Page 84 of Best Kept Secret
It’s only been a day, and I already miss my girl. And I miss her in a way that physically hurts. Like I’m missing a part of myself. Yes. I’m a goner. But, if I’m being honest, I was a goner for this woman a long time ago; it’s only now that I can fully admit it to myself without feeling like a pining fucking loser.
We won our game against Seattle tonight. Barely. But a win’s a win, so I agreed to head down to the hotel bar for a drink with the guys. Wasting time until I know Red is home from her little dinner date with her new BFF, Maverick, the turtleneck-wearing asshole I thought she was fucking who actually happens to be an openly gay man who carried my ass from the garage and up to my bed the night I had my panic attack. I really need to make an effort to go say thanks to the guy.
“Dude,” Dallas guffaws. “Why the hell are you wearing a scarf?”
Because your horny little sister sucked on my neck while I took her virginity last night, that’s why. Of course, in the interest of not dying tonight, I don’t say that and, stalling, I take a slow sip of my drink, looking around at the sudden influx of womenentering the bar, all wide-eyed and wreaking of debauchery. I purposely avoid eye contact with any of them.
“I have a sore throat,” I finally say, clearing my throat for effect.
Happy nods beside me. “Loges was coughing non-stop on the flight.”
Man, I love him.
“Maybe you should get checked out by Doc?” Robbie suggests, not so subtly dragging his stool a few inches away from me. “Could be Strep.”
“I’m okay. I think it was just the air on the plane.” I pat the Thunder fan scarf that’s currently wrapped around my neck—Happy’s surprisingly brilliant idea—forcing a smile and another throat clear. In the morning, before everyone’s awake, I’ll go for a jog past a CVS and pick up some of that cover-up shit girls slap on their face.
“Hi, boys,” a low, sultry voice comes from behind me, just as an unwelcomed hand sweeps over my back, causing me to jump.
I turn, spearing the woman with awhat-the-fucklook that she ignores with a saccharine smile, fluttering a pair of long, fake lashes.
“Can I buy your next round?” she asks, looking from me to my friends and back again.
“We’re on a tab,” Robbie says abruptly, not even looking at her.
“And we all have girlfriends,” Dallas gruffs.
“He doesn’t.” She points an accusatory finger at me, her long nail nearly gouging my eye out. Offering me a smug smile, she winks. “I’ve done my homework.” And it’s only then that I realize she’s wearing a Thunder jersey with my fucking number on it. Great.
“He’s got Strep,” Happy says without missing a beat. “But I’m single and disease free.”
“Sure about that?” Robbie murmurs on a chuckle, receiving a middle finger from Happy as he slides off his stool.
I shake my head, watching him approach the woman with a swagger of his hips, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, as if the guy even knows what chivalry is.
“Your loss,” the woman whispers to me with another wink, allowing Happy to lead her away. And as I watch them disappear into the crowd, I quickly finish the remainder of my drink, placing the empty glass on the table and rising to my feet.
“On that note, I’m going to bed before he can take her up to our room and defile it.” I throw a salute to Dallas and Robbie on my way out, pulling my phone from the pocket of my trousers to check for a message from my girl.
As I step onto the elevator, I’m disappointed to see nothing new from Millie. She texted me after the game, congratulating me on the win and my goal, and I told her to let me know when she was back from dinner. I know Maverick lives in our building, but I like knowing she’s safe. Plus, I was hoping to FaceTime her. I sleep better after seeing that pretty smile.
My phone shudders and the excitement that rolls through me is borderline embarrassing. But when I see it’s a text from Happy, I huff a frustrated breath.
Hap: I’m going to a club called Bordeaux with Jenna.
Me: Don’t do anything stupid.
Entering my room, I kick off my shoes and remove the stupid scarf from my neck, chucking it onto Happy’s bed before unbuttoning my shirt and tossing it over the back of the armchair.
As I check the Ring camera app on my phone, my brows knit together. Huh. It says she arrived home forty minutes ago. Panic clenches my chest and I immediately call her, my heart slamming against my ribs with every trill of the line.
“Hi, you’ve called Millie, leave a message.”
“Fuck.” I stab the end button and call her again, rubbing at the pain in my sternum.
When her voicemail cuts in again, I almost throw my phone across the goddamn room until I remember to breathe, just like Millie taught me how to. I’m sure she’s fine. Maybe she’s asleep. She said she had a big day at work so maybe she was just tired and fell?—
My phone shudders and I almost drop it checking it so quick, and when I see her name in the notification, the tension in my body eases instantly.
