Page 13 of End Game

LAYLA

Poppy’s giggle from the room next door filters through the thin walls of my bedroom. Watching Branch do pull-ups from a low-hanging limb off a tree in the yard, I have half a notion to get dressed and go down there with him.

Last night at the festival turned out to be more than I even expected.

It took Branch a while to really loosen up and let his guard down, something that I don’t think he really does all that much.

But when he dropped it, he really dropped it.

So much so, in fact, that I waited for almost an hour while he showed a group of high school boys how to throw a football and catch a pass on the tennis courts.

I’ve never seen him quite like that. Invigorated. Energized. Talking a mile-a-minute and jumping from one thing to another. I think that little side track was his favorite part of the night, although he insists it was his victory over me in Skee Ball.

My bed still smells like him, sticky, red candy smeared on my sheets from our romp when we got back. I showered after and again now when I woke up and still feel the tackiness on my thighs and breasts. So worth it.

He catches me watching him and drops to the ground and busts out a number of push-ups, all the while maintaining eye contact. I laugh, give him a thumbs up, and then walk away from the window.

I have to. He’s a glorious sight all shirtless and golden from the afternoon sun, but this little fest will come to an end when we go home tomorrow and I need to start applying the brakes now.

By the time I get dressed and stretch out a little, my muscles aching, Poppy and Finn are already in the kitchen. They’re whispering back and forth as I enter.

“Secrets are lies,” I say, plucking a strawberry out of a bowl.

Poppy turns around and smirks. “No, I know what a lie is and it’s not a secret. Or, maybe it is. Is it?”

I toss her a look and mouth, “Stop it” while Finn’s back is to me. “How was the party at Machlan’s?”

“Those boys are nuts,” Poppy giggles. “I kind of love them.”

“What happened?” I ask, looking at Finn.

“Just the normal shit. Peck had bottle rockets so I’ll let you determine how that fared.”

“Oh no,” I laugh.

“Pretty much. What did you do last night?” he asks.

“Branch and I went to the Water Festival, actually. I ate way too much.”

“She did.” His voice slides into the room from the doorway.

Looking over my shoulder, I see him standing there, leaning against the frame. His eyes are on me, but they’re filled with something I haven’t seen in them before and can’t even begin to figure out.

“You can’t take Layla to a festival and not drop one hundred dollars on food,” Finn laughs. “Let me guess: lemon shake-ups.”

“And elephant ears,” Branch adds. “And candy apples.”

“That explains that,” Poppy says, her eyes twinkling.

“That explains what?” Finn asks.

“Um, the stick on the counter this morning,” she fumbles. “I was like, ‘Damn, that looks like a candy apple stick.’ Guess it was.”

My head goes to my hands as she continues with her makeshift story. She can’t tell him she asked me about the red smears on my sheets earlier. Finn would go crazy.

“I’m going to take my strawberries,” I say, grabbing the bowl as I stand, “and go sit on the porch.”

“We’ll be right out,” Poppy says, turning back to Finn.

I brush past Branch on my way. He slides his hand to the side and lets his fingertips dance along my thigh. It’s such a simple touch that I can’t look at him. I just keep walking.

My skin tickles where he touched me for minutes after. As I get situated on the wicker love seat and think about him in the other room, I smile like a loon. I know it. I can’t help it.

Even on my best days with Callum, it was work—work I thought would pay off in the end. I wrote off the stress between us as spillover from practice or the last game or decided his irritability must be from the things he took to stay fit. With Branch, there’s none of that. It’s so easy .

Their laughter comes around the corner before I see them and I watch the doorway for Branch. His eyes find mine right away, softness mixed with mischief in those blues.

Everyone grabs a seat like we’ve done this a hundred times.

We eat fresh fruit and drink coffee that Poppy made and laugh and talk about our jobs and tell stories from summers past. They let me snap some pictures of their plates for my blog and I mentally put together the post as Poppy takes our dishes to the kitchen.

A wind chime tinkles in the corner, the warm afternoon breeze gently nudging it back and forth as we sit, stomachs full, and relax.

Branch sits across from me, his feet up on the table again, his hands on his belly and eyes closed.

Finn stretches out on a chaise beside him, a binder of football-related stuff on his lap.

Poppy comes back from the kitchen and sits next to me.

A contented sigh passes my lips as I feel my body, although sore from my romps with Branch, give in. It’s one of those moments I’ve experienced only a few times in my life. It’s a calm in the center of my core, a contentedness that I wish I could channel every day.

My computer sits beside me where I left it at some point.

As Poppy checks her email on her phone, I attach my phone to my laptop and download the pictures I just took for the blog.

Wanting to get the vision I have for the Summer Fun post I can see so clearly, I click open my browser.

There are tabs lining the top and I start to click on each one and close them.

Then I stop.

My eyes dart from the screen, over the rim of the computer to Branch, and back to the screen again.

I gulp.

I hit refresh.

Exposé’s website is front and center, a tab open from when I was checking on Callum when we first got here.

Now, on the main page, is a picture of Branch in Crave. He’s wearing the same shirt he came in that night smelling like the bar. The letters hanging above his head, in all bold caps, reads: “Best Having the Best Time.”

A lump sits in my throat, my cheeks hot like I’m going to get caught doing something wrong. When I glance up at Branch, he hasn’t moved.

I don’t need to peruse the article to know what it’s going to say. The picture of the girl in shorts so short you can almost see her hoohah sitting on Branch’s lap is pretty much a spoiler. Still, I’m a glutton for punishment, so I read on.

Exposé Alert: Best Having the Best Time

Seems like our favorite bromance hit up local favorite, Crave, in tiny Linton, Illinois this week. Our sources tell us Miller was seen buying shots and playing pool while our honey-haired honey Best went missing in action with the “lucky” lady on his lap.

These two are in town on a quick retreat before the pre-season starts and should be reporting for training in just a few short days. Anyone else awaiting those pictures and stories? Just us? Didn’t think so.

PS: Lucky Lady—we’re so jealous.

Forcing a swallow and trying to manage the feelings screeching through my head, I close the computer and stand. Poppy looks at me with a quirked brow.

“Gotta pee,” I mumble and make a quick exit from the porch.

Taking the steps two at a time, I’m in my bedroom in ten seconds flat. My computer goes skidding across the comforter.

I don’t sit. I pace. Back and forth I go in front of the window that overlooks the lake. The pale pink curtains that have hung in this room since I picked them out when I was seven years old flutter in the wind from the open window.

Before I can make sense of anything, the door flies open. I whirl around to see Poppy standing in the doorway.

“You did not have to pee,” she says flatly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“What did you see? Don’t tell me you were looking up Callum’s vacation,” she sighs. “Damn it, Layla.”

“I wasn’t looking up Callum or his fucking vacation. Here,” I say, thrusting the computer at her. “Open it. Passcode is ‘milkshake’ with a one instead of the i.”

“Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Just look,” I sigh, rolling my eyes.

The exact moment she gets to the “honey-haired” piece is obvious because her eyes bug out. “Ooohhh . . .”

“I’m not mad,” I say, more to myself than to her.

“It’s not that at all. It’s expected. It’s the natural order of things.

I just stupidly forgot that and thought he was all about me this weekend, which, I guess, is a part of his charm and I’m totally capable of understanding that because I’m an adult,” I say, throwing my hand through the air and knocking a candle off my dresser.

It shatters on the floor and breaks into a handful of pieces. “Starting now.”

Poppy puts the computer carefully on the bed. “You can be mad.”

“I’m not mad!”

“You’re not mad,” she says, trying to not show her amusement. “You’re . . . irritated.”

“I’m not irritated either. I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m going home.”

Now she laughs. “Because we’re adults, right?”

“Yes,” I say, stomping to the closet and pulling out the few things I bothered to hang up. “I’m an adult and I can go home so I don’t have to look at his smug face for the next couple of days.”

“Maybe he’s not smug.”

“Maybe not,” I say simply, shoving my things into my suitcase. “But if you want the truth, I’m a little embarrassed.”

“At what?”

I fall onto the bed, the adrenaline from the last few minutes catching up with me. Looking at my best friend, I feel the fight wane. “I’m embarrassed at myself.”

My friend sits beside me. “Why would you be? It got you to stop thinking about Dickface and got you off—how many times? Five?”

“Five that time. I haven’t told you the rest,” I sigh. “But that’s not the point.”

“No, the point is there’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about.”

“I know that. I do . I’m a grown woman and he’s most definitely a man,” I whimper. “But maybe it would’ve been nice to think about this two weeks from now and not wonder who came before me and who came after.”

“You mean that figuratively, right?”