Isaiah
Cody: Come out with us.
Me: For the hundredth time, I’m not going out tonight.
Travis: We’re only two blocks away from your place.
Me: Still not going out. I’m tired and my back is sore from carrying you both with my two-run homer today.
Cody: Changed my mind. Don’t come out.
Travis: I’ll be running to your apartment to take a piss if this line at the bar doesn’t move a little quicker.
Cody: And I’ll be running to your place and pretending it’s mine when I bring someone home with me tonight. Make sure to clean up. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a slob.
Me: The door will be locked for both of you.
Cody: I made myself a key.
Me: Cody, what the hell is wrong with you?
Travis: Cody has for sure fucked in your guest room FYI.
Cody: Not cool, Trav.
Kai: Annnnd this is why I keep the group chat on mute.
Travis: Multiple times, might I add.
Me: You’re changing the sheets next time you’re here and no more fucking at my place. And no more pretending it’s yours. You have your own apartment.
Cody: I have roommates. There’s nothing sexy about telling someone they have to be quiet because I have roommates.
Me: No more fucking at my place.
Travis: Someone should be fucking at your place. It’s practically a monastery these days.
The city bustles with Friday night liveliness just outside my apartment windows. The bars are packed, the streets are rowdy, and my entire team is out there somewhere enjoying the night off with a travel day tomorrow.
Well, everyone but my brother, who is home with his family. And me, who is here alone in this quiet apartment because going to bed early, knowing I’ll get to see my wife first thing tomorrow at the airport, sounds far more appealing than drinking with my buddies.
What the fuck am I doing?
It’s the question I’ve asked myself daily since this ring landed on my finger.
I’m in too deep, way too fucking deep, and I don’t know which way is up. I don’t want to know which way is up. I’m enjoying this little game Kennedy and I are playing, with her letting me treat her as if she were mine. Except my mind is starting to confuse the game with real life. Everything feels genuine to me, and I have no idea if that’s due to my own delusion, wishing it were, or if she feels it too.
And instead of drowning my worries with my friends, I’m the sad fucking sap who’s about to order a midnight pizza before going to bed by myself once again.
At least when I’m back home I get to sleep in a bed. That goddamn floor is going to be the death of me and my thirty-one-year-old back, but I refuse to sleep next to Kennedy until she asks me to in a way that’s not offering out of guilt. No more of the “you can sleep here if you want.” I need to hear her say she wants me to be there next to her.
I need her to give me something. Anything that tells me she’s enjoying our little game as much as I am because all I’m getting right now is avoidance.
With the TV playing tonight’s highlights from around the league, I grab my phone and dial my favorite late-night pizza spot, but when I’m two ringtones in, there’s a knock at my door.
Fucking Cody. Or Travis. Either way, I need new friends.
It takes me a moment to get to the door, thanks to the awkward slide I had today, fucking up my groin. “Cody, I swear to God. I’m not lying about whose apartment this—”
Swinging the door open, I expect to come face to face with one of my teammates, only to find Kennedy standing on my doorstep.
“Hi.” Her voice is small, nervous, but trying to be brave.
And all I do is blink like a fucking idiot because I’m sure this is a mirage. The prettiest auburn-haired mirage to ever exist. When do you start hallucinating due to abstinence? Because I’m currently around the nine- month mark and starting to see things.
I shake myself out of the daze. “Hi.” “Sorry, were you expecting Cody?”
“No. No, you’re much better than Cody.” A tense smile lifts on her lips.
This woman is standing at my door, entirely out of her comfort zone, but why? I saw her at the field less than two hours ago.
Kennedy’s hair is tucked under a baseball cap. She’s still wearing her wedding shoes with a pair of leggings and a long tee, covered with that oversized denim jacket I bought her in Vegas.
She looks so fucking cute, and it’s only amplified from those dusted freckles shadowed by the brim of her hat, but best of all, she’s looking like that while standing at my door.
“What are you doing here, Kenny?”
“I . . . um . . .” Her voice shakes and she avoids eye contact. “I thought you might be going out tonight.”
“And you’re checking up on me?”
I like the idea of that. That she could be so jealous that I might be out on the town with the boys that she couldn’t help herself from coming over and checking for herself.
“Because I’m not,” I answer for her. “Never planned to.”
“I . . . uh . . .” Her small hands fidget and that’s when I see it. My hat. One of my countless team-issued hats in her hand. She holds it up. “You left this in your locker stall, and I thought you might need it . . . if you were going out tonight.”
I find the top of the doorway, hooking my hands around the frame, my knowing smile impossible to suppress. She didn’t come over here because of my fucking hat that I intentionally left at the stadium. She came over because she wanted to.
I’m equally tempted to give her a hard time as I am tempted to pull her inside and lock the door. Kidnap my wife and never let her leave.
I opt for the former. “You thought I might need my hat at midnight?”
She hesitates, her not-so-smooth cover blown already as her attention roams over my bare chest. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t think you could wait and give it to me on the airplane in the morning?”
“You were um . . . having a bad hair day. I didn’t think you’d want to go out without it.”
“I’m never having a bad hair day, baby.”
She hands it over, but doesn’t leave, her feet still glued to my entryway mat.
Yes, she’s nervous and a bit uncomfortable. Maybe this is her first time ever putting herself out there for someone, but after three years of chasing the girl, I’m going to revel in the night she finally came to me.
“How’d you get my address, Ken?”
Her eyes flit away from mine. “I asked Miller for it.” “So you could return my hat.”
“So I could return your hat.”
“And that’s the only reason you’re here?”
Her eyes find mine again, feigning confidence. “Yep. Glad I could avert that crisis for you.”
“And there’s absolutely no other reason you came over? Is there something you’re needing help with? A certain game you’d like to play tonight?”
She swallows, looking towards the elevator, but doesn’t move an inch. “I should go.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
A retort sticks in her throat, her brown eyes begging for me to make this easy for her. To ask her inside and not question her motives.
But I can’t. I want her to work for it. I need her to taste just a sample of the years of torture I’ve endured, wanting a woman I couldn’t have.
The difference is she can have me. She can have fucking all of me. She only needs to ask.
After too many seconds pass, neither of us admitting what we really want, Kennedy starts for the elevator.
“Good night.” Her steps are quick, frantically carrying her away from me. Any faster and she’d be running. “See you at the airport.”
“Kenny,” I call out to stop her, stepping into the hallway. “Has anyone ever cooked for you?”
It’s an out because I’m a lovesick idiot who can’t stand to see her leave. I might talk a big game, but she will always have the upper hand when it comes to us.
Kennedy slows, turning to look at me over her shoulder and shaking her head to tell me no.
“Seems like something you should have on that checklist of firsts, huh? Probably want to experience it once before you find yourself back in the dating pool.”
“I guess we could do that. I hadn’t really planned on staying. I was just here to drop off your hat.”
I huff a laugh. “How someone could be so beautiful and so full of shit at the same time is astounding to me.”
Her smile blooms.
I motion towards my open door. “C’mon, Doc.”
“At what point are we going to talk about the signs?”
Kennedy sits on my couch—shoes, jacket, and hat discarded. Legs crossed under her body and auburn hair tied up in a knot that looks effortless, yet she tried three times for it to stay that way, so I know it wasn’t. Her bowl of spaghetti is already half gone, but I wish she’d eat slower. I’d like to obsess over the image of her cozy on my couch a little longer.
“I was planning to pretend as if they don’t exist, so eat your pasta like a good girl and stop scanning my apartment.”
Kennedy bursts a laugh. “How do you ignore the Live, Laugh, Love sign on your bedroom door or the fact there’s a Bless this Mess entryway mat just outside.” Her head falls back in contagious joy, that slender throat protruding against her fair skin. “You have a canvas painted with a glass of red wine hanging in your kitchen that says, ‘You had me at merlot.’ ”
I wasn’t impressed when the boys picked out my home décor, but now I’m thankful they chose the shittiest signs possible because I rarely get to see this woman laugh like this.
“Isaiah,” she giggles. “I didn’t peg you as an art collector. Is that what you’re doing with the millions you make every year?”
I can’t hold back my smile as I sit across the couch from her, bowl of spaghetti in one hand, fork in the other. “I lost our fantasy football league this year, and the boys each got to pick out a piece of décor that I have to keep displayed in my apartment for the year.”
“God, that’s genius. And just how many women have run for the hills since the makeover?”
Huh? “None.”
She playfully rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”
The only woman who’s been in this apartment since last summer is currently sitting on the couch right now.
“How’s the spaghetti?” I ask.
“So good.” She takes another bite, talking with her mouth full in the most un-Kennedy-like way. “I think I might want a second bowl.”
“I’m a fairly shit cook, but I have about three solid recipes in my arsenal and that’s one of them.”
“Are you going to make me the other two someday?”
“I’m sure you could talk me into that. But the spaghetti is my favorite.
My mom taught me how to make the sauce when I was a kid.”
Kennedy takes her time chewing as she watches me. “She did a good job.”
“She was a great teacher.”
“She did a good job with you too.”
Fuck me.
I’ve got my handle on snarky Kennedy, shy Kennedy, and even drunk Kennedy, but sweet and honest Kennedy? I’m a goner already.
As I sit facing her, my legs extended in the space between us but bent so as to not take up too much of her space, Kennedy uncrosses hers, slipping her feet between mine. The couch isn’t long enough for my tall frame, but I couldn’t be happier about having to share it now, the two of us using the armrests as back support to face each other as we eat our midnight dinner.
Her voice is gentle when she says, “If you ever want to tell me about her, you can.”
A simple request, that if I want to, I can. No expectation. No demand to know more.
I swallow down any unwanted emotions that could be sitting at the back of my throat. “I don’t really like talking about her.”
Because there’s not a world in which I could pretend I’m not still that heartbroken thirteen-year-old boy waiting for his mom to get home, and I don’t know how to keep my lighthearted, easy mask on when she’s the topic of discussion.
Kennedy’s bare foot grazes mine, a smile on those lips I want to kiss again. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
“The woman knew how to make one hell of a bowl of spaghetti though.” Kennedy gestures to her nearly empty dish.
Huffing a laugh, I smile. A rare smile when I’m speaking of my mom. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about her, Ken, it’s just that I miss
her. A lot. I’ve lived more of my life without her than with, and still I haven’t stopped missing her.”
She drops the bowl to her lap, a grin gracing her lips. It’s not a pitying smile, it’s a genuine one. “How lucky is she to have two boys who love her as much as you and your brother do. And how lucky are you,” Kennedy continues, her knee nudging mine, “to have a mom you love so much you still miss her all these years later.”
I’ve never thought of it that way. I’ve never looked at the thirteen years I had with her with gratitude. It’s always been with anger, that I didn’t have enough time.
But I had thirteen years of being loved by a mother when Kennedy has had none.
“Grief seems like a privilege, in a way,” she says. “To have loved someone so much that you can’t imagine life without them. I’ve never felt that.”
“Not even when you lost your dad?”
She shakes her head, occupying herself by twirling her fork around her remaining noodles. “But I hope one day I’m capable of loving someone that much.” Her smile is optimistic as she looks up at me. “Maybe one day, even I’ll be missed.”
My heart sinks at her hopefulness.
Who the fuck has to hope that one day someone will care about them enough that their presence will be missed?
My wife, I guess.
Kennedy’s set on leaving Chicago, and I know that when she goes, there won’t be a day I won’t be missing her. There won’t be a day I won’t think about her dimples that hide when she scowls at me or her crossword puzzles or the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating at work. But it’s not her fault she doesn’t understand this yet. She was raised by fucked- up people who didn’t teach their daughter how important she is. How special and loved she is.
She wants me to teach her things? Well, that’s one lesson I’ll be sure to drill into that pretty head of hers.
“Another bowl?” I ask, grabbing hers and standing too quickly.
A sharp pain shoots through my groin and it happens so fast that I can’t hide the grimace on my face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” My limp is impossible to mask as I hobble my way to the kitchen.
“Isaiah Rhodes.” Kennedy sits up. “What happened?”
Hands bracketed on the counter, I slowly open my hip flexor, stretching out the pained ligaments.
Kennedy stands from the couch when I don’t answer, carefully examining my movements. “Did you get hurt in the game tonight?”
Fuck.
She’s one of four people I was hoping wouldn’t find out.
“When I slid into third base during the fifth inning, I tweaked something in my hip flexor.”
“Why didn’t you come in for post-game treatment?”
I huff an exasperated laugh. “And have you rub out my groin in public?
Wasn’t exactly trying to let the boys see just how hard I get for my wife.” “Well, let me check it now.”
“No.”
“Isaiah, you can’t be playing injured. Dr. Fredrick is going to lose his mind that he wasn’t informed immediately. You have to tell the medical staff when you’re hurt. It’s in your contract.”
“Well, good news. I just did, but you’re not telling anyone else, Ken. It’s not a big deal and they’re going to make it something, keep me out of games I don’t need to miss. It’s just a little sore. I’ll be fine.”
“You could have a tear.” “I don’t.”
She stands straighter, arms crossed over her chest. “I’ll be the judge of that. I need to examine you. Go lay on the couch.”
“I don’t fit on the couch.”
“Well then . . .” Her eyes roam my apartment. “Your bed.” My brows shoot up. “Are you sure about that, Doc?”
She rolls her eyes. “Live, laugh, love, Isaiah. Get your ass on the bed so I can check your injury.”
Chuckling, I hobble to my door and open it for her to enter first. I watch the way her eyes scan my bedroom, the same way they did when she first entered my apartment. I track her movements, noting the smile that ticks on her lips when she finds the framed picture of Max on my dresser and the silent laugh she heaves when she lands on the painted canvas of a hot pink unicorn hanging over my bed. The words I’m Magical are even spelled out in sparkly silver and the chosen location was thanks to Travis.
“I’m magical? That may as well say ‘I’m good at sex,’ hanging over your bed like that.”
I shrug. “You said it, not me.”
Laying on my bed, I keep myself close to the edge where she stands, stretching out my long legs, hands folded behind my head. I’m fully undressed minus the pair of cotton sweatpants that hang low on my hips.
Even though this is work, nothing about this moment feels all that professional. We’re in my bedroom, I’m nearly naked, and I’ve been dying for this woman’s hands to be on me in a non-medical way.
“This hip right here?” she asks, referring to my right one, closest to her. “Yeah. I don’t know if it happened when I exploded into a sprint or when
I slid into the bag.”
Her hands find me, pads of her fingers exploring, smoothing over my entire hip flexor, warming the area and looking for injury.
“Has the pain gotten worse since the game ended or remained about the same?”
“It’s stayed about the same.”
“Hmm,” she hums, that bottom lip tucking between her teeth with her concentration.
Then her fingers dip into the crevice where my leg and abdomen connect, and my body is begging to concave in on itself. Partly from the shock of her hand on me in an area I’ve always wanted it to be, and partly because of the amount of blood that’s rushing to my cock right now is a bit alarming.
“That hurt?”
I shake my head to tell her no and her eyes narrow in suspicion.
Gently, she takes my knee in one hand, other fingers still pressed into my groin, literal inches from my dick. “Tell me when it hurts.”
Oh, it hurts all right. It fucking aches.
Sure, I’ve given Kennedy shit for years while I’m on her training table, but I’ve never actually gotten hard from the woman touching me at work. She’s a medical professional and I’m an athlete, but I’m having a real hard time seeing that boundary while I’m sprawled out on my bed, and she’s fingers deep into my hip.
She stretches my leg out to the side, fitting herself between it and the mattress before pressing into my groin, examining and circling her fingers over my sweatpants.
This is torture. Fucking torture.
It’s like her hands are where I want them, but they’re not doing what I need them to do. Similar to the way I’m married to her, but not in the way I wish I could be.
I lift my eyes to the wall above my head, attempting to focus on the fucking unicorn and not on the only woman I think of when I fuck my hand in the shower.
I exhale deep from my lungs. “Still okay?” Kennedy asks.
“Yep.” The word is strained, thrown out through gritted teeth.
My eyes find her again, completely focused on the task at hand as she rotates my joint and presses into my ligaments. “Is the area hot?” she asks.
Is the area hot? Fucking please. My entire body is on fire right now. “Not sure.”
“Can I check?” She doesn’t look up at me, thank God, her focus remaining on the way my joint reacts when she moves my hip.
“Mm-hmm.”
Her small hand slips under the elastic waistband of my sweatpants, fingers sliding along my ligaments.
“Yeah, it’s warm.”
No shit. All my blood is headed straight in that direction.
Brows furrowed, she gently presses into my flesh. “I think it’s just a sprain. Doesn’t feel like a tear to me, so that’s good. But you need to be on a regular icing regimen to keep the swelling down.”
“Yep. Good.”
Her hand smooths over the joint, the same time her pinky dusts along my pubic bone, and it’s as if that alone causes her to jolt back into reality where her hand is down my pants and I’m practically dying over it.
Her eyes shoot to me in horror. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to.”
She pulls her hand out from under the fabric, but I snatch her wrist before she can get too far.
My breaths are labored, my eyes boring into hers. “I wasn’t—”
“But you could,” I finish for her. “Isaiah.”
“You’ve diagnosed me. I’ve got a sprain in my hip flexor. Work is officially over. You were professional and all that shit I don’t care about.” Gently pulling her by the wrist, I bring her palm to my lower abdomen. “But you don’t have to be professional now, if you don’t want to be.” I cover her hand with mine. “I don’t want you to be.”
