But then again…
Look where we are now. Sharing snacks after a morning hike, living down the hall from one another.
Never in a million years.
My watch beeps and I glance down at the notification.
Ronnie: Heads-up: Coach is doing checks. She’s giving everyone 30 min.
Shit.
“We have to go,” I say with a sigh. “My coach is doing a random curfew check tonight.”
They like to make sure we’re not out partying sometimes so that we’re in top condition for the upcoming week; they’re going to want a live selfie of me at home, with the date and time stamp on it.
“Gotcha,” Ashley says, already reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. Takes out a few bills and tosses them on the counter.
I reach into mine, too.
He stops me as I rise from the barstool. “I’ve got it, Georgie.”
Blushing, I give him a shy smile. This isn’t a date; he doesn’t have to be paying for my drinks. I feel like in the past few days, all I’ve done is take and take and take from him.
Imagine if I did win that trip and I could treat him to a weekend away—a weekend of fun, on me. To show him my gratitude for all the nice shit he’s done for me.
“Thank you.”
We rise, gathering our stuff, and make for the door.
Ashley did all the things tonight a guy does when he’s on a date: pays the tab, gets the door, puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me outside.
He’s not doing it on purpose; the good etiquette is deep-rooted in him.
Still, I can feel his warm hand on my spine, the polite hand that simply cannot help itself.
And tonight, when I lie in bed—after sending the coaching staff a photo of myself taking my makeup off in the bathroom, scrunching my face up and sticking out my tongue—I can’t help but wish it had been a real date, pondering what it would have been like to kiss him when we got out of the truck.
Fifteen
Ashley
My truck smells like Georgia’s perfume.
House, too.
The fridge is stocked with her food, little reminders of her presence beginning to scatter throughout the house: her shoes by the back door next to mine.
A snuggly blanket on the couch in the den.
Fuzzy socks on the floor.
A bra left in the washing machine.
The bra I didn’t need to see or touch, but it was clinging to my sweatpants when I pulled them out of the dryer—a baby blue confection like nothing I would have pictured her wearing.
Nothing chaste or prim about it.
Sheer.
Lacy.
Not sure why, but I imagined her in something white. Or gray. Sports bras as everyday attire, not that I was imagining her in underwear, but maybe bras that come in a three-pack from Costco or something—not lingerie from Victoria’s Secret.
I think about that bra later in the day when I’m rushing to a communications class. Think about it again when I’m running laps around the field for practice. Think about it in the locker room at the field house after I hop out of the shower and am lacing up my trainers.
“Ash, bro—do you have a spare set of cleats I can borrow?” A chap by the name of Will comes up behind me, already dressed. “Andy said you’re a size thirteen too, and I busted the toe out of mine tonight.”
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Yeah, I have a spare pair.”
A few of them, actually; it’s no hardship to lend one out.
“Cool—can I come grab them?”
“Now?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll see you before practice tomorrow as I’m coming straight from a doctor’s appointment—having my balls checked out.”
I stare at him blankly. “You are not.”
Will laughs. “No, I’m not—I’m getting tested for STDs.” He laughs again. “Just started dating this chick and she won’t have sex with me until she knows I’m clean.”
Makes sense.
I finish tying my second trainer, standing and pulling a hoodie over my head. “Yeah, you can follow me home. I can grab the cleats for you.”
I’m not in the mood to have anyone over—the guys tend to linger—but if he needs them before tomorrow and I have zero reason not to give them up…
“Cool. Preston and I will follow you.”
Preston?
Ugh.
Oh shite, that’s right—Preston is Will’s roommate, and Will drives the kid everywhere as if he were his chauffer.
I grab my duffle bag and we walk to the parking lot, my two teammates and me throwing greetings at other athletes coming in and out of the building to get their workout in.
They tail me to my place, and I have no choice but to invite them in considering they’re both breathing down my neck at the side door to the kitchen.
“Do you have food?” Will asks as soon as he steps inside, heading straight for the fridge.
When he pulls out a large container of strawberries and sets them on the counter then goes for the cut-up cantaloupe, I begin shaking my head.