Doubts crept in. Did he mean that about us too?
On Sunday morning, I left his bed while he still slept and went to my place. After showering, I headed to the kitchen to make a chocolate pecan pie to take to Mimi’s later for our early Thanksgiving celebration we were having since Ash and Isabella would be out of the state for the holiday.
My phone pinged with a text, and after I’d poured the mixture into a pie shell and popped it in the oven, I picked it up.
The text was from an unknown number.
Watch your back.
I set it down on the counter. Don’t engage.
Even though I didn’t want to worry Max before a game, I forwarded it to him. I couldn’t lie to him, and he’d be upset if he found out after the fact.
Someone knocked at my door and I jumped.
This whole thing was making me antsy. I checked the window and saw Isabella’s white SUV.
I headed to the den and opened the door. Isabella and Ash stood there, each of them holding a dish to take to Mimi’s. “Happy Friendsgiving,” they both cried in unison.
I grinned and got them settled while I headed to my bedroom to get dressed.
Max burst through my bedroom door as I was putting on mascara. “I just saw your text. Where’s your phone?” he said sharply. “I want to see the number.”
I nudged my head at where it sat on the vanity table amid all my makeup. “It’s an unknown number, probably a burner.”
He picked it up and glared at it as if expecting the phone to speak to him. His finger did a flurry of movements, and I craned my neck to see what he was doing. He’d taken a screenshot of it and then sent it to himself. “I’m going to forward this to the campus police. They need to be aware of what’s going on.”
“Thanks.” I turned my back on him, smoothing out an eyebrow.
He paused, his eyes searching mine in the mirror. “Everything okay? You left without saying anything this morning.”
“I’m fine.”
He smirked. “Fine is never fine when it comes to females.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, giving me a nice view of his biceps.
My lips tightened at being reminded of his other conquests.
I applied another coat of lipstick to keep my hands busy. He watched, making me jittery.
“Can you give me some space, please? I can’t finish with you staring.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You’ve been weird lately.”
I set down my eye shadow on the vanity top. “Some of the things you said last night—it got me to thinking. I mean, we’re having sex, but is that all we are?”
His brows knitted. “No.”
“Then what are we? Define it.” I hated the insecurity I heard in my voice—but I just needed him to tell me how he felt.
A muscle clenched in his jaw, his face hardening. Distance grew in his gaze. “I can’t do this a few days before a game—”
I held my hand up. “Fine. Then let me finish getting dressed.”
He stood there as if he wanted to say something, his shoulders tense, but then pivoted and left, neatly shutting the door behind him.
Once at Mimi’s, things went well. Her apartment was comfortable and before long, we’d all eaten and the guys had disappeared to do chores for Mimi—which mostly consisted of getting down her Christmas decorations from the small attic she had.
Mimi watched Max drape green garland around the mantel in the living room as Frank Sinatra holiday music filled the air. He pulled a snow globe from one of her boxes and set it on the coffee table. “Such big hands around that globe.”
My lips twitched. “Stop having sex fantasies about Max, Mimi. It’s weird.”
Isabella just snorted.
“Just because I’m old, doesn’t mean I’m blind. I still got some life left in me yet.” She put away dishes in the cabinet. “You know, I see how he looks at you.”
I stopped wiping her table. “The only thing important to him is football. Always will be.”
Max
MONDAY I WOKE UP, SHOWERED, and dressed in jeans and a flannel that Sunny had commented she liked once.
My chest ached, and I rubbed it. She needed me to reassure her about us—but my head was all over the place. Pressure was everywhere—from Coach, the players, and myself.
Not to mention, today was my mom’s birthday. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d give anything to have her here with me when I played my last regular season game this week.
You look like hell, I told myself, staring into the mirror at the dark shadows under my eyes.
Tate was peering into the fridge wearing boxers and nothing else when I came into the kitchen.
“Morning, Gorgeous,” I said, setting my backpack on the counter. “You ready for this week?”
“No.” He sent me a bleary-eyed look as he opened a carton of OJ and drank it straight from the mouth.
My phone pinged. It was my dad.
I’m coming back to Atlanta this weekend for your last game.
Just great.
I replied, Do what you want.
His next text blew me away. I’ll call you later. I know what today is. She’s on my mind too.