Page 67 of Play the Last Track
I also walked out as soon as it happened and cut off contact.
Flynn, though, wanted to report him. He wanted it on Grant’s record. So we compromised. I reported him to the police the next day when I went to finalize my statement about the damage to the bar Grant caused, but I didn’t press charges. Flynn wasn’t thrilled, but he respected my decision.
Ever since, the man’s been hovering like a bad smell. Well, a good smell, but still hovering. He’s made me breakfast in bed, he’s brought me fresh flowers daily, he’s been extra attentive at night. It’s been … nice.
My parents and I talked over what happened the next day. They agreed to put in some hours at the bar so I could take the week off. Since I became their unofficial manager, they’ve taken a step back. But Mom was beside herself when she showed up at the house the next morning. Maria had called her.
We had a long talk about the future, and I honestly think they might be coming around to the idea of me taking over the bar full-time. Maybe. Dad, more so, but Mom is getting there.
Flynn took a personal day from practice the day after, but, to his annoyance, he had to go back to training the day after that. The playoffs are well and truly here, and the Broncos are favorites for a conference win and a Super Bowl slot.
I drop his hands and press my palms into his chest, not pushing him away but simply feeling the warmth under his T-shirt.
“You know what would make me really happy?” I say, staring up at him.
His hands curl around my neck, brushing my hair over my shoulder. “What’s that?”
“You, winning your playoff games. You, winning the conference. You, winning the Super Bowl.” I smile widely, trying to show him that I’m just fine and he doesn’t have to worry.
“Me winning a football game would make you happy?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, nodding as I use his chest to balance and rise up on my toes. “You’re always so horny after you win.” I kiss his neck, then graze my teeth along his ear.
He groans, the hands he still has around the back of my neck tightening a little. “Murphy. Are you teasing me?”
“I might be.” I laugh as I drop back to my toes. He stares at me for a while, studying my face. He does this a lot. Like he’s looking for something that isn’t normally there, a way into the deepest parts of my soul. Little does he know, he’s dug himself quite far down already. “You’re going on this trip. You’re going to win this game, and then you’re going to come home and fuck me so hard in celebration, I’ll have to take another week off work.”
He shakes his head, smiling as he leans down and kisses me senseless. I’m about to say fuck it, and drag him to the bed, but his phone rings. He rips his mouth away from mine and curses. “Fuck.”
I smile, watching him pick up the phone and place it to his ear. Through the small speaker, I can hear Scott’s voice.Time to go.
I turn back to the bag on the bed, peeking inside and then tossing another pair of Flynn’s underwear and sweatpants in the bag. I go into the bathroom, take his toothbrush and the face wash he swears by, and put them in a toiletries bag. I walk back into the bedroom and throw it into his overnight bag.
A strong arm wraps around my waist, and I lean back into his chest.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Flynn”—I turn in his arms—“it happened months ago, not the other night. I am fine, I promise.”
“Can I call you when my flight lands?”
I smile softly at him. “Sure.”
We make our way down the stairs together. When I open the door, Scott’s black Mercedes G-Wagon is parked on the side of the road, and I wave to him. They’re riding together to the airport this weekend. During the playoffs, the team closes ranks. The guys hang out together. They train, eat, and play video games whenever they can. They get in sync. It’s been quite wholesome to watch over the last week, actually. Flynn kisses me once more before heading down the front steps and getting into the passenger seat. I wait until Scott turns at the end of the road before closing the front door and locking it.
Padding down the hallway toward the living room, I shiver. It’s cold now, without him here.
Fuck, I think I miss him already.
He’s been going away for games every other weekend since I moved in at the start of October. I used to love it. I had free rein of the kitchen, I could watch whatever I wanted—although Flynn never chooses what we watch anyway—and it was quiet. Now, and for a little while, I’ve started to hate it.
In the living room, I reach down in front of the electric fireplace and switch it on. Ivy has this great big traditional fire, and her Pops would try to teach us both how to light it and keep it going. We never succeeded. Luckily for her, Scott knows how to light it now, and luckily for me, Flynn has an electric one.
The room starts to warm up, heat washing over me as I head for the kitchen and dig out a packet of popcorn in the cupboard. I spin it around in my hands. It’s an extra butter, extra salty popcornpacket. One of the ones you put in the microwave for them to pop, and it’s warm when it comes out. It’s my favorite kind. I smile, about to close the cupboard, when something else catches my eye.
Bagels.
From the good bakery, not the crappy supermarket ones. There’s a whole bag in the cupboard. There’s also a new jar of Nutella, and a box of my favorite cereal that I could swear I ran out of last week. He’s filled his pantry cupboard with all of my favorite things.
