The Right Move: Chapter 18

“Shay, you’re buying right?” Dom shouts from the other end of the table.

I have to laugh to myself because the guy can afford his own dinner just fine if he were the one paying. “Yeah, man.”

He turns towards the server. “I’ll have your most expensive red then.”

Motherfucker.

Ethan, sitting to my right, leans in. “This is a nice spot.” His attention wanders the private back room of one of the most exclusive restaurants in Chicago. “Fancy.”

Hell yeah, it’s fancy, but more importantly, it’s private. Back door entrance, paparazzi are banned, and apparently the waitstaff has all signed NDAs. If every public outing was like this, maybe I’d leave my apartment for more than just practice and games.

Ethan’s critical gaze coasts the room again.

“Okay, what’s wrong with this place? You said I had to host team dinner. I’m hosting team dinner.”

“I also told you to use it as an opportunity for the guys to get to know you. Kind of hard to do when half the team is a shouting distance away.”

The back room consists of black walls, low lighting, and a table so long that it sits fourteen comfortably—if you’re not trying to speak to half of your guests.

To be honest, I knew it was a bullshit excuse for team dinner when I booked the restaurant two weeks ago. Ethan’s home is always warm and inviting. His wife and mother have taught some of the guys their famous Korean dishes over the years, and his daughters are usually running around or sitting on one of the players’ laps, teaching professional athletes how to color within the lines.

But I’m not Ethan. My apartment is bare and admittedly somewhat cold. I don’t have a wholesome family waiting at home to welcome the team, and even if I did, I can’t stomach the idea of letting this many people into my space, regardless that they’re my teammates.

Only a few have penetrated my circle of confidence—Ethan, Zanders, and now Indy, but I don’t blindly trust most people, including my teammates. Sure, I’ve known most of them for four-plus years, but they’re strictly my coworkers.

Trust is earned, not given, and if I said any of that out loud, Ethan would chew my ass out and remind me that my lack of trust in my team is probably why we’re on a four-game losing streak.

Halfway through dinner, the guys seem like they’re having a good enough time. The other end of the table is much louder than my end, shooting the shit, and drinking on my dime.

One of the rookies sits to my left. “Leon, do you want another glass of wine?” I hold the bottle up to offer him a pour.

He keeps his stare down on his plate. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

Hesitantly, his eyes find mine, trying to read me.

Ethan laughs. “It’s not a test, Leon. You’re not going to get reamed for having a second glass of wine. We have a travel day tomorrow.”

Leon’s lips tilt slightly, though he looks at Ethan while he smiles, but his eyes are back on his plate when he says, “Sure. Okay, I’ll have one. Thank you.”

I pour Leon another glass. That was fucking weird.

By the time dessert is being served, I can’t help it any longer. I pull out my phone to text Indy.

She flew home from a road trip this afternoon, so I haven’t seen her in five days. And before that, I was gone for six. Which means for the last eleven days the only thing I’ve been able to think about is that kiss.

It was perfect, consuming, soft. Fuck, it was intoxicating, and I want to do it again. I think I might need to do it again before I combust. Is there a study out there that tests the limit on how many times you can jerk off before creating a long-lasting problem? Because every languid stroke of my cock has come with the image of her long legs around my hips, her soft hands touching every crevice of my body, and those lips. Those goddamn lips exploring every inch of my skin.

Was it as fake as I claimed? Not in the slightest.

As I told her, I don’t feel comfortable faking intimacy, so I didn’t. My body was boiling when I saw her standing with him outside the arena. I knew who he was the second my eyes landed on him, and my suspicion was confirmed when I noticed the frozen yet fumbling mess that was my roommate. Her kind brown eyes were shining with unshed tears, and yeah, that pissed me off because he deserves no part of her.

I’d never let him see her cry over him, so you could blame the kiss on that, but the truth is when I walked out of the players’ entrance all I saw was Blue. My perfect fucking Blue with those strappy heels, leather pants, and an attitude consisting of the strangest mix of welcoming and sharp.

But when I noticed him, all I saw was red.

Call it possessive, protective, or straight-up caveman tendencies, I don’t care. There was no part of me that would allow for that sorry excuse of a man to think he “won.” So, yeah, I kissed her to prove a point.

But I also kissed her because I’d been wanting to do it for weeks now.

My sorry attempts to find any excuse to text Indy are getting more obvious. Sending her pictures of my lonely breakfasts without her, asking her the name of certain flowers I stumble upon, or just texting her to complain about how she’s not very good at cleaning up after herself, though I’ve grown used to my apartment being a bit more frenzied these days. Seems like I find a reason to message her at least once a day, and we’ve already talked about this bridal shower all week, but fuck it, I want to talk to her.

Don’t get me started on how I feel about her childhood friends taking advantage of Indy’s ingrained necessity to do anything for those she cares about. They went dress shopping without her, but conveniently need her to plan a bridal shower. She would never say no, and she’ll knock it out of the park, but that’s not the point. I wonder when the last time one of those friends planned something for her.

I wait just thirty seconds before I text again and tell the truth.

The bill is discreetly handed to me, and I slip the server my Black Amex.

Glad that was just a text, because if I said that out loud, I’m pretty sure my voice would’ve cracked like an excited middle schooler getting to see his crush.

What the hell? What plans? And with whom? And excuse me, but “maybe tomorrow”?

It takes all my restraint to keep my thumbs from typing out each of those questions, not that I’m in any position to deserve the answers. I’m just her roommate. She doesn’t have to tell me anything.

But goddammit, I’ve been looking forward to her coming home all week. I even had the guy who owns her favorite flower stand down the street drop off a bouquet for her today, simply because I knew she’d be excited for a fresh one. That and because I killed the last arrangement she left me with.

And now I’m feeling petty and annoyed and for no real reason other than I wanted her to want to stay home with me. Isn’t she tired from working all week? Yes, it’s a Friday night, but why’d she make plans?

I’m asking myself these questions as if I haven’t gotten to know the girl across the hall. Indy is a social butterfly who loves people. Of course, she made plans on a Friday night. She’s a single woman, stunning and too smart for her own good. Just because I have a hard time leaving the apartment doesn’t mean she does. Hiding away with me would never be enough for her.

God, I’m pathetic.

Highly unlikely that’ll happen at this point.

One of the rules of team dinner is that if there’s going to be alcohol, no one gets behind the wheel. So as the last of the guys pile into a rideshare, Ethan and I wait for our respective drivers to pull up.

“That went okay, don’t you think?”

He pops his shoulders. “Yeah, it was nice. Food was good.”

“But…”

“But did you notice how Leon couldn’t look you in the eye? Or how half the team was having their own conversations? Team dinner is about team bonding. Gives us an excuse to get out of our uniforms and get to know each other as people not players. That didn’t really happen tonight.”

I’m self-aware enough to know my team dinner was lacking in comparison to the ones Ethan used to host. “Yeah, what the fuck was up with Leon anyway?”

Ethan narrows his eyes. “You can’t tell? The kid is scared shitless of you.”

“Of me?”

He laughs, sarcasm dripping in his tone. “Shocking, right? Because you’re just the nicest guy on the court.”

“That’s work. Who I am on the court while I’m working is not who I am in my free time.”

“Ryan, you’re my guy, you know this, but you’re making the exact point I’ve been trying to prove this whole time. No one else knows you outside of basketball, so of course the guys think you’re some domineering dickhead that’s going to chew them out if they do the wrong thing. Leon’s afraid to be on the same team as you during practice. Did you know that?”

I scoff. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no reason he should take what I say or how I act while I’m working personally.”

“Guys are afraid to drop a pass from you. They’re afraid to miss a shot instead of giving you the ball and letting you shoot instead. We’re never going to make the playoffs if they can’t trust themselves and even more so, if you don’t trust them.”

Goddammit, I swear this man is a mind-reader. I know all of this. I see the fear in my teammates’ eyes when they fuck up, and of course, I’m aware of my own trust issues.

Ethan’s blacked-out sedan pulls up. “I’m not trying to be a dick—”

“No, you’re right,” I interrupt. “You’re right. I need to work on it.”

He gives me a quick slap on the back. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

The drive back to my apartment is silent. Sometimes I’ll chat with Harold, but tonight the quiet is necessary. I know what it takes to bring home a championship—I won two national titles while in college—but I’m a different man than I was then. Trusting my teammates, trusting anyone isn’t nearly as easy.

“Welcome back, Mr. Shay.”

“David?” I ask as I step out of the back of the car. “Why are you working the night shift?”

David, my usual daytime doorman, holds the lobby door open for me. And even though I’ve requested for him to call me Ryan, it’s evident he doesn’t feel comfortable being so casual with me while at work, so I let the formality slide.

“My granddaughter had a piano recital this afternoon. I couldn’t miss it.”

David is a good man with a big family. He’s also discreet and I appreciate him more than he probably realizes. He’s been a constant in my life since I moved to Chicago, so last year when he told me his granddaughter had to stop her piano lessons because their family could no longer afford it, I found a scholarship foundation to support her and pay her way for as long as she wants to keep playing.

He doesn’t know that said scholarship is simply my personal bank account, but the details aren’t important.

“How was it?”

His eyes sparkle. “Magnificent. Remi is getting good.”

I give him a pat on the shoulder. “I know you have a video. Show me tomorrow?”

“You got it. Your flowers were delivered. As well as your bookshelf. Should I have someone come up and assemble it for you?”

“I got it but thank you.” I’m halfway through the lobby when I turn back to the door. “David, did you happen to see Indy tonight?”

A smile slides across his lips. “Sure did. She looked beautiful, didn’t she?”

I swallow. “I’m sure she did. Did she mention where she was going? Did she take her own car?”

“She didn’t say, but she took a rideshare.”

“Got it. Have a good night.”

Before I step into the elevator, David stops me. “She’s a good one, Mr. Shay. Kind heart.”

I soften at his words. “She is a good one.”

The apartment is admittedly depressing. Friday night and the city outside is booming with music and people and life. Here I am with a night off work and self-confined to these four walls. Even if I wanted to go out and enjoy my weekend, maybe call Indy and try to meet up with her, I can’t. That’s not a luxury I have. Privacy is a privilege I gave up when I signed my contract with the Chicago Devils four and a half years ago.

Stevie and Zanders took a quick trip back to Indiana to see Zee’s dad, so I truly am alone for the night. It’s nothing new. In fact, this is what I’ve wanted, needed, but ever since my colorful roommate moved in, being alone hasn’t felt quite as appealing. The silence is screaming without Indy here.

I want the comfort of privacy, but I want her to be with me while I have it.

The flowers I had delivered are shades of light purple and pink, so I know she’s going to love them. It’s impractical, constantly spending money on flowers that will die shortly after bringing them home, but every cent is worth it when I get to watch that beaming smile bloom when she sees them. The girl deserves to be spoiled, and I want to be the one doing the spoiling. I trim the stems down the way she taught me before adding the flower food to the water, trying to situate them like the professional florists do. Mine doesn’t look nearly as nice, but fuck it, I tried.

Changing into a pair of sweats and a tee, I grab a beer from the fridge and get to work on the bookshelf I ordered. I easily could’ve purchased a custom-made one or even a bookshelf that was already put together, but the idea of building this myself sounded nice, normal even.

It seemed like something a normal man would do for a girl he likes. Because at the end of the day, that’s who this bookshelf is for.

I reclaimed my own, my books now in their rightful spot—organized by author’s last name without shirtless dudes crowding them, but Indy’s romance novels have been stacked on the floor in the living room since the week she moved in. As much as I tease her, I’ve found her crying, laughing, or even crossing her legs during certain scenes, and it’s beyond endearing that the love between fictional characters can bring her so much joy.

The instructions call for two people to build this, but it’s only me, so I take a swig of my beer, throw the directions away, and get to work.

Okay, so I may have had to disassemble and reassemble it a few times. I also may have had to watch a YouTube video or two to figure it out, but Indy’s bookshelf is finished and somewhat stable. My beer is still full and warm, essentially untouched by the time I’m done, but I think she’s going to be happy.

I leave her books stacked on the floor where they are because even though I have a particular way I like to organize, Indy doesn’t live by the same code and this area is hers.

My ringing phone cuts the music playing on my surround sound. Shuffling through the discarded cardboard, I find my sister’s name scrolling across the top.

“Hey, Vee. What’s up?” I sink back on my couch.

“Are you still at team dinner?”

“No, just hanging out at home.”

“Okay, good,” she exhales. “I need a favor. Well, Indy needs a favor.”

That causes me to sit up. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s going to hate that I called you. It’s not a big deal, but…”

“Stevie, what’s going on?”

“She called Rio for a ride, but he’s been at home drinking while playing Xbox with some guys from the team. Rio called me, but I’m two hours away in Indiana to see Zee’s dad and rideshares are taking close to an hour for pickups downtown.”

“She needs a ride?” I’m already off the couch, grabbing my keys, and headed to the door, thankful I was too distracted to drink that beer earlier. “I’m on my way. Where is she?”

“Don’t freak out.”

I stop in my tracks, my hand on my doorknob. “Well, that’s one way to get me to freak out.”

“She’s on a date, and the guy is being a creep, making her uncomfortable. She’s at Sullivan’s on eighth.”

She’s on a date?

My mouth goes dry as rage seeps through every pore of my body. Don’t get me started on how I feel about her being on a date, especially after she told me our date was the first one she’d been on, but if he so much as laid a fucking finger on her without her consent, my sister may as well start driving back to Chicago so she can bail me out of jail tonight.

“Ryan, are you there?”

I swallow, lubricating my parched mouth so I can speak. “I’m on my way.”