Page 24 of The Long Game

There’s a knock at the door and since I don’t expect anyone, I’m on alert.

"Hi, Lex," Tucker says with his sexiest smile.

"Tuck, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be moving to Mississippi?"

"Soon. My dad took next week off to move me into the dorms. Can I come in?"

"Yeah, of course."

I move as he walks in and closes the door behind him.

I swear he’s gotten taller or filled out more…if it’s even possible for him to look more like a Greek god than he already does.

"I was just watching TV." I gesture to the living room. "Want something to drink? I can order pizza."

"Pizza sounds good — I can always eat." He winks.

A thrill cascades down my spine at his flirtation innuendo.

"That’s true." I smile back.

Other than Luca, I don’t know anyone else who can make groceries disappear as fast as Tucker. My poor mother was going on grocery runs on the daily to keep up with their dietary needs. Feeding football stars wasn’t cheap. Good thing my parents are loaded.

With Tucker’s mom dying when he was young, and Chris, Tucker’s dad being a long-haul truck driver, Tucker practically moved in with us after first grade. My mom went from feeding one adult sized garbage disposal to two of them. She never complained. She’s always treated Tucker like a son.

"You’re going to eat that poor college cafeteria out of house and home," I joke.

"They can afford it, trust me. They gotta feed their most valuable player. I have to bulk up a little, anyway. College players are a hell of a lot bigger than the high school players I’m used to. The hits are going to be twice as hard."

I grimace at the thought of Tucker getting hurt. I’ve seen the bruises after a game and injuries he ends up icing for weeks.

"The usual?" I ask.

He smiles and nods. "You know me better than anyone else, Lex."

I grab the phone and dial the pizza place down the street.

"That’s easy, Tuck. I’ve known you longer than anyone else, too," I remind him as I wait for the restaurant to answer. Tuckerheads for the kitchen to grab a drink, opening the fridge and popping a top off an IPA my dad keeps stocked.

"Want something?" Tuck asks from the kitchen.

"No, I’m good for now," I say as the restaurant picks up.

Tucker wanders around the bookshelves in the family room, looking over the old photos my parents have framed of our family; of Luca and Tucker at little league games; of me at my volleyball matches; of all of us at the lake house. There are very few pictures not including Tucker.

I make an order large enough to feed five grown adults as I watch Tucker carefully survey the bookshelf until his eye catches on something. He pulls something from the shelf and my heart jumps. My bright pink sparkly dream design binder.

I don’t let many people see my sketches. They’re practically doodles and not nearly professional enough to be taken seriously.

Nervousness over Tucker’s beautiful eyes on my amateur designs has me fidgeting as I finish up giving the pizza place our address for delivery.

Tucker smiles at me across the family room as he plops down on the sofa with the binder still in hand, laying it out on the coffee table in front of him.

"You don’t want to look at those," I redirect. "I drew them just for fun…years ago." I try quickly to excuse my own work.

He takes a long pull of his beer as he flips open the first page. I watch, biting down on my lower lip, distracted by the way his mouth suctions to the top of the bottle. An image of the way he might use those lips on my body send shivers down my neck.

Quickly I’m drawn back to the self-imposed scrutiny of my work out on full display. And not just seen by anyone, but by the perfect Tucker Evans.

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