Page 114 of Bad Teammate
I touched him on the shoulder. “Sorry, honey, but that would be a deal breaker.”
Derek huffed with mock outrage.
Sasha wanted to know what we were discussing, so I told him.
“Hey, I lovedit,” he said. “Did you see how we drifted around that corner? That was sick, man! IwishDerek drove like that all the time. He’d get my blood pumping before the game instead of putting me to sleep with his grandma-tier driving.”
I rolled my eyes. “Youwouldsay that, wouldn’t you?”
Not much later, we were back at the penthouse. Wewere all in high spirits, laughing and telling jokes as we made our way up the elevator and down the hall. But when Derek unlocked the door and let us in, our mood soured and reality set in.
Somehow, we’d almost forgotten the state of the condo. There was still a lot of work to be done. Sasha grabbed his trash bag and started picking up the trash on the floor, but Derek stopped him.
“Don’t worry about this right now. You just pack your bag,” he said to him. “When you’re done with that, you can help us clean.”
“I won’t be long.” Sasha nodded and scampered off to his bedroom.
“Shall we start?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he said.
I grabbed the garbage bag and picked up where Sasha left off, collecting bottles and trash off the floor.
“You know what would make cleaning a lot more fun?” Derek asked.
“Nothing?” I joked.
He laughed. “C’mon—not nothing.” He walked over to where his records laid on the floor. “Music. What do you want to listen to?”
“Good idea.” I smiled. “Why don’t you play me your favorite album?”
“Oh no.” He squatted and began rifling through the pile of records. “Now I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“Classically trained musician asks professional jock to play his favorite album.” He cringed, the muscles and tendons in his neck straining.
I giggled. “Don’t worry. Play whatever you want. I’m not a music snob; I won’t judge you.”
“Okay.” He pulled a record from its sleeve. “Ah-ha. Found one.”
“Who is it?”
He didn’t tell me. “Let’s see if you know it.” He set the needle and the record began to crackle and pop like a warm campfire. The music began to play and I squealed, recognizing the song right away: “That’s How Strong My Love Is.”
“Otis Redding?!”
“Nailed it.” He grinned and offered me his hand. “Care for a dance?”
I took his hand. He led me into the middle of the living room and we made a makeshift dance floor amid the chaos. Derek’s hands spanned my waist as we moved about the room.
“Be honest with me, Grandpa,” I said, laughing. “This isnotyour favorite album ever, is it?”
“Honestly?” He twirled me, broken glass crunching beneath my shoes. “No, it’s not. But if I’d picked the death metal album like I wanted to, I might have accidentally stumbled into your next deal breaker.”
“Shut up.” I slapped his round shoulder. “You don’t like death metal.”
He smirked again. “No, I don’t.”
