Page 69 of Shot Taker

The week between Christmas and New Year’s is quieter at the stadium and Clay has been playing two road games, so I take advantage to work on the wall.

He’s started to check in with me if it’s a long day, like he knows even without seeing that I’m perched on the ladder trying to create something worthy of this city, this team.

Tonight, it was nearly seven when I got home and took a bath.

When I got out, the was a message from the concierge to let me know dinner was waiting for me at the door.

The package contained tacos from my favorite Mexican place, plus fresh chips and salsa, as well as a six-pack of Gatorade with a note saying to “stay hydrated.” More than enough food for me and Brooke, who came home soon after.

It was a seriously sweet gesture, especially considering Clay’s first home game in over a week is tonight.

Grumpy Baller: You catch my game?

Nova: You were okay.

Grumpy Baller: "Okay" like you watched it with your hand in between your thighs?

Nova: Gasp.

Nova: I figured you’d want me to wait for you.

Grumpy Baller: Want you waiting in my bed.

Nova: Skip media or I’ll start without you.

Flirting with Clay by text is becoming one of my favorite things.

It’s even better when he’s in Denver and waiting to see him is a matter of hours, not days.

We can’t keep our hands off each other.

But because this is still new and his schedule is beyond demanding, it feels as if there’s still so much we haven’t done.

“UGHHHH!”

The shriek has my head snapping up from where I’m watching TV in the living room.

I’m off the couch the next second, padding down the hall and pushing wide the cracked door.

“Are you dead?” I ask as I scan my roommate’s prone figure. She’s sprawled like a ragdoll, her braids spilling across the duvet and her arms overhead.

“Emotionally,” Brooke pants.

Since rooming together for the past couple of months, we’ve gotten closer. We have our roomie routines, and I love our time together.

Now, Brooke tosses her phone on the bed. “I got this brand partnership and posted it. One of the girls from my sorority DMs me saying, ‘So cute, I wish my brother could get me these kinds of gigs.’”

Her eyes squeeze shut.

I fold my arms. “You know that’s bullshit. You deserve all your success.”

“Obviously.” She chews her lip. “But why do some girls have to tear others down? Like friends aren’t really friends and it’s just a label you slap on people in your social feed through college and at parties.”

From a woman who always seems confident, the admission surprises me.

I cross to her bed and perch on the corner.

“Brooke. You’re kind and funny and thoughtful and smart and the best friend a girl could ask for. I’m lucky to have you, and so’s your brother.”

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