Page 86 of Off Camera
Specifically, the white one Avery wore in her hair a couple nights ago when I tugged her into my apartment and pushed her against the door. The picture we knocked off the wall is still crooked, and I haven’t had a second to fix it.
“Why are you blushing?” Maverick narrows his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” I argue. I grab a handful of pretzels and shove them in my mouth so I don’t have to say anything else. The less interested I pretend to be, the less he’ll care.
“My favorite part was?—”
“Hang on, G. Something isn’t adding up here,” Maverick says, interrupting Grant, his younger teammate. He pops to his feet and walks over to me. “What the fuck is going on, Duncan?”
I groan and scrub a hand over my face. There’s no use trying to hide this from them. They’re going to find out eventually.
“I might have stumbled into a frenemies with benefits situation,” I grumble, shielding my face with the book. “With Avery.”
“Who is Avery?” Ethan, another DC Stars player asks.
“She sounds hot,” Grant chimes in.
“Sothat’swhy you wanted to know her coffee order,” Dallas says.
“Your wife is on my shit list for spilling my secrets,” I say.
“Iknewit,” Maverick exclaims. “I fucking knew it. You’ve been staring at your phone nonstop lately. Oh mygod. You’re sending dick pics, aren’t you?”
“I amnotsending dick pics,” I say, then I panic. “Should I be sending dick pics? I’m not sure how all this works. What’s the proper protocol? We’ve hooked up a few times and?—”
“Afewtimes? Look at our Reidy Boy living a double life,” Maverick says.
“Can we go back to talking about masked men, please?” I beg.
“Knock it off, Mav,” Dallas says, and I shoot him a grateful look. “Show some respect.”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to force you into telling us,” Maverick says.
“You didn’t. I kept my mouth shut because it didn’t seem like something to make a big deal about. Not when you two are settled down with weddings and engagements. We’re having fun, which is something I’ve never, ever done.” I shrug again. “It’s different to live in the moment.”
“Good different?” Dallas asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I feel like one of you guys.”
“You’re happy, right?” Hudson asks. “You’re not going along with it just because you feel like you have to?”
“No.” I shake my head and bite back a smile. It was fun to make Pop-Tarts with her in my kitchen at midnight. To sit side by side on the couch and knock out some work after our home games on Sunday, only shutting my computer down when Avery took off her shirt and straddled me. It was nice to lend her a pair of socks that dwarfed her feet when she said she was cold. Those things make me happy. Happy for now, at least, because the second we’re behind our phones, I get her usual snark. “It works for us. We hook up, then after, it’s back to business.” I cut a glance over to Maverick. “I see why you were fucking giddy the first few months you and Emmy did this. I feel like I’m smiling nonstop.”
“That could also be because you haven’t slept with anyone in three years. Good sex will do that to you,” Maverick says, and the guys all murmur in agreement. “But we’ll stop talking about Reid’s bedroom habits and switch back to masked men. Now, on the subject of morally gray, I’d argue that…”
The next hour devolves into lighthearted mayhem, each of us making a passionate plea about our opinionated stances andtrying to nudge the others to our side. It’s always been like this, ever since our first meeting when there were just four of us.
The group has expanded over the last year, with some guys only staying a month or two before they lose interest or leave DC. It comes with being a professional athlete, and it makes me glad I don’t have to worry about new cities. New friends or new routines. I can stay here and do everything exactly how I like, exactly how I’ve always done it.
My attention gets pulled from the discussion on bondage when my phone lights up on the end table. I pick it up and see Avery’s name.
There’s a photo attached to her message, one that has me stifling a groan with my fist and wishing I wasn’t in a room surrounded by my friends.
It’s her in a dressing room wearing a piece of lingerie. The straps are falling down her arms, almost hooking around her elbows. The neckline shows off her cleavage and the swell of her tits. The underwear hugs the curve of her hips, and I spot the fingerprints I left behind the other night.
The lighting might be dim.
The picture might be blurry—taken as an afterthought, maybe—but that doesn’t stop my imagination from running wild.
