Page 17 of Bad Teammate
“Be honest—he’s flirting with you, isn’t he?”
“No.” I laughed. “He’s showing me the city because I asked him to.”
Sasha grumbled.
“See, Sasha? This is yet another reason why you need to learn English. So you’d realize that the people around you are carrying on with normal conversations,notflirting.”
“If he lays a hand on you, I’ll kill him.”
“I don’t know—you really think you could?” I teased.
I sneaked a quick peek at Derek as he returned to the couch. He was sobig,like a bear.His huge frame and hulking muscles bulged beneath his Oxford shirt and tailored trousers. There was no doubt in my mind that he was capable of destruction, yet somehow, I knew he was wise enough that he rarely ever needed to resort to it.
“He looks pretty tough, Sasha,” I said.
“Tough won’t matter if he touches you. Because I’ll go crazy. And crazy beats tough every time.”
“What if I touch him first? He’s terribly handsome. And a fabulous dresser. You could take some tips from him, you know. Your suit looks awful, and you’re only going to make it more wrinkled if you fall asleep in it.”
Sasha sucked air through gritted teeth. “Don’t even joke around like that, Katya. You’re making me so mad right now.”
“Fine. I take it back.” I tried to smooth out the wrinkles from my brother’s lapels with my fingers. “Your suit isn’t awful. It does need a dry cleaning, though.”
“No,” he snarled. “I meant, don’t joke abouthim.”
“Wow, I never knew you could be so sensitive,” I said. “Take it easy. I’m only teasing you. Aren’t you lucky? Imagine how you’d feel if Iactuallyslept with all your friends, like a certain someone I know.”
He snorted. “I’m not sensitive. I’m protective.”
“Thank you, Sasha, but I can take care of myself. I’ve managed this far.” I spun Sasha around and began to march him back down the hall. “Now go back to bed.”
After I delivered Sasha to his room, I returned to the living room. Derek had his guitar on his knee again, softly plucking the strings, improvising a bluesy chord progression.
I sat by him. “Sorry about that.”
“No prob,” he said. “What was that about?”
“He’s just cranky. He has a terrible migraine. It’s his own fault, though.”
Derek smiled pensively. “I had this awful feeling that you guys were talking about me.”
I gave him a half-truth. “Well, wedohave to keep it down out here. He’s trying to sleep.”
“Ah, hell,” Derek said, muting his guitar and lowering his voice to a gravelly rasp that sent a warm shiver up my spine. “I knew you guys were talking about me. I just had this feeling. It’s weird—I never know what he’s saying or thinking. But I can kind offeelit, you know?”
“Absolutely.” I nodded enthusiastically. “Language is like music. You can feel it, even if you don’t always understand it.”
He looked at his guitar, reflecting in thought. “Huh … yeah, I guess so. Never thought of it like that.”
“Do you play guitar often?”
“Not as much as I should,” he said. “I picked it up a couple years ago, when I was sidelined with an MCL injury. I was probably better at playing back then because I had so much extra time on my hands. I still play when I can, though: on the team plane, in the hotel, after a game. It helps me unwind.” He chuckled. “I’m not very good, though.”
“You sounded fine to me,” I said. I gestured across the room at the Steinway. “And you play the piano, too?”
“No. I bought that thing on a whim. Thought I could I teach myself to play, but I’ve kinda neglected it so far.” He laughed. “Do you play?”
Normally, I’d say no; it was easier to not talk about painful subjects.
