Page 15 of Someone to Have
He studies me for a moment. “We have plenty if you want to stay?”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean.
He frowns and rubs a hand over the five o’clock shadow covering his jaw. The scratchy sound does funny things to my insides. The kind that make me want to head back to my apartment and take a cold shower. Or put the battery operated toy Molly gifted me for Christmas last year—the one collecting dust in my nightstand—to good use.
At least I manage not to say all that out loud before I turn and scurry back across the hall, slamming the door behind me.
My phone pings a moment later, and I pick it up from the table.
Toby: Anderson says his nephew can’t do practice bc he has to volunteer for you. Killing me, Tink. 3 of my best players out with injuries and another on academic probation. I’ve seen film. Rhett can skate. Give a guy a break?
Not a peep asking why Rhett is volunteering. Typical for Toby. Nothing matters to my brother other than his job and hockey.
Me: WWMD
What would Marty do? It’s a running joke in our family.
Toby: Marty doesn’t have players dropping like flies.
One-track mind dog-with-a-bone—that’s my brother. Three bubbles appear, and I wonder if he’s going to ask if I’m doing okay. Has Eric even shared the details of the situation with Toby?
I hope not, because knowing my brother, he’d blame me for not having quick enough reflexes to deflect the flying book.
Toby: FWIW, is the kid a decent human? We got a helluva team this season. I don’t care how fast he skates or what kind of shots he can make. I’m not sacrificing my hockey fam.
There you have it, the hockey fam. Priorities.
Me: He’s a good kid.
I’m not qualified to make that assessment, but I can tell he’s a kid who’s been through stuff. So he gets the benefit of the doubt.
Me: We’re cutting out snowflakes tomorrow, and I need help.
He likes my text, and a moment later his reply appears.
Toby: Don’t run with scissors, T. Or walk fast.
I text my brother often enough that the middle finger emoji is in my top five, and I quickly shoot it back to him, then toss my phone onto the sofa next to me.
My head still hurts, although maybe not as much, but I’m tired. Physicallyandemotionally.
I pick up the script that’s sitting on the coffee table. My plan tonight was to eat dinner and then study my audition piece. Tryouts are Tuesday evening, and rehearsals begin Wednesday.
I haven’t told Bryan I’m auditioning because I don’t want him to be disappointed if I wimp out. I’m not sure I can handle even reading a monologue out loud in front of people, let alone perform one. Not when every time I think about being on stage with the spotlight shining in my eyes, the memory of that puke-and-pee disaster fills my mind, and anxiety floods my system. I’m fairly confident I won’t lose my bladder function as an adult, but there’s truly notelling.
Bryan Connor isn’t like my brother's hockey bros with their washboard abs and easy swagger. His hands are made for turning pages, not throwing punches against the boards. And when he talks about classic literature, his whole face lights up with the kind of passion I recognize in myself when I’m lost in the pages of a perfectly crafted story.
What first drew me to him was how we could talk for hours without him making me feel foolish or small for my bookish tendencies. Of course, I haven’t mentioned my love of romance novels. I can’t imagine Bryan understanding my dedication to happily-ever-afters and the spicy bits. But he still makes me feel seen in a way I never experienced before. I want to believe this intellectual connection could be the basis for something more.
I study the page for a few minutes but find it hard to concentrate. I’ve just opened the freezer to pull out a pizza when someone knocks on my door. I’m guessing it’s Mrs. Simon from downstairs. At least once a week, she takes pity on my lack of culinary skills and drops off some food—usually something blandandoversalted. Still, frozen pizza isn’t exactly Michelin-star cuisine, and I won’t have to wait for the oven to preheat if it’s her.
Spoiler alert: it’s not.
Eric stands on the other side of the door, balancing a plate of food in each hand. The lasagna looks amazing with a golden top of melted cheese and creamy sauce oozing from the edges. I bet it isn’t blandoroversalted. There’s also a Caesar salad and two pieces of crusty Italian bread.
Not going to lie, my mouth starts watering. I’d like to give the food all the credit, but at least some of my reaction has to do with the man himself.
His hair is now shower-damp, and he’s changed from running gear to a pair of low-slung jeans and a cream-colored Henley that’s thin enough to reveal the contour of muscles across his chest.
