Page 11 of Falling Offsides

The feeling of Courtney Nilsson being next door.

THREE

COURTNEY

The silencein the penthouse is jarring.

It’s making me question whether maybe I should’ve taken Dad up on his offer to crash in his spare room. Question it as I might, my gut stands by this decision. Even if the more I look around the more lost I feel in the vacuous space.

My student apartment back in Virginia was always buzzing—pipes groaning, people slamming doors, neighbors stomping up and down the stairs like elephants.

Here? Nothing.

Just my breathing and the hum of the air particles around me. It should be peaceful, but instead, the quiet presses in from all sides while I continue wandering through the sleek, modern space, fingers brushing across the spotless granite kitchen island.

I move to the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors, pressing my hands to the cool glass surface along with my pounding head. The glittering skyline of Los Angeles in the distance is beautiful—literally a city of stars. Makes me question if I belong here—in this city, this apartment… this job. I couldn’t even make it past day one without causing a ruckus and embarrassing myself.

Pressing my face harder into the glass, I savor the cold. The dull throb is right behind my eyes now and won’t let up. Even with the pain meds Doc gave me before I left.

At least I’m not dizzy or nauseous. Just exhausted.

I head back to the kitchen for a bottle of water. The only way I’m making it through this is by staying hydrated.

Sipping it slowly, I look around the open plan living space before I make a beeline for the large chaise with my backpack in tow. Everything I need to survive the night is inside—snacks, headphones, iPad, and kindle.

I’m making myself comfy in the mountain of decorative cushions when my phone buzzes.

Delilah.

I answer on the third ring and sink down into the cloud of feathers, hovering my phone over my face. “Hey.”

“Are you alive?” Delilah’s voice is the familiarity I need to make me feel somewhat at home. “Because if you died on day one, I’d sue the team, the league, and your dad.”

I laugh softly. “Not dead. Just mortified, maybe a tad concussed… I went down like a sack of potatoes in front of the whole team.”

“I can’t believe you really took a puck to the head?”

“Apparently my reflexes suck.”

Delilah hums with a light chuckle. “And let me guess. The guy who hit you was tall, scary, and unreasonably hot?”

“Broussard is a center—” Maybe a little bit hot.But that’s not relevant.“—it’s literally his job to smack the puck at his target.”

“You’re not a fucking target, Court.”

I rub at my forehead. “It was an accident.”

“Still.”

Talking about Auguste Broussard is a bad idea. It’s why I hesitate at first.

“Auguste was sorry. Drove me home…”

“And,” she croons, propping her phone up on her vanity while she knots her hair up on top of her head.

“And nothing. Not much else to say.”

With narrowed eyes she levels me with a knowing stare. “Really? Cause it sounds like you’re withholding from me. Your bestie. You know that’s against the BFF code.”

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