“A sex rain check.” She blows out a laugh. “Okay, Marcus. Earthquake shelter sex some other time.”
I back toward the door. “Sorry,” I say again, because this is suddenly super awkward. “See you at school.”
I open her front door and let myself out, turning for my truck. I can feel her watching me, but I don’t look back as I hop in and crank the engine.
And, somehow, even though it’s in totally the wrong direction, I find myself driving past Addie’s house on my way home.
Chapter 6
Addie
I could have stayed out of school another day or two if I’d wanted to. The doctor said it was up to me. But the alternative was staying home.
School is the lesser of two evils.
But the problem is that fourth key to invisibility. With my black eye and shaved head, there’s no possibility of blending in. As I make my way between periods, there’s not a single person in the hall that can resist staring for at least a second or two. And I can’t blame them. I stared at myself for an hour in the mirror when I got home from the hospital.
By the end of the day, my head feels like one of those rotten pumpkins you see smashed in the road the morning after Halloween, and I think about just skipping what I have to do next. But it’s more than just courtesy that has me trekking through the gym to the pool.
I’m dreading facing Marcus, but there’s no danger of a repeat of our afternoon on the park bench—all the electricity that crackled between us that day. Between my meltdown my first night in the hospital, and then everything with my father on Friday night, I’m sure he thinks I’m a nut job.
My feet stall as I’m crossing toward the pool cage. Maybe I should let him think that. Maybe if I leave it alone and just never set foot near the pool again, I won’t have to try to figure out why my brain scrambles when I’m around Marcus. He probably wouldn’t even miss me.
But I owe him at least an explanation. After all, he got me to the hospital before I bled to death. He brought my father home and spared me the humiliation of having to retrieve him. Again.
When I step through the gate, a few of my teammates are already disappearing into the locker room. I walk over to where Marcus is standing near the double row of bleachers at the opening to the storage room. His upper body is bare and his loose, low-slung swim trunks are dripping as he towels off.
“Coach,” I say, forcing my eyes from his abs to his face before my finger shoots out of its own volition and starts to trace his packs.
He glances up at my voice, and all it takes is his eyes connecting with mine to set off the wildfire in my veins that I felt last night when he touched me.
“Nice,” he says, his finger tracing a line under his own eye, indicating my shiner. “Didn’t get a great look at it last night, but it’s a good look on you.”
“Been telling everyone you gave it to me,” I say with a smirk. Truth is, I haven’t told anyone anything. Everyone’s stared, but no one’s asked.
He laughs out loud and the way his eyes light with mischief tells me my questionable sense of humor isn’t lost on him. It also sends an unexpected zing down my spine. As does the way his pecs and biceps flex as he reaches for his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. I don’t know how it’s possible, but every time I see him, he seems to have gotten exponentially hotter. “Are you trying to get me fired? Or arrested?”
“Let the chips fall,” I say with a dismissive flip of my hand.
The humor slowly bleeds out of his expression. “So your dad was okay on Friday?”
I try not to cringe. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that whole thing.”
His eyes soften and his gaze sinks a few layers deeper into mine. “If that’s what you want, I will.”
“Sorry, it’s just…” I break his gaze and shake my head at my inability to form a complete thought. “Thanks for what you did. You saved me a huge headache. Literally.”
“That’s what friends are for,” he says with a shrug of one shoulder, as if it’s no big deal.
I shift on my feet, not sure what to make of that. “We’re friends?”
He cocks his head as he thinks about his answer. “Yeah…I think we are. If you’re okay with that.”
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. I wasn’t friends with my coach at Roosevelt, but maybe it’s not all that unusual.
I hold out my hand to shake. “Friends.”
He takes it, giving me a firm shake, and when cold heat shoots down my spine and settles between my legs, I realize that, as on board as my brain might be with this friends thing, my body has other ideas.
“Anyway,” I say, drawing my hand back, “I just came by to tell you I’m quitting the team. I’m not going to get a medical release to play for at least two more weeks. By that time league will have started.”