Page 36 of Her Name in Red
My truck sits alone in the players' lot, a beat-up Ford F-150 that's seen better decades. The red paint's faded to a dull rust color, and the passenger door still has that dent from when Keller tried to teach me to drift in an empty parking lot two winters ago. It looks pathetic next to the shiny BMWs and Audis my teammates drive, courtesy of wealthy parents or NIL deals I'm too principled or too stupid to chase.
The engine coughs to life on the third try, the familiar rattle of the exhaust somehow soothing. I crank the heat, but it'll be a good five minutes before anything besides frigid air blows through the vents. My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I ignore it, backing out of the space with more speed than precision.
I hit every green light on the way across town, like the universe is conspiring to get me to her door before I can come to my senses. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, split skin stinging from how tight I'm gripping it. The truck's cab feels too small, too airless.
I make it in eleven, running two yellow lights and taking corners fast enough that my tires protest.
A four-story brick building with LAKEWOOD LOFTS stenciled above the entrance in peeling white paint. There's asmall parking lot to the side, half-empty this time of night. I pull in, killing the engine but not making any move to get out.
Every instinct I've developed over the last year screams at me to start the truck, drive away, forget I ever saw that text.
“Ah, fuck it,” I mutter, yanking the keys from the ignition.
The slam of my truck door echoes across the parking lot.
The lobby door is propped open with a brick. The pinnacle of security. Inside, dingy yellow lights cast everything in a sickly glow. The elevator has an “Out of Order” sign taped to it that looks like it's been there since the Bush administration.
Stairs it is.
My legs feel like lead as I climb. By the second floor, I'm breathing a little harder, my ribs aching from where Prescott landed a solid hit. Could be bruised or broken but I can't bring myself to care.
Third floor. The hallway stretches out before me, dim and narrow. Apartment 3B would be…I scan the doors. There. At the end of the hall, a black door with tarnished brass numbers.
She said the door would be unlocked. An invitation to walk right in.
“For fuck's sake,” comes her voice from inside, muffled but still clear enough that I can hear the exasperation.
Something crashes inside, followed by muttered cursing that would make my mom blush.
“If you're selling something, I don't want it. If you're collecting for charity, I don't care. If you're here to talk about Jesus, I've already got a personal relationship with Satan, but thanks for your concern.”
Her footsteps approach before the door swings open so suddenly I nearly fall forward.
Maren leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow arched in that way that always makes me feel like I'm being dissected. She's changed out of her cheerleadinguniform into an oversized black t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing a collarbone sharp enough to cut glass. The shirt falls to mid-thigh, leaving miles of bare leg exposed. Her hair is loose now, falling in messy waves around her face.
She’s so fucking beautiful. Like the type of beauty that made men write sonnets and launch a thousand ships.
The #13 is gone from her cheek, washed away, but there's still a faint smudge of black where it used to be. Like she couldn't quite erase the evidence of me on her.
“Took you long enough,” she says, voice flat. “I was starting to think Coach Calloway had you doing wind sprints until you puked or you bitched out. Both were highly probable.”
“Excuse the fuck outta me for washing my ass so I didn’t arrive smelling like a fucking dumpster. I know you know how fucking bad we smell after a game.”
She studies me for a long beat, her expression unreadable. Then she steps back, sweeping her arm in a mocking gesture of welcome.
“You gonna stand there all night?” She asks, pulling the door wider. “Or you gonna come in and tell me why the fuck you're knocking on a door I specifically told you was unlocked?”
I walk inside because I didn’t come this far to turn the fuck around now. I don’t even know if I would ever get another invite.
Her apartment is exactly what I'd expect, and nothing like I imagined. It's small but open, with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors that creak under my weight.
There's a narrow kitchenette to the left, cluttered with mugs and takeout containers. To the right, a small living area dominated by a secondhand couch draped with a dark blue throw blanket. The coffee table is buried under a chaos of textbooks, notebooks, and empty Dr. Pepper cans.
She moves past me; her bare feet make no sound on the hardwood as she crosses to the couch and drops onto it, tucking one leg underneath her.
“You gonna sit or just stand there awkwardly?” She asks, voice dripping with amusement. “You're not a virgin, so no need to be shy. Everything I've got you've already seen on someone else before. Quit hovering.”
“I'm not fucking hovering,” I snap, even though that's exactly what I'm doing. Standing in the middle of her living room like I'm afraid to touch anything. Like I'm waiting for permission.
