Page 16 of Cherry Picking
CHAPTER 4
GRIFFIN
Today isour first official game against the Salem Spitfires.
It was a six hour flight on one of the most uncomfortable airlines I’ve ever had the displeasure of flying. The only upside was sitting beside Riley and getting lulled to sleep by the deep timbre of his voice as he read aloud from some post-apocalyptic novel about zombies.
Room assignments had me initially with Cap, but Riley finagled him into switching me and the rookie who never stops talking Riley’s ear off about his time in the NAPH. Which—if the little turd would pay attention—is a sore spot for Riley.
We’re all dressed up in our suits and have about fifteen minutes to meet downstairs to board the bus—that is, everyone except for Riley.
I bang on the bathroom door as I adjust my tie for the millionth time. I’m a pro after doing this for so long, but that doesn’t make it feel any less stuffy.
“Easton! We’re gonna be late.”
“I’m almost done,” comes his muffled voice through the door along with the sound of running water.
“You’ve been showering for half an hour. How dirty can you be? Do you have a pre-game nut ritual or something? If you aren’t out in five minutes, I’m heading down without you.”
Riley is usually the team’s mother hen, and I expected him to be the one rushing me around all day.
Something clatters inside the bathroom, and I rap my knuckles on the door again.
“Seriously, Riles. You okay?”
He curses, sputters, and when I try the handle it gives straight away.
Riley standing over the sink in nothing but his underwear, water dripping down his chest and back from his soaked hair isn’t much different than what I expected to see. It’s the fact that his naturally bright, copper hair is now nearly white that catches me by surprise.
I’m not sure if I should be more concerned about that or that for whatever reason he had to have his mid-life crisismoments before our first game.
He drags a hand towel over his eyes, then pushes it into his hair and straightens. The smile he throws my way is tight and hesitant, but it brightens after he fully takes me in.
“Frat boy cleans up good.”
I roll my eyes hard, but my own smile twitches in response. Ever since I made the joke about looking like a frat boy, it’s become Riley’s favorite teasing comment to make.
“One of us has to. You haven’t even started getting dressed yet. Where’s your suit?”
He motions to the back of the door, so I grab the trousers and thrust them at him. “Your legs are dry. Throw those on.”
While he does that, I scrub the towel through his hair and down his shoulders. Thank god for hotel blow dryers, because if he soaks his suit, Coach will have both of our asses. Don’t ask why he’d blame me, that’s just how this shit seems to go.
We work in quiet tandem until it’s time to knot his tie and he takes it from my hurried hands.
“I’ve got it, Griff. Thanks.” The words are quiet but sincere, and I can’t stay mad at him even if we have to kick our asses into gear to get downstairs.
“This couldn’t have waited until after the game?” I reach up to comb my fingers through his hair, setting it back into some semblance of its natural mess.
“Nope. I meant to do it last night, but…”
But we were tired as shit from the plane and fell asleep watching some satirical comedy film that I honestly couldn’t tell you the plot of.
“Tell me this isn’t your pre-game ritual. I do not want to have a heart attack before every game, but I'm also pretty sure this shit is bad for your hair.”
Riley chuckles and steps back, adjusting the tie one last time and inspecting himself in the mirror. He looks uncertain, nervous.
“No. Just before the first game of the season. A silly superstition.”
