Page 20 of Play the Last Track
My legs turn slowly on the exercise bike, warming my body down. I flex the fingers on my injured hand, and the sting sends a hiss through my teeth. I should definitely be unwrapping my hand and cleaning the healing skin underneath. A few weeks after the bar fight, I’m still feeling the effects. I know I’ve likely fractured a finger or deeply bruised the bones in my hand, but if I say anything to the trainers, they’ll pull me off the field. It will also serve as a clear reminder that I fucked up so royally.
So, no. I will just douse the hand in antibacterial wash, wrap it again tonight, and I will hold out for the bye week. It’s only a few games away, and that will give my hand some proper time to rest. After that, I will continue to strap it, and it will heal. Eventually.
I scroll through my phone while sitting on the warm-down bike. Social media doesn’t hold much interest for me these days. I used to enjoy reading comments from fans and watching the content the team posted. I even used to like posting a bit of my own content, but since Italy, I search for one particular handle to like, comment, or even simply view my posts. When she doesn’t, it just makes me feel like shit.
Now, even just scrolling through my feed can’t hold my interest for long.
I search Katie’s handle and click on her profile. There’s a new photo from tonight. A packed-out bar, arms in the air, a sea of glasses being held aloft. Everyone faces the wall of TVs that all show tonight’s Broncos game.
Her caption:That’s a touchdown.
In a moment of weakness, I pinch the screen of my phone and zoom in. It’s much too blurry for me to make out the time or the quarter on one of the screens in the picture. I frown at my phone. Selfishly, I hope it’s one of mine.
I haven’t heard from Katie since she walked out of my place after I told her I wanted to fix whatever I did and that I wanted to be friends. Hell, she’s agreed to be my fake girlfriend—I think—surely, we can figure out how to be friends.
Like I summoned her with a single thought, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Katie:I’m moving in on Tuesday. Ivy and Scott are coming as well. We’re going to use his car for the boxes. Can you be home?
I ignore the skipped beat from my traitorous heart and stare down at my phone.
Why did a part of me believe she wouldn’t really move in?
Me:I can help too.
Katie:It’s fine.We can manage.
Me:Don’t be stubborn, Rockstar. Let me help. I have a truck anyway. Way better for moving things in.
Katie:Everyone knows you’re compensating for something by driving that thing.
I smirk, and then, out of nowhere, a laugh crawls up my throat and bursts out of my mouth. This girl. She’s going to be the death of me.
***
“Christ, Reed, how many bedrooms do you need for one person?”
“They came with the house,” I murmur, my eyes traveling down her long legs. She’s wearing those tight, black jeans again. The ones that hug her ass and make me drool a little. She leans further into one of the empty guest bedrooms, and the hoodie she’s wearing rides up, the smooth skin of her lower back exposed.
“You’ve styled all four of them as guest bedrooms. Couldn’t think of anything else to use them for?”
I run a hand through my hair. There is no way I’m telling her the real reason I bought a house with so many bedrooms, so I simply shrug. “Somewhere for the guys to sleep when they crash here.”
Katie looks back over her shoulder at me and hums, unconvinced. I hold her gaze, not wanting to let her win. The door she’s knocking on isn’t one I want to be opening to her, or to anyone, any time soon. It would be far too revealing, would make me far too vulnerable.
“This one.” Katie nods in approval as she stands straight, her hand on the door frame. My gaze zeros in on her nails. Her blood red, painted nails. I suppress a groan at the thought of those nails wrapped around my—
“I’ll take this bedroom. There’s a bathroom attached, and it gets nice morning light.”
I clear my throat. “Okay. My—uh, my room is down the hall.”
“Oh?” She spins on her heel and looks past my shoulder, toward the only other door on this floor. “Neighbours then.”
“Friends.”
“Roommates,” she challenges.
“Friends,” I say, holding firm. I was serious when I told her I wanted to be friends and to figure out whatever I did to make her go from screaming my name in pleasure to not giving me the time of day in less than twenty-four hours.
