cheek for a second before raising one shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes. I don’t let anyone change my playlist in the OR because I know all of the songs and I know what to expect. I don’t like when people are chaotic or they drop things. But mostly, it’s because it’s not just one life we’re playing with.”

“And I just kick a ball. What an unlikely pair of friends we make.”

Her eyes narrow, like the self-deprecation doesn’t land. She blinks at me, slowly, sits forward, and all it does is highlight the way the amber flecks in her eyes look alive under the low lighting of my living room. “So today was game day. What does tomorrow look like for you? The rest of the week?”

It’s usually a six-days-a-week job, whether people think it’s real or not. I take a sip of beer before swinging my legs so I’m facing her. Our feet almost touch, but she doesn’t move. “Body work. I’ll do a lower body massage tomorrow, mostly on my kicking leg. Focusing on my hamstrings, adductors. Cryotherapy. I’ll do a light Pilates class, and then it’s game tape. It looks more or less the same for everyone else on the team. Different workouts and different therapies but we’re all there together every day.”

“What kind of tape?” She drops back against the arm of the couch.

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