Page 2 of Flagrant Foul
That said, it’s the tactic I employ more often than any other.
Tonight, I’m better than that. While I certainly wouldn’t claim to know what I’m doing all the time, I do have some of my shit together. I’m in a good mood because we won our game tonight, largely thanks to me—that’s no humblebrag, by the way, I’m simply stating a fact—so I’m going with my most rarely used option.
“All good, thanks,” I say quietly.
It’s an option that gets me nothing. No concern. No being saved from a funny-tasting fork. No exasperation or fury. Nothing.
Across the table, a single brow rises, drawing a question mark on a devastating face. It’s a face I’ve spent years studying. And I really do mean years. It’s one of those faces that possesses an attractiveness that can’t be explained in words. Deep-set dark eyes that narrow when he’s particularly happy or angry. Eyes so deep-set they laugh in the face of perfection and give it the finger. His nose isn’t interested in perfection either. It’s bigger than it would be if it cared about things like being pretty. The bridge is curved just enough to give him a haughty, hawkish air. And his lips? Don’t get me started on his lips.
I feel his gaze on me, the heat and weight of it warms me so much I almost forget what’s happening. Where I am. Who he is.
I allow myself a moment to drift, to luxuriate in the warmth, before coming back to my senses with a jolt. I know from experience that I have about three seconds to start being believably fine, or he’ll report back on my mood the next time he talks to Nathan. I plaster a bright smile on my face and turn my attention to Bryce, who is sitting to my right.
“How’s Kell and the baby, Cap?” I ask.
Bryce’s wife is five months pregnant, and he’s about as excited as a man can be about becoming a father. He’s only too happy to talk about anything Kell or baby-related, so it’s a really good question to ask since my primary goal is distraction.
He takes off at a canter. “Did I tell you we went to our first prenatal class?” He did. Twice. I shake my head. “It was awesome. We met a great bunch of people and learned so much. The baby has been doing this thing where they roll themself into a tight ball. Seriously, so tight that Kell’s belly goes rock hard. We thought they had, like, this weird talent for making themself into a ball, but no. It’s actually Braxton Hicks contractions. We had no idea. We thought she wasn’t getting them.” He laughs uproariously, and I give him a chuckle. It’s not that what he’s said is particularly funny. It’s his excitement that’s infectious. “What about you, Tee, how’s the roommate from hell treating you?”
“Ugh, he’s history. I threw him out last week. I’ve had a professional cleaner in twice, and I still can’t get rid of the smell.”
Leyton, the roommate from hell, seemed perfect at first. He had very little to say for himself, worked latemost nights, and was good with Ragnar, my Siamese fighting fish.
It seems excessive to admit aloud that the main reason I have a roommate is Ragnar, but with all the traveling I do, it’s necessary. I can’t leave him alone. I need someone to be at home with him when I’m away. I’ve spent ages looking into fish-sitting services, but have come up with nothing. Nothing reliable, at least.
My nerves can’t take that kind of stress, and God only knows Ragnar is one of those creatures that wasn’t built to live an uncomfortable life.
Sadly, after a few weeks of domestic bliss, it became clear that Leyton was the sort who thought bathing was optional, and I have a nose like a bloodhound. It wasn’t a good fit, and my subtle requests that he address the situation went down like a lead balloon.
In truth, there’s a chance Leyton got pissed off with me and moved out, more than I kicked him out, but I don’t think Bryce is interested in that level of detail. He’s likely only asking to be polite.
“That’s too bad. Are you looking for another roommate, or are you finally giving up and flying solo?”
I think the rest of the team finds my perpetual quest for a roommate quite odd. It’s not like I can’t afford to live alone, and it’s also not like I give off the vibe of beingsomeone who loves being surrounded by people. The last time I mentioned Ragnar as a reason for needing a roommate, Sev got super determined to fix my problems for me. When he was unable to find a fish-sitting service—no surprise there—he suggested I bring him along when we travel.
I swear to God that was his proposed solution to my fish-care woes. Can you imagine taking a fish on a plane on a regular basis? I told Sev in no uncertain terms what a stupid idea it was and that even if I could get a baggie with a fish in it past TSA, I’m not sure Ragnar’s gills could survive regular exposure to altitudes of over thirty thousand feet.
Sev, being Sev, googled it right then and there and spent the rest of the night gloating loudly about the fact that, according to the internet, you are allowed to fly with fish as long as the flight is domestic, the fish is in a transparent airtight container, and it’s stowed in carry-on luggage, not checked baggage.
The whole thing annoyed me so much that I’m loathe to bring Ragnar up again, lest he launch himself into a repeat performance.
“I am looking for another roommate,” I say, trying to think of a way to change topics without making it obvious.
“I’ll let you know if I hear of anyone,” says Bryce.
“I’d appreciate that.”
He means well, but it’s a terrible idea. The last thing I need is someone who’s mutuals with the captain of the Blackeyes living with me. I love these guys, but I see them enough as it is. I don’t need them more up in my business than they already are.
I raise my glass and take a sip of water, turning my head and angling my body just enough to let Sev know I don’t want his input on the topic.
The weighty heat of the thing I crave most lifts and retreats, leaving a chill in its wake. I know without looking up that a pair of dark eyes has wandered and found an alternate place to land. Sev says something to one of the players on the other side of the table and everyone around him cracks up. He laughs too. Riotously.
I can’t stand him when he’s like this.
He leans back in his chair when he laughs, buying a little extra space between him and the table. Enough space that I can count six individual mounds of muscle neatly arranged on his abdomen.
He’s wearing a charcoal-gray T-shirt with a deep V-neck tonight. It’s one of those up-your-own-ass shirts that costs a fortune even though it’s designed to look old. Weathered and worn in. The fabric is soft. I can tellwithout touching it because of the way it falls. It clings to his chest. His pecs. His abs.
