Right Man, Right Time

Should I light a candle?

That seems like I’m trying too hard.

But what if it smells weird in here?

I don’t want her first impression of my place to be associated with an odd smell.

I stare at the beeswax mahogany teakwood candle on my living room coffee table. It smells really good. It could make a great first impression, even if it screams trying too hard.

“Fuck it,” I mutter as I pick up the candle as well as the lighter in the wood box I keep it in and light the stupid candle.

Once I put the lighter away, I lift my arm and check that I put deodorant on after my shower.

Yup, smells good.

Hands on my hips, I look around my place, seeing if I can do anything else to get it ready.

As usual, everything is in its proper place.

So why the fuck do I feel so nervous?

This is stupid.

I don’t even like the girl. I don’t know her, so I shouldn’t be nervous.

But something about inviting someone into your personal space exposes you in a different way. I feel vulnerable when I shouldn’t. Compared to her dorm room, I truly believe her mind will be blown when she sees my penthouse apartment.

For the seventh time in the past hour, I fluff my throw pillows just as there is a knock on my door.

I glance at the clock.

Fuck, she’s early.

I walk over to the entryway and catch a glimpse of my T-shirt and jeans in the mirror and wonder if I should have opted for sweats. Doesn’t matter now.

I grip the handle to the door, take a deep breath, and open it.

“There he is, our man,” Pacey says, charging through the door, followed by Hornsby, Holmes, and Posey.

Shit.

What the hell are they doing here?

That’s when I notice the pizza and beer in their hands.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask while shutting the door.

“What does it look like?” Hornsby says while kicking his shoes off and taking a seat on my couch. “Keeping you company.” He glances around. “Man, it looks good in here.”

“I don’t need you to keep me company,” I say as panic sets in. Ollie will be here any moment, and the last thing I want, before Ollie and I can even figure out our story, is my boys meeting her and questioning everything about our relationship.

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” Pacey says while flipping open the pizza box, the sausage and onions ruining any improvement the candle had made in my space. “You act like everything is okay, but when you left practice today, you bolted. And you haven’t really talked to us at all in the last few days. You’re retreating because of Sarah, and we’re here to make sure you’re okay.”

I’m not retreating.

I don’t give a fuck about Sarah—sort of.

And the last thing I want is company.

“And we brought pizza, so that’s fun,” Posey says as he grabs a slice and takes a huge bite. Through a full mouth, he moans, “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Doesn’t his place look nice?” Holmes asks. “These pillows are perfectly fluffed as if you’re trying to impress someone.”

“Are you?” Posey asks.

“No,” I say quickly.

“Don’t you think the pillows look nice?” Hornsby asks, harping on the goddamn pillows a touch too much.

“I think they look great,” Pacey says, clearly trying to be the super positive one. “Best pillows I’ve ever seen.”

“Where did you get them?” Posey asks. “Target?”

“Target?” Hornsby scoffs. “These are West Elm quality.”

“Target has great quality pillows, you jackass,” Posey replies.

“I don’t think we’re here to talk about the pillows, remember?” Pacey says, giving them both looks.

“Oh . . . right,” Hornsby says. “Uh . . . how’s life?”

Jesus Christ. I pinch my brow, irritated that I must deal with this.

“You okay?” Holmes asks, the more levelheaded and quieter one of the group.

“I’m fine. I actually—”

Knock. Knock.

The guys all pause, and with confused looks in their eyes, they glance over at the door.

Shit.

Using his finger, Posey counts us, making sure we’re all here. Hornsby sits taller, staring at the door as if he has X-ray vision, and Pacey fluffs the pillow next to him while whispering, “Who’s that?”

“Uh . . .” I say, unsure of how to respond. They all turn to me, looking for an answer, and I don’t know what to say. Their stares and confused expressions shift to anger, which causes my back to break out in sweat.

“If you tell me that’s Sarah, I’m going to have a fucking conniption,” Hornsby says.

“Oh shit, I didn’t even think about that,” Posey says. “Tates, that can’t be Sarah.”

“Dude, is it Sarah?” Pacey asks, his fist clenching at his side.

“No,” I answer, exasperated.

“Then answer it,” Hornsby challenges.

“No need. I can,” Pacey says, moving right past me and toward the door.

“Wait,” I call out, but it’s too late. He opens the door, revealing Ollie standing on the other side. Long brown hair tied up into a tight pony on the top of her head, she has minimal makeup on her face and is sporting a pair of leggings and a plain black V-neck T-shirt.

“Oh, is this the wrong apartment?” she asks, looking confused.

“Who are you looking for?” Pacey asks.

“Me,” I call out, knowing there’s no use telling her to run for her life. “Let her in, Pacey.”

A collective quiet hangs over the room as Pacey moves to the side and Ollie steps into my apartment, her hands clutching the thin straps of her mini backpack.

“Uh . . . hi,” she says with a cute wave. “I didn’t think you would, uh, have company.”

“I wasn’t expecting them as well.”

Looking more confused than ever, Pacey says, “Who’s this?”

Well, this is what I wanted, right? To tell my boys that I’m seeing someone so they don’t assume I’m lonely and barge into my apartment with pizza and beer. Or fret over me getting back together with Sarah. This is the moment . . .

So I guess here goes nothing.

“This is Ollie,” I answer. “My, uh . . . my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Posey croaks, choking on his pizza.

“You have a girlfriend?” Pacey asks, brows pulled together. “How come you’ve never told us about her?”

“Yeah, what the fuck, man?” Hornsby adds. “You’ve just been hiding her from us?”

I pull on the back of my neck, trying to gather my patience. “We, uh . . . we wanted to make sure we were committed before going public.”

Ollie awkwardly smiles and then waves. “Hey, I’m Ollie, nice to weirdly meet you all.”

Finding his manners, Pacey lends his hand out to her and says, “Hi. I’m Pacey. The guy with the pizza is Levi Posey. The one on the couch is Eli Hornsby. And the shy one over there in the corner, that’s Halsey Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you all.” She rocks on her heels as silence falls between us all. This is so fucking uncomfortable. “Do you want me to wait out in the hallway until you’re done?”

“No,” I say quickly. “They were all just leaving.”

“Wait, I didn’t even get to crack my beer open yet,” Posey says.

“You’re leaving.”

“Now that Ollie’s here, I really want to stay,” Hornsby says.

Yeah, over my dead body.

“Leave. Now. Before I physically remove you myself.”

“I think he’s being serious,” Posey says while looking among the boys and me. “I think he wants us to leave.”

“I think he does,” Hornsby says. “That’s fucking rude.”

“Come on,” Holmes says while picking up the pizza and the beer.

“Are we really just going to let him slide by with this new information?” Hornsby asks, the ever-present questioner in the group.

“We can talk about it later,” Pacey says, eyeing me.

“What about the pizza?” Posey asks while standing.

Glad to see where his priorities are at.

“We’ll finish it at my place,” Holmes says. “Come on.”

Thank God for him. Collectively, they shuffle out the door, all saying bye to Ollie. Pacey is the last one out, and when he turns to me, he has a very serious look on his face as he says, “You will be explaining this tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait,” I say right before shutting the door on him.

Jesus, they treat me like an absolute child. There will be explaining, though I owe them nothing. Although I know they’re going to harass me until I do explain, so . . . something to look forward to.

Slightly embarrassed, I turn toward Ollie and push my hand through my hair. “Sorry about that.”

“Why are you apologizing? That was a lot of fun.”

“For you,” I say. “Not really the way I wanted to greet you into my home.”

“I don’t know. It had some pizzazz that I wasn’t expecting.” She kicks her shoes off at the door and takes her backpack off, which she sets down next to her shoes. “Wow, your view is incredible.”

“Thanks,” I say, grateful she’s so easygoing. And clearly not a hockey fan. When was the last time a college student had been among my teammates and not swooned with a thousand oh my Gods spilling from their lips? Ah, that would be never. Until Ollie. So weird.

“Is your place always this clean? Or is this all for me?”

“Usually this clean, especially during the season when I’m not here that much.”

“Hmm, fake dating an older man does have its pluses. Nice, fancy apartment with a gym, clean, smells good.” She turns toward me. “It’s a real step up from what I’m used to when it comes to men.”

“Men . . . or boys?”

“Good point.” She moves over to my couch and sits cross-legged. “So what’s for dinner? That pizza smelled good. Should have asked them to leave it.”

“I can order some. I wasn’t really sure what you would want.”

“Pizza now.”

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I sit on the couch as well and pull up my delivery app. “Do you want just pizza, or do you want a salad too?”

“Salad would be amazing. Italian dressing, please.”

“Got it.” I finish putting the order in, then set my phone on the coffee table before turning to face her.

She turns toward me as well and smiles brightly. “So . . . those are your teammates?”

“Yeah. They’re evasive as fuck.”

“I don’t know about that. They seemed like a good time,” she says with a cute smile.

“Not when they’re up my ass.”

“Why were they here? Seemed like they were planning a guys’ night.”

“They were here because they thought I was depressed and needed some cheering up.”

“Are you depressed?” she asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve been occupied with our agreement and bolted from practice today so I could shower and make sure everything was ready before you came over. They took that as I was avoiding them because of the whole Sarah thing.”

“I could see the correlation. But that wasn’t the case?”

“Not even a little.”

“So Sarah working at your arena doesn’t make you want to run for shelter?”

I shake my head. “Not really. I’m dreading seeing her, that’s for damn sure, but I’m a man, so I can face her.”

“At least you can admit that.” She folds her hands in her lap. “So how did we meet?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

She rolls her eyes. “Dude, we need a story to tell everyone. People will ask how we met, and if we’re not on the same page, we’ll look like fools. People will be able to see right through us.”

“Ah, I see. Why don’t we just say we met at a bar? That’s true, so it won’t be hard to remember.”

“Kind of boring, though, don’t you think? We have an opportunity to reinvent ourselves. We could say something like . . . we were both at a deli, you got the roast beef, I got the meatball sub. You took too large of a bite, started choking, and I was there to save you. To pay me back for giving you a proper Heimlich, you asked me out to dinner, and the rest is history.”

I feel my brow crease as I stare at her. “That doesn’t sound appealing to me.”

“You know, it doesn’t make you less of a man to admit being saved by a woman.”

“I understand that, but I also don’t want to put choking out there in the universe.”

“Aw,” she coos. “You’re one of those guys. Superstitious, are we?”

“Sure,” I answer.

“Okay, then you come up with the way we met.”

“Easy. At a bar. You thought I was hot, couldn’t live life another second without saying hi, so you came over to me and made the first move.”

“Ew, I would never.”

“Uh . . . you did. You’re the one who kissed me.”

“That’s different.” She dismisses me with a wave.

“How so?”

“That was an act of desperation. It wasn’t a move. It was survival instincts. Much, much different.”

“So you’re saying, if you just randomly saw me in a bar, without having to fend for your life, you wouldn’t have come up to me?”

“Never.” She shakes her head. “I don’t do that, and you would have seemed far too old for me.”

“Bullshit,” I say. “I don’t look that old. Stop using that as a thing.”

“Only old men get bent out of shape about being called old.”

I roll my eyes. “If you don’t like the bar story, then come up with something that doesn’t involve me choking on a fucking sandwich.”

“Fine.” She leans her shoulder against the back of the couch. “Let’s see. Hmm . . . oh, how about this. You were driving and blew a tire. I helped you change it. You were so grateful for my presence and blown away by my sheer beauty that you asked me out.”

“First of all, I know how to change a tire. Second, I own a Tesla. They don’t have spare tires, so we would have had to call a tow truck.”

“Really? That’s stupid.” She taps her chin. “Okay, what about this. You were shopping for a gift for your mom, and you couldn’t decide between a candle and a gift card, so you asked me. I told you to stop being a thoughtless asshole and directed you toward those sentimental Willow sculptures.”

“My mom prefers gift cards.”

She tosses her hands up in the air. “Fine, you come up with something.”

“We met on a ferry. You were seasick, and I held your hair back. After you threw up on my shoe.”

“Or . . .” she says, holding up her finger. “You threw up on my lap, and I guided you to the toilet, where I rubbed your back and told you all was going to be okay in the world.”

“How come you’re the hero in this story?”

“Uh, isn’t it obvious?” she asks. “Women are the true heroes in this world.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I was your hero the other night.”

“Wow, you’re just going to keep bringing that up, aren’t you? What about this? I’m your hero now.”

“How so? You’re getting the better end of the deal.”

“Excuse me?” she asks, her brows rising. “You’re the one who came up with the fake dating cockamamie idea in the first place. If anyone is getting a good deal, it’s you because I’m going along with this deranged plan. Therefore”—she points at herself—“hero.”

“Why can’t we both be heroes?”

That makes her straight-up guffaw. “Have you ever heard of a storyline with two heroes?”

“Miracle.”

“Huh?” she asks.

“The movie Miracle. It’s about the 1980 Olympic hockey team. All those guys are heroes in my book.”

“Never seen it.”

“What?” I ask. “You can’t be serious.”

“Look at my face.” She points at her serious expression. “I am.”

Groaning, I drag my hand over my face. “Fuck, that’s annoying.”

“I’m pretty sure you haven’t seen movies I like.”

“Name one,” I challenge her.

“Okay . . . Pride and Prejudice.”

“With Keira Knightley? Seen it.”

“Okay, what about Two Weeks Notice?”

“I’ve seen every Hugh Grant movie ever made.”

“Pretty Woman.”

“Big mistake . . . huge,” I say, quoting the movie.

“Oh yeah, how about . . . Sixteen Candles?”

“There’s something about Jake Ryan that makes you weak in the knees, isn’t there?”

“Ugh, of course you’ve seen that. You’re old. I need something recent.” She taps her chin. “What about Bridgerton?”

“I got a boner during one of the sex scenes. Chills when their fingers touched in front of the art.”

She grumbles, “God, you’re annoying.”

“What you’re failing to remember is that I was in a committed, long-term relationship ever since I was in high school. I’ve seen everything she wanted to watch and then some.”

“Fine, so you’re well-polished in romance. Still doesn’t mean we can both be heroes.”

“How about no one is a hero, and I saw you in a bar and hit on you, simple as that.”

She taps her chin in thought. “It has merit. I think we could make it work.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

“SO WHAT BROUGHT US TOGETHER?” Ollie asks as she blots her pizza with a napkin.

I gave her a quick tour of the apartment, saving the gym for last because I knew she would love it, and she did. She was in total awe and could not wait to work out in the space without being bothered.

She was testing out some of the weights when the food arrived, so we retreated to the dining room to eat.

“What do you mean? We saw each other in the bar. That’s what we agreed upon. We’re not coming up with something else,” I say.

“No, I mean, initial attraction clearly is what got us talking, but how did we hang on to the conversation? Obviously, I know nothing about hockey, so it’s not like we can bond over that. And I doubt you’re a lifestyle guru.”

“Are you?” I ask.

“Maybe not the guru status yet, but I do know a thing or two about the proper way to use a bobby pin.”

I scratch the side of my jaw. “Yeah, I don’t know much about that.”

“But you do know how to create a kick-ass home gym, and that’s hot.”

“So I have one thing going for me.” I take a bite of my salad. “Where are you from?”

“Portland, Oregon. What about you?”

“Minnesota.”

She chuckles. “Not the same thing.”

“Not so much.”

“Do you have any siblings?” she asks.

“I have a sister,” I say. “But we’re not super close.”

“Yeah, I don’t have any siblings.”

“What about childhood? What did you like to do?” I ask, fishing for any commonality now.

“Take pictures of moss. Collect stickers. Pretend that the sticks I found were a wand, and I was Hermione Granger.”

I pause and glance at her. “You’re a Potter head?”

She grips the edge of the table. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, please tell me that you’re a Potter head as well.”

“Eh, not so much.”

She groans. “Ughhh, really?”

“No, I actually am.”

“Stop, are you?” she asks.

“Yes, and I read some of the books when they were first released. That’s how old I am compared to you. I have some first editions.”

“You’re a liar,” she yells, excitement bustling in her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yes, they’re my prized possessions. Have you been to Harry Potter World?”

“No,” she bemoans. “But when I graduate, I plan on going. I’m assuming since you’re rich and can do whatever you want when you’re not playing, you’ve been?”

“I have.”

“Is the butter beer everything I think it would be?”

“And then some,” I answer. “Harry Potter World is probably one of the best things that has ever happened to fandom. It feels so real.”

“Urrghh, I’m so jealous. Did you get sorted into a house?”

“Yeah, Gryffindor.”

“Of course. You seem like an overachiever. I know I’m Hufflepuff through and through, and I’m damn proud of it.”

“Do you ever feel bad for people who get Ravenclaw?” I ask. “No one ever talks about it. Gryffindor is clearly superior, Slytherin has its own merit because it’s evil, and then Hufflepuff is for all the fun-loving people. What about Ravenclaw?”

“You know, now that you mentioned it, I don’t think I ever hear anyone claim they’re from Ravenclaw. That’s sad.”

“It is.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I think we figured out what we bonded over.”

I scratch the back of my head. “Yeah, the guys will love that. Harry Potter. They always make fun of me for being such a Potter head.”

“Aw, poor baby. The boys are picking on you.”

“It’s rare,” I say. “I’m usually the one being a dick.”

“Is that so?” she asks. “From what I’ve seen, you seem quite sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive,” I defend. “That would be Posey or Holmes. I’m anything but sensitive.”

“Okay, keep telling yourself that.”

“Why the hell do you think I’m sensitive?”

She holds up her finger. “First of all, it’s not a bad thing to be sensitive. No need to shed some toxic masculinity between us, thanks. Second of all, you are sensitive. If you weren’t, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. If you were truly the dick you claim to be, you wouldn’t care about Sarah being around the arena or what the guys think. Maybe your problem is you don’t like to be vulnerable. Therefore, you attempt to hide it by being a dick.”

Jesus.

Is she sure she’s in lifestyle journalism and not psychology?

I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on.”

She chuckles. “Okay, keep thinking that.”

“DO YOU REALLY, in all honesty, like that picture?” she asks as she stares at a piece of art hanging in the dining area. The dark blue paint has been smooshed into the canvas. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, just a bunch of texture.

I shrug. “It does the job.”

“And what job is that?” she asks while picking up another piece of pizza and dabbing the grease off with a napkin.

“Aesthetic. Brings color into the space.”

“Is that what you think, or is that what your interior decorator thinks?”

I take a sip of my water. “Who says I used an interior decorator?”

Her lips fall to the side in disbelief. “Please. Sure, this might be the nicest place I’ve ever been, but I’m not stupid. Your decor screams professionally done. Nothing in this space is personal. Your apartment could really be anyone’s home.”

“I know,” I say. “There’s a reason for that.”

“What’s the reason?” she asks.

“Everything I had that was remotely personal involved Sarah, and I didn’t want that in my new space. I wanted a fresh start.”

“Ah, that makes sense. You wanted to eliminate her from your life.”

“Exactly.”

She studies the space again. “Well, you could use a picture of yourself here or there.”

“Why would I want to look at a picture of myself?”

She shrugs. “You’re hot. Don’t you want to look at the beauty of your body?”

That makes me laugh. “Do you have pictures of yourself in your dorm?”

She nods. “With Ross. I also have some items from my childhood home that I brought with me. Little treasures I couldn’t part with.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . a box full of Polaroid pictures from high school. My scrapbook. A few significant decorative items I had growing up that remind me of my childhood. Just simple things.”

“Anything really sentimental?” I ask.

She wipes her fingers on a napkin. “I have a blanket my grandma made for me. I keep it in my closet because it’s fragile, barely holding together. It provides zero warmth, but it’s always been with me, so I keep it close. On occasion, I bring it out and just look at the faded quilt blocks, running my fingers over the hand stitching.”

“Were you close to your grandma?” I ask.

“Yes, I was. My dad was always tough on me, and my mom didn’t have much to say. She was loving, but she let Dad take the lead on discipline and life in general. My grandma was the one I could go to and just hug. To escape the pressures from my dad.”

“When did she pass?”

“Right before I graduated from high school,” she answers. “I still don’t think I’ve fully recovered from losing her. A piece of me died with her. She was honestly the only person I’ve felt was 100 percent on my side. She was tough but so, so kind and helped me believe in myself. I’ve missed that over the past three years.” She lets out a soft sigh. “Anyway, she would have thought this whole arrangement was hilarious and would have encouraged it.” Ollie looks up at me. “And she would have loved you.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. She had a thing for guys with toned muscles. She would have hit on you for sure.”

That makes me laugh. “Your grandma’s type. Maybe that’s why you zeroed in on me at the bar. Runs in the family.”

“You were the only guy in the bar who was alone, that’s why I zeroed in on you, but it’s cute that you’re trying to make more sense of it.”

“Have you always been a ballbuster?” I ask her.

“Yes. It’s the reason I’ve only ever had one boyfriend, was never asked to prom, and why boys never tried to take me out. I was too much for them.”

“Seems like they missed out, then,” I say.

“Aw, look at you buttering me up.” She flips her ponytail over her shoulder. “No need to. I know they were all losers. Anyone I date needs to be manly enough to deal with my strong personality and all the intricacies that go with it. Yonny wasn’t that guy. It doesn’t make our breakup any less hurtful, but I know he wasn’t the one for me.”

“Strong personalities are sexy,” I say.

“This coming from a real man.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. “See, look at us. We have all the potential to crush this fake dating thing. We have a mutual appreciation for one another. That’s the first step to a successful business relationship.”

“You think so?” I ask. Fuck, she’s entertaining.

“I know so.” She winks. “They’ll use us as the model couple. Just wait, you’ll see. Books will be written about us.”

Got to love her enthusiasm.

“WHAT GOT YOU INTO WORKING OUT?” I ask as I finish cleaning off the dining room table.

“Jamie Terrance.”

“Who’s that?” I ask. “An influencer or something?”

She laughs and shakes her head. Sitting across from me at the bar, she watches me work around the kitchen, putting away the leftovers and washing the dishes. “No, Jamie Terrance is my nemesis from high school. She was a rotten bitch with a shit family, so instead of trying to make the best of the people around her and be positive, she did the opposite. She would make fun of me all the time for having . . . as she put it . . . rolls.”

“Fuck off. Are you serious?” I ask.

“Yup, she would walk by me in the cafeteria and say rude things about what I was eating. Unfortunately, I let it get to me. I started going on one-mile runs around my neighborhood early in the morning before school started. I walked half of it, but I felt good doing something to combat the negative thoughts in my head. And the more I started to enjoy the feeling of working out, the more I pushed myself.” She sighs. “I hate that it started from a place of negativity, but I’m grateful I found the love of working out. It truly helps me when I’m stressed.”

“How often is that?” I place our plates in the dishwasher.

“With this internship, more often than not.”

“Is there a reason this internship is so important? I know it’s for a grade, but why do an internship in a place that stresses you out?”

“It’s the company name,” she says. “If you have Alan Roberts on your résumé, anyone will pick you up. The jobs flow right in, and the last thing I want to do after I graduate is go back to my hometown to live with my parents.”

“Didn’t like it there?” I ask.

“I did, but I made a big deal about leaving and never coming back. You know, dramatic teen stuff. Now that I’m a touch older, I see how stupid it was, but this girl has pride, and I’ll be damned if I have to go back there and eat my words.”

I chuckle. “I can feel you on that. I was the same way with hockey. Bound and determined to make something of myself, I wouldn’t stop until I did, even if that meant practically killing myself in the process.”

“Well, you made it,” she says while drawing a circle on the counter with her finger. “But the real question is, are you happy that you made it? Because even though this internship has opened many doors for me, I’m anything but happy. I just keep telling myself there are days we’ll be unhappy to obtain the happiness we want. So . . . have you obtained that happiness?”

Am I happy?

I think maybe from the outside looking in, it could seem that I am. I have the car, the house in the woods, the penthouse apartment, the glory, the fame, the championships. Yet . . . I find myself acting like a dick more and more.

Happiness eludes me.

Never feeling settled.

Not feeling adequate enough for anyone . . .

Fuck.

“Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t talk about this,” I say, not wanting to dive deep into my feelings, especially with Ollie.

“Ah, right, that would make you vulnerable, and you don’t do vulnerable.”

“Right,” I say as I close the dishwasher. I grip the counter and stare at her. “Do you feel like we have our story straight?”

She doesn’t answer right away but tries to study me. I can see her wanting to ask more, to bring up the vulnerability thing and dive deep into why I’m so guarded, but I refuse. There’s no need to get into that with her. Our relationship is surface level. Business. We don’t need to delve into deep-rooted emotions.

“I think so,” she finally says. “Met at a bar, you hit on me because you’re a horny bastard and couldn’t control yourself—”

“Didn’t think we added the horny thing in there.”

“And when I finally gave you the time of day because I felt bad that you were drooling while looking at me—”

“Also, not something that happened.”

“That’s when you made a move and told me you admired my beauty and strength and wit and that it reminded you of Hermione.”

“That’s not something I would say.”

She presses her hand to her chest. “And I thought . . . wow, this guy. He’s clearly trying far too hard to make an impression. Maybe I should give him a chance. So I let you buy me a drink. You ordered Shirley Temples—”

“Oh fuck off,” I say while laughing.

But she continues. “It was a bit of a turn-off, watching a man slowly sip a Shirley Temple with utter delight in his eyes, but I decided to give you a chance since you seemed like you needed friends . . . or rather attention.”

“It’s amazing how much this story has grown.”

“Just spitting out facts.”

“Yeah, if you want to spit out facts, why don’t we just stick to the actual truth that you attacked me with your lips out of desperation?”

She stares up at the ceiling, giving it some thought. “I think my story is better.” She hops off the stool and heads toward the entryway. “Well, thanks for the pizza and the key.” She holds up the key I gave her so she could work out here. “It’s appreciated.”

“Just wipe down when you’re done. I don’t need your sweat all over my equipment.”

“I don’t sweat,” she says while she slips her shoes on.

“Everyone sweats.”

“Not me.” She slides her backpack on and heads toward the door. “Keep me updated on what you need from me, and if I could have your schedule, that would be ideal. I’d prefer to come here when you’re not around.”

“You’re such a good girlfriend.”

“I know.” She throws up a peace sign. “See you later.” And then she takes off, just like that, without another word.

My life had order and structure a few days ago. Same place to live, same friends, same job. Now? It’s been somewhat upended.

Where the hell did Ollie Owens, the pint-sized ballbuster, even come from?

PRE-WORKOUT DRINK in one hand and a protein bar in the other, I head down the hallway toward the locker room, knowing I’ll have to face the boys today.

They were dead silent last night.

Not even a text to warn me they’ll have questions today, which is even more nerve-wracking because now I have no idea what to expect.

I would have preferred the guys not find out about Ollie like that last night. I wasn’t prepared, and now I feel like I’m walking into the lion’s den as a giant piece of raw meat ready to be torn apart.

Bracing myself, I open the door to the locker room and then pause at the entrance as I spot Hornsby, Pacey, Holmes, and Posey all sitting in chairs around my locker.

Super.

Head hanging, I walk toward my locker, knowing what’s coming.

“There he is,” Pacey says. “The guy we’ve been waiting for.”

“He looks fresh. Doesn’t he look fresh, boys?” Hornsby asks.

“Very fresh,” Posey says before biting into an egg and sausage sandwich. “Fresher than ever. Don’t you think, Holmes?”

“I don’t want to be a part of this,” Holmes replies as he folds his arms across his chest.

“That’s because you don’t want us to treat you the same way when it comes to your crush,” Pacey says, pointing out the obvious. And because Holmes doesn’t ever want to engage in whatever shenanigans we have going on. He prefers to stay silent.

“Back to Taters,” Hornsby says. “I would say he is the most fresh we’ve seen in a while.”

“Can we cut it with the fresh shit?” I say as I sit at my locker. The guys waste no time closing in on me.

“So . . .” Pacey says, “care to tell us what the fuck happened last night?”

Yup, getting straight to the point.

“Not much to talk about,” I say. “My girlfriend came over, we ate some pizza, and we talked.”

“Why haven’t you ever talked about her before?” Posey asks. “That’s shitty, man. We’re your boys.”

“Because I didn’t need you butting in on my life like you do all the time. Like right now, the four of you, breathing in my space.”

“Oh, so it’s okay for you to do it?” Hornsby asks, knowing full well I gave him plenty of shit when he got Pacey’s sister pregnant. “But the moment we give you any sort of shit, you try to shut it down?”

“Glad you can see it that way.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Now, get the fuck out of here so I can get ready.”

“Uh, do you really think that’s going to work on us? You didn’t even tell us where you met, how long you’ve been dating, or what she’s like,” Hornsby says.

“Well, seems like you have something to look forward to, then,” I answer as I stand and tear my shirt over my head so I can get ready for weight training this morning.

Pacey stands, puts his hand on my shoulder, and pushes me back onto my seat.

“Nice try. You’re not leaving this room until you answer questions.”

Hell.

“How long have you been dating?” Hornsby asks.

“A few weeks,” I answer.

“Where is she from?” Posey asks.

“Portland,” I say, glad I know that answer.

“She’s young,” Pacey says. “Just how young are we talking?”

I swallow. “Uh, twenty-one.”

“What the fuck?” Hornsby says as all the guys shift back.

“Dude,” Holmes says with a shake of his head.

“I know, okay? I don’t need shit from you four about her age. I didn’t know she was that young at first. It doesn’t seem like it matters, though. You can’t even tell.” Lies. Going to her dorm makes me feel like some sort of creepy pervert. I don’t belong there.

“Is it serious?” Hornsby asks.

“Very,” I answer and then stand. “I’ve answered enough of your questions. Now leave me the fuck alone so I can get my training done.” Clothes in hand, I storm off toward the bathroom, where I’ll get changed to avoid them.

That could have been way worse, although I don’t think it’s over.