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I check my reflection in the dresser mirror, seeing the hard ladder of my abs, the bulge in my boxer briefs, and my hard pecs. I’ve definitely put on some muscle mass since the season started, and my shoulders are a touch broader than normal. A little nagging voice in the back of my mind—a voice that sounds just like Father—whispers to me.

They like you to be lean and unthreatening.

Frowning, I flex my chest, wondering why I suddenly feel shitty about new muscle. Even after arranging my pillow and sliding under the covers, it nags at me, face set into a deep frown as I consider this… what’s the word?

Insecurity?

Gross.

“What’s this?” The thought shatters when I look over, seeing her standing inside the bathroom door. She’s holding a Royals jersey, black, purple, and gold, with the name Ashby on the back.

And the number 2.

Mynumber.

Smirking, I wedge my arm behind my bed. “I had your wench put that out.”

“For… your game?” she asks, brow furrowed in confusion. “That’s not until next week.”

“For you to wear to bed.”

My week. My name. My number.

She may not let me inside her, but I can force these little bits of dominance where I can. It’s her fault, really. I haven’t stopped thinking about her wearing my jersey since she showed up in it at my game.

She gives me an unimpressed look. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m always serious about fashion, Red.” Arching a brow, I add, “I never got compensated for the burritos.”

Rolling her eyes, she doesn’t even bother stepping back into the bathroom to pull off that little silk nightie. I make a low, pleased sound as I stare at her tits, full and heavy-looking. It’s only for a flash. She pulls the jersey on at lightning speed, her expression set into an unamused scowl.

“Happy?” she says, spreading her arms.

I reach down to give my dick a squeeze. “Getting there.”

With another eyeroll, she climbs into bed, the hem of the jersey grazing the top of her milky, smooth thighs. “I was going to thank you for the food and the shopping today,” she grumbles, wrestling the blanket toward her, “but now I think I’ll just try to forget it ever happened.”

“Good luck with that,” I say around a jaw-cracking yawn. Despite the urge to keep her up and goad her some more, I’m fucking exhausted.

Each of us turns off our lamp, but since we both know how this is going to end up, I immediately roll to the middle of the massive bed, reaching out to grab her hip and haul her toward me. After that morning I shoved her right off the edge, I try to keep us in the middle. The bed’s the size of a goddamn elephant. Who wakes up in a bed this big and expects to be right on the rim of it?

She makes her customary noises of complaint—a groan, a grunt—but ultimately settles into the cradle of my body, sniping, “Watch the hair!”

I don’t watch it, though.

I smell it.

God, girls smell good. All clean and sweet, like they're fruit just waiting to be peeled.

“Cactus,” her voice rumbles sleepily.

I snort. “Nah.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Is it a tree?”

This has been our nightly routine for the week. I make her cuddle with me, then she drives me crazy. “You really can’t handle surprises, can you?”

I feel her arm shift as she fidgets with a thread on her pillowcase. “I used to be able to,” she says, shoulder jerking with a shrug. “But there are no good surprises in this house.” There’s a flicker of melancholy to her voice that I know all too well. She doesn’t need to tell me.