The Right Move: Chapter 3

Fuck.

Sinking my forehead to the back of my door, I close my eyes with regret.

That was mean and I didn’t intend to be. In fact, the entire walk up here I kept reminding myself to be nice, trying to come up with some stupid greeting to say to her for the first time.

Welcome home. No, that makes it sound like our home.

Happy you’re here. That’s a lie. I’m not.

Anything you need, let me know. Don’t let me know. Get it yourself.

Every phrase I rehearsed sounded exactly like that…rehearsed.

The plan I came up with was a simple, “I’ll get a spare key made for you,” before walking to my room where I could have a moment alone.

But then I saw her standing there barefoot in the middle of my living room, wearing a sweatshirt so oversized I’m still not convinced she’s got anything on underneath. Her blonde hair was in a braid flowing over her shoulder, but most of the pieces were pulled out in a frazzled mess. Her brown eyes were softer than I remember and that just pissed me off.

All night long, my teammates gave me shit about her moving in. They’ve met her once, about five months ago and I thought the lasting impression she left on them was because she threw up all over my shoes that night. But unfortunately, the only memory they have of her is that she was an absolute smoke show.

I knew she was pretty. I’m not blind, but there’s no way she was as beautiful as they recalled. I was certain they played it up in their minds.

They didn’t.

I walked into my apartment and realized my mistake. They were right—she’s stunning, and I hate it.

I’m not easily distracted, but if I could manifest my perfect distraction, it’d look a lot like her.

I can’t have someone like that living here. I don’t want anyone living here. I need my space. This apartment is my one reprieve from the outside pressures. I need to concentrate on my first season as Captain, and I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do that when my roommate looks like she just stepped off the beach with her sunkissed legs, golden hair, and her colorful clothes strewn around my apartment floor.

Fuck this. I need to go to the gym.

Maybe I’d be a little calmer if I had a moment to relax and prepare to come home to a new roommate, but I didn’t have a single calm minute tonight. I was being watched and therefore on edge every moment of the evening.

Typically, the stares are from fans and reporters, observing my every move, but ever since my promotion, Ron Morgan, the team’s General Manager has been watching me with more disdain than normal.

Ron liked me for the first three years I played for him, or at least he liked me as much as an employer can like an employee whose salary takes a large chunk of their yearly budget and has yet to lead the team to a championship, let alone the playoffs.

But Ron’s evident distaste for me really began last winter after I escorted his niece to a movie premiere as a favor to him. His niece, who is practically his daughter, had gotten in some trouble with the law and what better way to clean up someone’s image than to call in good guy Ryan Shay?

It was one night, one event, but the real problem began when more than one night was asked of me. It’s been constant, and I’ve turned down his request to take his niece out every time since, using my sister as some kind of Morgan family shield.

“You should take Lesley to that charity gala.” Can’t. I already invited my sister.

“End of the year weekend on the lake. Everyone is bringing someone. You’ll bring my niece.” Can’t. Stevie already snagged my plus-one.

“Lesley is really smitten with you. You should invite her to team dinner on Friday as your plus-one.” Ah. Damn. Wish I could, but my sister is really excited to go, and I can’t bail on her.

It’s worked well all year, using Stevie as my pseudo-date, but then she had to go ahead and fall in love. And with not just anyone, but someone who is at ninety percent of the same functions as me because he’s an equally big name in Chicago sports. Without her help, my motive became clear that the real reason I couldn’t continue seeing Ron’s family member was simply because I didn’t want to, and that’s when his indifference turned to blatant dislike.

That aversion was aggravated at the end of the season when Ethan stepped down and the team named me Captain despite Ron’s vocal disagreement. But I don’t date, haven’t done it since college, and I’m not going to change simply to appease the man who signs my paychecks, especially when it’s regarding a woman who I’m genuinely not interested in.

You’d think Ron would appreciate my ambition. My mind is on a single track and that’s winning Chicago their first championship in decades and topping it off with an MVP trophy for myself. That means no women, barely any friends, and keeping my eyes on the prize. Not letting anyone take advantage of my name or who I’m going to become in the sport of basketball.

It’s happened before and I’ll never make that mistake again.

I need a fucking workout. Clear my mind from the mess my night was and the disaster my apartment turned into while I was gone.

Slipping off my suit jacket, I hang it in the closet where it belongs—between my black jacket and the dark gray one. Unclasping my watch, I carefully lay it in my nightstand drawer, back in its velvet box, exactly where it goes every time I remove it.

Getting some shots in will calm me down now that my apartment seems to have the opposite effect on me. But before I can slip out of my suit and into gym shorts, a soft whimper from the living room stops me.

This must be a joke.

Why the hell did I agree to let this girl live here? Oh, that’s right—Stevie. I need to learn to start saying no to my sister, because not being able to just earned me a crying blonde in my living room.

I’ll ignore it. It’d be more embarrassing for her than anything if I went to check on her. Was what I said really all that mean that she’s crying over it? I’ve only seen this girl cry or drink herself into oblivion, so I guess it’s not so surprising she’s emotional once again.

Another whimper and another muffled weep punch through my closed door and invade my chest.

You don’t owe her anything.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

I can’t. As much as I’d love to be that guy, I’m not.

Taking a deep breath, I open my bedroom door to check on my new roommate.

Little miss blondie has her knees tucked into her chest as she sits on my couch, hiding her face in her crossed arms, and I don’t know what the fuck to say to get her to chill out. How am I supposed to get her to stop? I don’t even know the girl.

Say something nice, something comforting.

“You’re emotional.”

Her head snaps up from her arms, brown eyes bloodshot and swollen. “Thanks for the observation, Ryan. You’re real perceptive.”

Okay, clearly that was the wrong thing to say.

“Why?”

Her brows furrow. “Why what?”

“Why are you so emotional?”

“Why are you so cold?”

I switch gears because she’s not getting that answer so easily. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She laughs condescendingly. “What’s wrong?!” Her voice rises with her as she stands from the couch. I let my wandering eye trail down those mile-long legs, and I can’t help but wonder how they might feel wrapped around my waist.

Not the fucking time, Ryan.

She’s tall for a girl. And at this moment, she’s a little scary too.

“What’s wrong is my life has gone to absolute shit, okay? Sorry, I can’t control my emotions because my shitty boyfriend of six years cheated on me with some chick from his office! And I was the one to lose my apartment because of it. I can’t afford to live on my own in this city, and now I’m sitting in my best friend’s brother’s apartment who doesn’t want me here either! Do you think I want this? I don’t! I want my old life back.”

I stay casually leaning on my bedroom doorframe, watching her mini meltdown.

Mini might not be the right word.

“What the hell am I doing here?” she quietly asks herself.

She stares at me, expecting me to respond, but I have no clue how to act around someone so sensitive. She’s quite frightening.

“You’re right,” she says. “I am emotional. But at least I’m not a fucking robot!” She motions towards me. “At least I feel things. When’s the last time you felt something?”

“Well, currently I’m feeling amused.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she spits. “You’re a monster. And reorganize your goddamn bookshelf. Author’s last name? You’re sick.”

I try to bite back my smile, I really do, but it lifts on one side of my lip.

“Do not laugh at me!”

I shake my head. “Not laughing.”

She inhales a deep, centering breath as she runs her hands down her sweatshirt that looks about five sizes too big on her. “I’m going to move out. We don’t know each other, and you’re right. You didn’t ask for me to be here and that’s not fair to you. I leave on a work trip tomorrow night, but I’ll be back in a few days, and I’ll get my stuff out. I’m leaving Chicago.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not moving out. I’ll have a spare key made for you, Indiana.”

I close my bedroom door behind me, finally saying the line I rehearsed all night.

She’s right, I don’t really want her here. But she is wrong about one thing—I’m not a monster. She’s clearly going through shit—shit I find myself having a weak spot for and I can’t toss her out on the street. I’m not that kind of guy as much as I’d love to be at this moment.

A loud thud hits the back of my door. A shoe perhaps. “My name is not Indiana!”

Yeah, I’d really love to be that guy right about now.

I wake before my alarm, and as I reach my doorway wearing only my boxers, it dawns on me that I can’t exactly walk around my place naked anymore.

After slipping on a pair of basketball shorts and an old tee, I step into the living room. Indy’s mess is cleared out, but the apartment feels different than it did a couple of days ago.

I’ve been alone for a long time. Having Stevie live here for the nine months she did was a nice reprieve from the quiet, but the silence returned when she moved out. I like my alone time, thrive on it really. But the difference in the air this morning, having someone else here, doesn’t feel like the worst thing to happen to me. It’s not as alarming as I assumed it would be.

The door on the opposite side of the living room is cracked slightly. The sliver of pale-yellow paint burns my eyes as the morning Chicago sun bounces off the walls. There are no drapes or blinds in there anymore. Stevie used her own funky curtains for the time she was here, but before and since her living here, I’ve kept that room shut.

But Indy’s new bedroom won’t close completely because of the books and clothes thrown about her floor, keeping the door from shutting.

I learned another thing about the girl during our third meeting. Not only is she emotional and can’t hold her liquor, but she’s messy. Real messy.

She’s colorful too, I remind myself. It’s glaringly obvious around my black and white apartment. The dresses shoved in her doorway are shades of light purple and floral prints, but I think the biggest culprit of the doorjamb is the strappy pink heel sticking out from under the vibrant fabrics.

Maybe that’s the shoe that left a scuff mark on my bedroom door last night.