Page 70 of Cherry Picking
Because now I’m worried that his leg gave out and he’s lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere.
Hawks lives a floor below us in the apartment complex, so I’m not sure why I didn’t think to check with him sooner, but my anxiety is getting the best of me. So, here I am.
It takes three knocks for Hawks to open the door, and I’m only momentarily distracted by him shirtless in pajama pants at nearly three in the afternoon.
“Didn’t mean to wake you?” I hedge, and he brushes sweat-slicked blond hair out of his eyes. “Am I interrupting?”
“No.” He pushes out a sweet smile and steps aside. “I figured you’d be keeping Riley busy all day.”
“You know, that would be a lot easier if it didn’t feel like he was avoiding me.”
Hawks’ smile drops, and his brow creases. “He was here earlier. Said he needed to work out some kinks with his knee and was going to pay Nash a visit.”
“Oh.” I drag a hand through my hair and let out a draining sigh. “I didn’t think about that. He exerted a lot of energy last night. Wish he’d take a pain pill and rest instead of pushing it.”
“Taking it easy is not that man’s forte.”
We wander into the living room where I crash down on the couch and grunt out the exhaustion sinking into my bones. “If he could take it easy on me, that’d be great.”
“Was that a sex joke or are you genuinely worried?”
“Can’t it be both?”
I drop my head back and close my eyes. All I want is to hear Riley’s voice affirm that I didn’t royally fuck things up. That he’s okay.
I must doze off, because I come to with Hawks shaking my shoulder and drool dribbling down my chin.
“I talked to Nash,” he says with an intense frown. “He mentioned Coach and Riley have been going over Riley’s official retirement.”
“If I retire, how do we do this?”
“Humor me, Griff.”
“I think he’s tired.” Hawks sits on the cushion next to me. “He’s not in his prime anymore, he’s taken enough beatings … And coming out? I think he knows this is the end of the line.”
But why does it have to be?
I stand up—fully prepared to hunt my secret-keeping boyfriend down—but the moment I swing for the door, my heart stops cold.
Only for a second, maybe two, but the impending sense of dread that keeps making a home in my gut bursts back to life.
Right behind the door, where I couldn’t see it coming in, is Riley’s bag.
His away bag. The one I pack at the beginning of the season and leave at our front door. Not the one he actually takes now that he’s in the reserve, but the one that solidifies our home ashome.
That there is still a place on our team for Riley.
A place with me.
“Why do you have that?”
Hawks peers over the back of the couch at the door. “Oh. Yeah, he did have that with him, didn’t he? Must have forgotten it. Figured it was his gym bag.”
My superstition might come off as a bit silly, but Riley has always humored and accepted it. Especially these last few months.
As soon as we get home from an away game, Riley taps the bag on his way in the door. And when we leave. As a reminder.
I’m still here.
