Page 27 of Play Maker

* * *

I punch in the code and step inside. The lights come on with motion sensors, even though it’s still light out. When I moved in, I hated that. It felt like the house was watching me walk through it, cataloging my movements like I was still being measured for my worth. Doesn’t bother me much now.

I drop my bag by the stairs and stand still for a second. There’s not a single sound in the whole damn place. No creaking pipes. No footsteps overhead. No voices through the walls. Not one thing reminds me of the hellish places we moved to when the landlord evicted us from the last I was raised in or traffic you pretend isn’t there, because the place cost close to two mill.

Nothing but the hum of the fridge and the weight of every decision that got me here.

I don’t hate it.

Having slept for shit last night and not getting even a wink this morning, I decide to take a powernap. Just rest my eyes, ten minutes tops.

The blackout blinds are down, the room’s quiet and, for once, my phone isn’t buzzing. So, I stretch out across the bed—still half-dressed, socks on, shirt off—and let myself fade.

It’s the closest I’ve come to peace since Lo invited me in.

Fucking Lo …

* * *

I jolt upright like I’ve been shot, heart thudding, brain scrambled, body already halfway off the bed before I realize?—

Something’s out there—someone banging on glass. The balcony door. Second damn floor.

I lunge toward it, yanking back the curtain?—

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap, voice rough with sleep and disbelief.

And there he is, grinning, fucking Skinner.

He’s wearing a hoodie and athletic shorts, slides barely on his bare feet on my second-floor balcony like it’s the front porch of a frat house.

He cups his hands to the glass, peering in with that shit-eating grin growing like he’s proud of himself.

“What a buddy would do,” he shouts through the door, “if his buddy went MIA for two hours and wouldn’t answer his goddamn phone.”

I yank the door open. “You scaled the side of the townhouse?”

He shrugs, dead casual. “Garbage can, tree limb. Light cardio.”

I blink at him. “You could’ve texted.”

“I did.” He points at me. “You didn’t answer, and your truck hasn’t moved. So, unless you were buried under a pile of protein powder, I figured you were either dead or spiraling about taking Boone’s spot for the playoffs.”

I rake a hand through my hair, still groggy, still pissed, but not really. “I was napping, asshole.”

“You nap like you’ve been cursed. That’s not normal.” He eyes me like he’s taking inventory.

“Get off my balcony.”

“Or”—he grins wider—“you let me in, and I make you coffee while you tell me what the hell’s going on in that big, brooding oak tree of a head.”

I stare at him for a long second. Then step back and leave the door open.

He doesn’t hesitate, just breezes past me like he’s not affected by the cold at all.

I follow him down the stairs.

“Jesus, Grimes,” he mutters as he surveys the living room, “this place’s got less personality than my old dorm.”

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