Page 115 of Top Scorer
“Why is she pissed?” I look over my shoulder, happy to get distracted by someone else’s worries.
“I sort of forgot her birthday yesterday.”
We heckle him about what a shitty boyfriend he is. Nice to know other guys mess up.
“I’ll make it up to her when the playoffs are over!” Connor claims.
“You didn’t even send her a birthday meme? What’s wrong with you?” Sergei prods.
Connor cranes his neck to display disgust. “Memes? What am I, in seventh grade?”
Dex, calm as ever, shrugs. “Don’t knock it. A well-timed meme is a quick substitute for flowers till you get back.”
Lance turns, grinning at me. “Alright, Tristan. Enlighten us. What’s your strategy? Especially since your woman’s pregnant. You can’t send emojis and call it a day.”
It takes me a second to realize they’re all waiting. My instinct is to dodge, but instead I admit, “I call her. The first person I talk to in the morning and the last at night. Even if it’s after a late game, we try to get in at least two minutes.”
Connor clutches his chest dramatically. “Two minutes! He’s setting the bar way too high.”
Sergei smirks. “Bet that’s the only thing he can last two minutes at.”
Even I cackle, though the joke’s at my expense. When the snark dies down, Lance scratches his jaw. Watching him makes me acutely aware of my own playoff beard.
“These beards are brutal. I feel like I’m wearing sandpaper on my face,” I say.
“Mine’s itching so bad I might claw my skin off,” Connor complains.
“You’re itchy because you’re patchy,” Sergei pipes up. “You look like a raccoon with mange.”
“Shut up. My girlfriend loves it.”
“Your girlfriend is lying. She can’t even text youtwoletters to sayOK.”Dex adds a snort to the comment.
“Sergei conditions his beard with an overpriced salon product imported from Japan,” Lance claims. Sergei swears up and down his beard is all-natural, no conditioner involved.
The teasing bounces back and forth, easy and familiar. I lean back with a chuckle. The noise tapers into a quieter hum. Dex and I chat about how to shut down Patterson during the next game. Someone at the back mumbles about needing sleep. Lance and Connor are on their phones, playing a video game in sync.
The flight isn’t some grand moment where I’m a Maverick in more than name. Yet I’ve tuned into their rhythm, somehow. Laughter lingers like background music I recognize. I’m not looking from the outside in. I’m already there.
***
The light from the hallway is bright when I quietly let myself into the townhouse.
“Tristan? I’m in the nursery.”
My heartbeat ticks up. Why is she up at three in the morning?
Slipping my shoes off and dropping my bags, I rush to the room. She’s sitting on the new gliding chair at a slight incline. Lamplight kisses the curve of her cheeks so her face is outlined by a soft glow.
“What’s wrong?” I drop to kneel at her feet.
“Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to see you,” she says. “And I couldn’t sleep lying down.”
My hands grab her hips and, like they’re magnets, our mouths fuse. It’s a delicious though rather rushed kiss, since my job right now is to ensure she gets rest. Mauling her is counter to that task.
“I’ll help you get comfortable in bed,” I suggest, while reaching around to gently massage her lower back.
“That feels good.” Ligaya sighing in pleasure is its own drug.
