Page 30 of Houston, We Have a Problem
Houston: Got to support that transient lifestyle of yours, though I’m hoping you’ll give me the chance to convince you to stay in Sun City instead of moving on to somewhere less cool.
Me: You must really like Sun City.
Houston: Or maybe I really like you.
Oh. Okay. Um. Apparently, what I took as friendly conversation, he took as flirting, and I honestly have no idea how to respond to that when he’s looking at his phone with so much anxiety in his face. He took a leap of faith with that one, and I’m not sure I have the heart to shut him down like I’m supposed to. The Houston Briggs I’m looking at right now is so much different from the one who’s been challenging me for the last hour, and that makes this complicated.
Who is the real Houston? He’s always been a ladies’ man, but I don’t think a serial dater like the world views him would try this hard with a girl like Darcy when he has a history of dating literal movie stars. There’s more to him than what the public sees.
And he has good reason to distrust Tamlin when he’s watched me ruin the lives of other athletes like him. I don’t like that he’s this spooked, but I still haven’t seen anything that could point to a story. Maybe it’s just that I interrupted his game night with his family and put him on edge. That would explain his brusqueness during the game. There’s the whole bet between our teams, so I know Houston wants to win.
His brother-in-law, Kit, who has been trash-talking our team all night (for good reason since they’re ahead of us by eight), nudges his elbow and says something to him, looking a little worried. It probably means I’m not the only one who has caught on to Houston’s disappointment, and I hate the idea of his family knowing how jerky I’m being by not responding to his bold text.
The break is almost over, so I need to get back, but I type out one last text and hope it straddles the line between rejection and encouragement.
Me: I’m all for giving chances, and I’m open to learning more about Sun City. I generally believe there’s always more than meets the eye, and I like what I’ve seen so far.
Houston looks at the text right as I slide back into my seat across from him, and his eyebrows pull low as he reads. Maybe if I had put a wink at the end of it he would read into the subtext and know I wasn’t just talking about Sun City.
I clear my throat. “Are you in this, Briggs? I can’t keep carrying the team forever.”
Jordan snorts, fighting laughter, and even Brooklyn stifles a giggle as Houston’s eyes snap up to meet mine.
“Oh, I’m in this,” he says just as the trivia host announces the theme of the lightning round: sports.
Houston’s half-sister, Micah, groans at the other table, and Brooklyn lets out a disappointed sigh. But I lock eyes withHouston, and the tension between us shifts. This isn’t just about our team winning anymore. We’re in a sudden showdown, he and I, and Houston is hell-bent on making sure all of the answers come from him.
This town ain’t big enough for the two of us, his eyes say.
Too bad for him, I’ve already got my hand hovering above my holster, ready to draw.
“Who has won more grand slam titles? Venus or—”
“Serena!” I shout before the question has even finished.
The host splutters for a second before awarding us the point. “Next question. Who was the first US president to throw the ceremonial pitch in—”
“Taft,” Houston growls without looking away from me.
“What year were women allowed to compete in the Olympics?”
“1900,” I say.
“Which team won the first NBA game in 1946?”
“Knicks,” Kit shouts, beating me by half a second.
“Which female pitcher struck out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig?”
“Jackie Mitchell,” Houston and I say at the same time.
I blink, shocked that he knows that one. Sure, it’s his sport, but I didn’t expect him to pay attention to a female pitcher in the first place.
The next question goes to a few tables away from us, probably because Houston seems confused by my confusion, but then the following question—about another female athlete—pulls us away. I answer a second ahead of Houston, my voice wavering a little because he gets that one right too.
The next few questions follow the same pattern, one of us just ahead of the other, until we’ve hit the last question of the night. We’re tied with Kit’s team, which means whoever answers this first wins the trophy. The game host is drawing things outto make it more dramatic, giving me the opportunity to study Houston while he studies me. He can’t seem to make heads or tails of me anymore, and his frustration still simmers just beneath the surface.
“Who was the first NBA player to shatter the backboard?” the host asks, and I know the answer immediately.
