Page 13 of Keeper
Sleep. I just need sleep. I’ll deal with this monumental fuck-up in the morning.
In the early morning hours, I wake with a horrid migraine that could kill all other migraines. I get them from time to time, but they’re usually stress-induced, centred around exams and that sort of thing. Are sexually frustrated migraines a thing? I’d think nearly sleeping with your best friend from childhood constitutes migraine-worthy stress.
The pain is so intense, it’s accompanied by heavy nausea. This is usually how my migraines go: I wake up, puke, and then disappear for as many days as it takes the fucker to subside. I have medication for them, but all it does is dull the murderous pain from homicide to manslaughter.
I slide out of bed and step into a pair of sweats. Sure enough, the gagging sets in. Sprinting out of my room and straight to the loo, I spew the contents of my belly—mostly whiskey—into the toilet. The light shining through the foggy window is near crippling. This is either the worst kind of hangover or the worst kind of migraine. Probably both.Fuck me if I don’t deserve this.
When the nausea wanes, I slowly make my way out of the bathroom. As I open the door, I glance over and see Booker drinking a glass of water in the kitchen. He’s wearing a pair of football shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, the back of which is soaked in sweat. He obviously just came back from a workout.
He turns when he hears me, and I give him a slight head nod. “Crippling hangover or migraine. Either way, I’m going back to bed.”
He looks uneasy for a moment, like he wants to say something but then thinks better of it and nods politely. Watching his head shake hurts my brain.
I return to the comfort of my room, yank the curtain closed over the balcony door, and blanket myself in darkness. I hate the dark, but in these scenarios, I need it. Migraines are nature’s cruel joke on my childish phobia.
Closing my eyes, I pray for sleep to find me. I pray even more that I’ll wake up and find that last night with Booker was a stupid nightmare.
When I wake up, it’s dark outside. I sit up and exhale a huge sigh of relief that my head no longer feels like there’s a vice grip on it. I lean over to the lamp that Booker left on my floor and flick it on, as appreciating that my room is now bathed in a soft yellow glow. I’m alive. I made it.
Itching for a shower, I gather up some clothes and slide open my door, nearly tripping over a bottle of water on the floor, accompanied by two pieces of toast on a plate. Tummy grumbling, I grab a slice and take a bite. It’s definitely more than a few hours old, so I wash it down with a sip of water before making my way down the hall.
Booker must be out because the flat is dark, aside from the blue backsplash light in the kitchen. That’s good. Space is precisely what we need. And since I’m just now feeling human again, I’m grateful for the solitude.
The shower is glorious. It has eight sprayers that hit me in all my favourite places, rejuvenating in more ways than one. I dry off and yank a brush through my short tresses, staring at myself in the foggy mirror for a mental pep talk.
Okay, Poppy. You can handle this. True it wasn’t the best twenty-four hours of your life. But that doesn’t have to mean anything has changed. Booker left toast and water at your door. That’s a very friendly thing to do, and that’s all you want from him anyway. You’re not the same girl who pined for him in your teen years. You’ve changed. You have a nipple ring to prove it! You’ve experienced men. Only a few, but still. That basically means you’re the shit, and a little foreplay with your best friend changes nothing.
Even if it was…really…fucking…good.
“GOOD ENOUGH IS NEVER GOODenough!” Coach shouts as my teammates and I stand at the goal line, preparing to run another killer. “We only have three matches left in the season, and I see a lot of you prancing around like this is for fun and relaxation! Tomorrow is a home game, and I refuse to let our disappointment over not getting promoted this season earn us a loss. Now fucking run!”
He blows the whistle and we sprint toward the closest line, then turn back and hit the midfield line. Then farther still. Then the rest until we’re all the way to the end of the field and back.
“Harris!” Coach shouts. Both Tanner and I stop midstride to look at him. “Not, you…You! Well, hell, both of you is fine. Get over here.”
We jog up to Coach and he hits me with a stern look. “Now, Booker, you have the best hands in the Championship League, but I’d like to see you work on becoming more explosive. Keep pushing the areas that aren’t your best and soon we’ll have nothing left to push, all right?”
I nod and head over to the net where my gloves are as he yells, “Do sixty-second sets of ab killers. Tanner, you shoot for him. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
I glove-up and drop down on the goal line with my legs straight out in front of me while Tanner positions himself ten yards out. I gesture for my right side first and he kicks the ball three feet over. I stop it and toss it back. Then he switches to the left.
After the first set, Tanner waggles his eyebrows and asks, “How’s the roomie?”
Frowning and chucking the football back at him, I reply curtly, “Fine.” I pause to squeeze a drink of water into my mouth before resuming my position on the goal line.
“That’s it? Just…fine? It’s been almost a week of living with her, and that’s all you have to say?” He kicks the ball at me again.
I catch it and shrug. “She started her new job. I’m at practice. We haven’t been seeing much of each other.” I throw the ball back to him and try to ignore the fact that Poppy and I have been avoiding each other. I’ve been working out more than usual. She’s been going into work extremely early. Hell, she could be sleeping at her parents’ house in Chigwell for all I know. I’ve been checking for evidence that she’s still staying at my flat, and the fresh groceries and occasional dirty dishes in the dishwasher lead me to believe she hasn’t been abducted.
“You’re bloody flatmates!” Tanner stops the ball I fling at him and stands with it below his boot. “Don’t your paths cross on the way to the toilet? My fiancé is a high-risk baby surgeon and we still manage to find time for morning shags.”
“Will you just shoot the bloody ball?” Tanner’s playful smirk drops and he jukes me out, drilling one the opposite way I was expecting. I flinch as a muscle in my side pulls. “Fuck!” I growl and punch the ground in frustration.
A nervous expression breaks across his face. “Sorry, broseph. Are you all right?”
I stand up and grab my lower back on one side. “Yes. I just tweaked that fucking muscle in my back again. That was a cheap fake-out, you prat. It’s a fucking strength training drill.”
“Well, you know I get agitated when you don’t answer my questions.” Tanner’s bearded face looks apologetic, but it’s too late. He’s a fucking wanker.
