Chapter 25: The Fake Zone: Chapter 25

I show up at Mila’s apartment at five. I haven’t seen her since Tuesday morning when pretenses went out the window, and I dove on her like a man depraved and starved. I couldn’t help myself, couldn’t go another day without kissing her. I’ve wanted to feel, taste, and consume her every minute of every day for the past two and a half years, and since the booster party, my resolve to remain single, prioritize my relationship with Hudson, and allow Mila to keep me at a distance all slipped away the second she kissed me back.

I’ve spent all week obsessing about tonight, trying to tire myself and my thoughts. But nothing has calmed me despite extra weight sessions, golf lessons with Corey and Palmer, and going toe to toe with Cole in the ring multiple times.

I’m fucked.

Evelyn opens the door. “Hey, Grey. Come on in. Mila’s just finishing getting ready.”

Hudson jogs down the steps, and I find myself on the defense, waiting for him to strike. “Hey, man.”

I wasn’t expecting the guilt in my chest to grow in strength and size like a fucking tornado, yet it does. Hudson’s been warning the entire damn team away from Mila since day one—another contributing factor for why we thought there was more between them than just friendship—and I wrapped her legs around my neck like a scarf and made her orgasm on my tongue hours after allowing her stay at an underground fight.

If there’s a hell, I earned myself a first-class ticket.

Before I can ask him how his trip was or plead for his forgiveness, Mila descends the stairs wearing jeans, a plum-colored sweater, and dark tennis shoes. That same barometer in my chest that warns me when I’m around her too long—eases at the sight of her. Similar to being around her too much, an unease grows when I’m away from her for too long. I don’t remember when it started, only that it’s a constant balance.

“What is Topgolf?” Evelyn asks.

Mila’s silver-blue eyes spear me for half a second before going past me to Evelyn.

“It’s a driving range with fancy lights and music,” Mila says.

“When’s the last time you hit a golf ball?” Hudson asks her, his lips crooked with amusement.

“If you’re asking if I’m going to embarrass myself, the answer is probably. But let’s be honest, I’m just there to give Grey the semblance of a balanced life.”

“At least this booster seems nice,” Evelyn says. “Hopefully, he doesn’t prove to be a shrew.”

Mila slides on her coat. “Here’s to hoping.

Hudson turns to me. “How was the week?”

I swallow. “Good. How was your trip?”

“Crazy,” Evelyn answers.

Hudson grins. “We had a good time.”

“Tell him how you slept on a bunkbed,” Mila says.

Hudson chuckles as Evelyn’s face turns scarlet.

“Aren’t you guys going to be late?” Evelyn asks.

“Mila.” Hudson’s voice turns serious. “Be careful tonight. If anything weird or—”

“I know. I’ve got it,” Mila says, tucking her hands into her pockets. “We’ll see you guys later.”

Hudson nods once.

“What was that about?” I ask as we step outside.

“What was what about?”

I wave a hand toward the closed door of her apartment. “Hudson warning you to be careful.”

“Nothing, just Hudson being Hudson. It had nothing to do with you, just safety in general.”

I know she’s lying, but I don’t know how to call her out on it without sounding paranoid. “How was the beach?” I ask. “Where did you guys stay?”

Mila smirks as she slides her hands into her pockets. “Do you think I made it up to avoid you?” Her smirk spreads into a smile. “Because I would have thought you were lying if you told me you were going out of town.” She laughs.

I had. I questioned if she was stewing in regret, too embarrassed or angry to see me again. “I was just making small talk.”

Mila raises one brow. “You never make small talk.”

I stare at her, working to place her tone that tries to imitate sarcasm. Mila matches my stare, lifting one brow. For a second, I think she’s daring me to talk about what happened between us, label it, and advise on how we will move forward.

“Blair would be so disappointed if you lost that prize-winning grumpy and cynical personality. How will she be your sunshine?”

My brow flattens into a glare.

Mila laughs as we stop beside my truck. “Oh, good. You’re not broken.” She flashes another smile, and I’m pretty damn sure it’s relief this time in her gaze. “We stayed at Corolla Beach. It’s Jon’s favorite. He loves the wild horses, and Alex loves that some of his favorite sappy movies were filmed nearby.” Her voice is the soft melodic tone I’ve begun to recognize as the one she uses when opening up.

I open the passenger door.

Mila looks from me to the open cab. “And I worked out every single day as promised. I’m officially ready to learn how to punch someone.”

I flick my chin in the direction of the truck. “You’re not ready yet.”

She maims me with a glare. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

For a second, I debate if her annoyance is because she’s hoping our arrangement ends sooner than later. It probably could. Despite her claims of disliking and avoiding organized sports, she’s a decent athlete. I could teach her where and how to strike someone to at least shock them.

“How many more weeks of conditioning until the next step?” Mila’s question breaks through my thoughts.

Mandated team practices begin on March first. I’ll be back to waking up before dawn and pinching every hour to continue working on the field and off. With more time, I could train Mila to do so much more than just stun someone. I could teach her to evade a hit, read body language, and knock a grown man on his ass.

We have four weeks left, and I want every one of them. “Until you’re running four miles daily and your balance improves.”

“I have great balance.”

“No, you don’t.”

Her brow flattens. “How would you know?”

“You favor your right side. Most do.” I close her door and round to the driver’s side.

“People take boxing classes and start shadowboxing on their first day.”

“They shouldn’t.” I start the truck.

Mila glares at me.

“Be glad I’m not making you do all the mental shit Mackey made us do.” I wait for the gate of her apartment to open and pull forward, heading for downtown.

“I’ve been in therapy since I was seven. Mental shit I can do.”

I glance across at her.

She catches me and raises both eyebrows. “You’ve seen me naked. Why do you still hesitate to ask me questions?”

“Are we ready to talk about that?”

“What’s there to talk about?”

My expression turns incredulous. I haven’t been able to forget the taste of her, the sounds of her release, or the way she looked at me.

“What were you going to ask me about therapy?” she asks, skirting the conversation.

“I don’t know if my questions will be offensive,” I tell her honestly. “I don’t know anyone else who sees a therapist; if I do, they don’t talk about it. I don’t know where the lines are with these subjects.”

“More people should go to therapy. In my utopian society, everyone would attend therapy at least once a week.”

“Why?”

“Because as humans, we’re full of conflicting thoughts and feelings that we rarely understand or know how to work through, and we suppress them, forcing them into tangles that grow and fester.” Her gaze is on the windshield, and traffic’s too busy to wait for her to turn to me.

“What do you talk about in therapy?”

“We talk about all kinds of things. Initially, it was a lot of untangling things that happened during my childhood. We still work on untangling some of those knots. Childhood traumas are a bitch.”

The word has that faded and pixelated image of Mila come to the forefront of my thoughts. My throat is dry as I try to swallow. “What kinds of traumas?”

Her gaze slides to mine. “That’s a little too deep for Topgolf, don’t you think?” We stop at a red light two blocks from the address. “Do you need a crash course on the clubs or jargon?”

“I’ve been practicing with Corey and Palmer this week.”

Mila nods distractedly. “I bet we could get Barnhardt to double the amount he offered you.”

I scoff. “He’s offered me a lot.”

“He owns a private yacht and jet. I doubt he offered you enough.”

Corey talks about spending summers sailing. It’s a life I can’t imagine. I spent summers camping in tents, building bonfires and forts. When it got unbearably hot, Cole’s parents would drive us into Oleander Springs, and we’d find a neighborhood pool, pretend we lived there, and go swimming. I know next to nothing about golf, but a goddamn yacht is so far outside of my wheelhouse that I’m worried the forty thousand Barnhardt is offering me may slip off the table when he realizes I’m a redneck hick who didn’t step foot outside of North Carolina before playing for Camden.