Page 8 of Falling for 42
It’s not hard to imagine how incredible Malik would look naked and under the hot spray of the shower. I only got a preview of his strong arms yesterday when he was on the court, and yeah, I felt the thick cords of muscle in his back last night when I pulled him close for a goodbye kiss. But I suspect seeing the man naked will easily bring me to my knees.
Me: I’ve got another appointment in 5, so I’ll catch you later. Study hard.
I barely hold back my snort at my parting line. I was not the most conscientious student. It was a slog to complete high school. I could not fucking wait to get the hell out of there and be in the shop full-time.
But Malik, from what he told me, is trying hard to complete college with a good degree. He’s not 100 percent sure what he wants to do with it yet, but as far as I’m concerned, that makes life a lot more interesting and freeing.
Fuck, he’s still a couple of weeks shy from being twenty-two. He’s going to be working till he’s what, seventy-five with the way our fucked-up society is going. I’m a firm believer that if you’re not passionate about work, leave and don’t look back. Life’s too short for that miserable, barely existing shit.
I tuck my phone away after grinning at his upside-down smiley face emoji and make sure I’m ready for my next appointment. There are still five hours or so left in my shift, and now that the awkward conversation with Sid is out of the way, at least I can fully concentrate on the sessions ahead of me. I’m just relieved that Sid didn’t kick off and that it’s finally over. That’s definitely a drama I didn’t want.
CHAPTER 6
MALIK
It’s official.I’m a softy.
So what that it’s the third time I’ve read the same text from Kobe? The man is well and truly under my skin. My pre-meeting-him crush was one thing. After spending the evening with him, and him kissing me senseless, well, my heart-on for him was practically cemented.
It’s been almost three weeks of scrambling to find time for calls, and I’m not gonna lie, I freakin’ love talking to the man on the phone. His voice is deep and gruff, and hell if Kobe couldn’t charm the spots off a leopard.
Or the pants off me if we ever have the opportunity.
He even hung out with me via FaceTime on my birthday, promising to make a start on my tattoo for my birthday gift when we got the chance. That it was also Valentine’s Day, and he raised a beer wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day, was hella sweet too.
And our texting game is strong. They start pretty much nonstop from the moment we wake up till the point where we fall asleep. I don’t even give a shit that my housemates and my team know how far gone I am for Kobe.
And Jackson? Well, I don’t think he’s regretting the introduction. But he’s getting close to being over my constant questions about Kobe. Not, like, personal shit. I want to hear that from the man himself. But I want all the funny stories of them being young. Want to know all the mischief they got into.
And the text in question? The one that’s making my grin brighter than hitting a buzzer-beater from half-court?
Kobe: I’ve bought tickets to the game. I’ll be there.
It’s not something I asked him to do, and I kinda feel guilty that I didn’t think to ask, nor did I get him tickets myself, especially as we’re playing only about forty minutes from where he lives, according to Google.
But holy shit, in two nights I’ll see him again. The only slight problem is figuring out how I can avoid getting on the bus back to college so I can spend time with the man.
The day after is blocked off and training-free. I don’t even have any pressing assignments I need to pore over. In theory I could ask Coach Tiller to do me a solid and let me remain, just in case I can make it an overnight stay at Kobe’s. Presumptuous much—the whole me inviting myself over?
Nah. Without a shadow of a doubt, the way we’ve been communicating nonstop makes it clear we want to spend time with each other. Add in the flirting, as well as the memory of those kisses, and when I make this happen, I don’t plan to make any pretense of “hanging out” or even going for a beer. Why the hell would I want to do that when every spare thought I have is lodged so completely on wrapping myself up in all things Kobe?
But a plan is not going to make itself. But when it comes to devious strategizing, I’m heading toward a big, fat F. I can’t lie or bullshit for… well, shit.
Mikey clatters a pan onto the stovetop, his voice rising over the sizzle of onions hitting oil. “All right, Mally, spill it. What’s got you zoning out with that lovesick look on your face? Did Kobe send you another one of his boner texts? Something like,‘Hey, thinking of you. PS: I’m ridiculously hot and charming.’” He waggles his eyebrows for emphasis.
Fuck, he’s such a dork.
Jackson snorts, leaning against the counter as he peels a carrot. “Pretty sure Mally’s smile just confirmed it.”
I throw an oven mitt at Mikey’s head. “First, shut up. Second, yes. He’s coming to the game.”
Jackson freezes mid-peel, the carrot slipping from his hand. “Wait. Kobe?Mybrother Kobe?”
“No, the other Kobe I’m texting nonstop and plotting my life around,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“I’m not upset,” Jackson replies, holding his hands up as if to ward off my sarcasm. “Just… surprised. That game a couple weeks back, I had to lay the guilt on thick for him to come. Damn, man, you must’ve made a hell of an impression.”
“Oh, we all know Mally made an impression,” Mikey says, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Question is, are you okay with your big bro and Mally… you know.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
