Page 33 of End Game

brANCH

I slam my locker shut, the sound barely heard over my teammates catching up after practice. It’s so loud I’ve considered bringing noise-cancelling headphones with me just so I can hear myself think.

Despite my workout efforts over the summer, my body still aches like a motherfucker. Every part of me contests every movement I make, each muscle fiber begging me to stop. Although we’ve practiced every day for the last week, the soreness just gets worse.

I kind of love it.

It reminds me that I’m alive, that I’m doing what I love, that my body, while not a young stud anymore, is still capable of competing with them. Six years in the league is long enough to take a beating that makes every penny I make fully earned.

“What’d you do this offseason, Best?” Chauncey slips on his shirt and grins. “You always have the craziest stories, man.”

“I just played it cool, you know? Did a little of this, a little of that . . .” Knocked up Finn’s sister . . .

“Look at you being all discreet,” he says, closing his locker. “Nah, I got you. You’re keeping a low profile.”

“You could say that. What were you up to?”

“Hangin’ around the house, painting the baby’s bedroom, doing some fishin’. Just basic shit, ya know?”

“Life with a wife,” I kid.

“Hell, no,” he says, bursting out laughing. “My girlfriend had me painting. My wife don’t give a shit about paint. She’d just hire someone to come in and do it. Ain’t her money, you know?”

I try to smile, to come up with a joke like I’d usually do, about his girlfriend and his wife taking all his damn money if he doesn’t watch it, but I come up empty. There just doesn’t seem to be a lot funny about it.

I instantly think of Layla and what color she’d choose for our baby’s room and if this is something she’s even thought about.

“You okay, Lucky?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I grab my bag and heave it up on my shoulder as we head towards the door.

“What do you think Coach’s surprise is on Monday? ‘Bring your best selves,’” Chauncey says, mimicking Coach. “If he fucking brings out that Godzilla drill, I might feign a pulled hamstring and sit it out.”

“I bet it is. That or Hammer Time. He hasn’t killed us with that yet.”

“Don’t even talk about that,” he laughs. “I hate that thing. Fucking Miller beat everyone last year. Remember that?” He looks around the locker room. “Speaking of, where’s Finn?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wanted to say hey, get back into the flow of things, but he disappears every day as soon as the reporters leave.” We stand at the bank of elevators, Chauncey needing to take the right one, me the left. “Tell Miller to find me tomorrow.”

“I will.”

The ding is my opening and I nod to my teammate. Getting into the elevator, I hit the “close” button before anyone can join me.

The ride down to the parking garage is quick, and I’m in my car before I have to talk to anyone else. Practice was good, but the high is over and I feel antsy.

Sitting at the gate, waiting for security to let me through, I play a game of chicken with myself.

I can go home and call Layla, or I can do what I really want to do: see her.

She sounds so tired on the phone, I wonder if she’s getting any rest. I was checking out a few web articles about pregnancy and some women want to sleep half the day or more. How can she do that if she’s working and living alone?

Not only that, I miss her. I’ve told myself I don’t, but I do. The Branch that’s with her is different from the Branch on the field or the Branch in public. He’s calmer. Happier. The Branch from before I got into the league. I kinda like him.

I kinda like her.

Glancing at the passenger’s seat, the coffee cake I picked up this morning at the bakery still sitting there, I make up my mind.

The guard releases the gate and I make a last-second decision. I go right when I should probably go left.

I press the doorbell, clutching the coffee cake, and wait. The hallway is small, more confined than comfortable, with cheap brown carpeting and cold white walls etched with deep, random scratches.

Her laugh sounds through the door, followed by a deep male voice, before she undoes the lock. Her eyes go wide when she sees me. “Branch,” she breathes, gulping.

“Am I interrupting something?” I grind my teeth together, looking over her shoulder. A tall, dark-haired man stands near the sofa, smiling brightly at me. “Who the fuck is that?”

She opens the door and I walk in, squeezing the plastic tin so hard it crackles.

“Branch, this is Max Quinn,” Layla says. “Max, this is Branch.”

“Nice to meet ya.” Max sticks his hand out, his Southern drawl deeper than mine. “I’ve heard a lot about ya. Congratulations on the baby.”

Tossing a glance at Layla out of the corner of my eye, I shake Max’s hand. “Thanks. And who are you?”

“I’m Poppy’s cousin. My buddy, Cane, and I are up here with our wives for a wedding. Poppy left her sunglasses over here and I was in this part of town, so I offered to grab ’em.”

I attempt to control the exhale of breath, but Max notices and grins.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he almost whispers. “Just relax a little. And ease up on the cake, son, or you’re gonna have a mess on your hands.”

He grips my shoulder as he walks by me, telling Layla goodbye. I don’t get involved with them, just work on settling the adrenaline that had me ready to come to blows with Max.

As I listen to her giggle and tell him to come back and visit, it dawns on me this is a real thing. Probably not a one-time deal. How many times will I walk into her home to get the baby and another man will be in there?

The plastic pops again.

What if it’s her husband and he tells me I can’t see my kid? Or didn’t give him a Popsicle and made him cry?

Fuck that guy. I’m gonna kill him and he doesn’t even exist.

I’m losing my damn mind.

“Here,” she says, taking the coffee cake from me. “There’s no sense in abusing a poor dessert.”

Releasing the container, it’s dented and the cream cheese icing is stuck to the top. “Sorry,” I offer sheepishly.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, carrying the cake to the kitchen.

“Why do you think something is wrong?”

“Well, you’re here, for one. And for two, you look like you’re ready to brawl.”

I shrug because I’m not completely sure. Instead of answering, I watch her grab a plate and fork.

Her legs look toned in a pair of white shorts, her yellow top tight against her chest. Her hair is messy in a half-up, half-down thing and her eyes shine even more golden next to her shirt.

Watching her, I can’t help but acknowledge the tightness in my chest. She’s beautiful and sexy and sweet and sincere. But it’s how she makes me feel that’s crazy.

I don’t want to just undress her and lick every part of her body. I want to kiss her, take my time and adore her. I want to take her to a stupid movie or get her coffee cake in the middle of the night.

But why? What’s the point?

“You gonna offer me a piece?” I ask.

“Maybe.” She shoves a forkful in her mouth. “God, this is so good.”

“I love hearing you say that.”

She rolls her eyes, but cuts me a piece anyway. “Here. That’s all you get.”

“Stingy.”

She smiles and goes back to her cake. I take a bite and look around.

Her apartment is small with white walls and muted, feminine touches. The couch is a simple grey with so many pillows I don’t know how she even sits on it. There are images of beaches and skylines and simple artistic drawings adorning the walls, helping to make them not look so dull.

It’s a one-eighty from my house with its large, barren rooms and black and white canvas. I thought modern and sparse was my jam, but I’m not entirely sure now.

“What do you think?” she asks. “I loved the light in here. That’s why I chose this apartment.”

“It’s nice. It’s what I thought your apartment would look like, actually. Pretty. Tasteful.”

“I hope you thought it would be cleaner,” she laughs. “I hate cleaning. Hate it. I’m not good at domestic crap. Callum used to say . . .” She stops when she sees my reaction. “It doesn’t matter what he used to say.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“So,” she says in an attempt to change the subject, “want a drink? Pop? Tea? Decaf?”

“Water?” I ask.

“I’ve drank my weight in water today,” she says, swiping a bottle from the refrigerator. “I read that drinking more water keeping swelling down. Does that make any sense to you?”

“The therapist we use at work says the same thing. It seems counterintuitive, but the owner only hires the best, so I’m assuming she knows her shit.”

I take a long, cool drink and use the time to try to settle my nerves. Being in her home feels different than I thought it would. The cabin felt more like neutral ground. This is completely her domain and I wonder what she would look like in my kitchen.

“How was your first week back?” she asks, getting an orange out of the basket beneath the microwave. “Did it feel like home?”

“Yeah, it did. It was good to get out there with the guys.” She tosses me the fruit. “What’s this for?”

“You should eat it. It’s good for muscle fatigue.”

Layla walks by me and heads back into the living room. I follow, unsure if I’m supposed to bring the water and fruit with me or not. I set them on the counter to be safe.

I hate that I don’t know the rules here, that I don’t know all her little idiosyncrasies. As we sit on the sofa, I look around.

“What color do you want to paint the baby’s room?” I ask, thinking back to the conversation I had with Chauncey.

“What a random question.”

“I know,” I say, feeling a little silly. “I was just curious, that’s all.”

“Well, I thought a pretty light grey would be nice, if the room is bright. If it’s not, then maybe a pale yellow to make it a little cheerier. Both are pretty neutral colors.”

“If the room is bright? You don’t know which you’ll use as the nursery?”

She bites the inside of her cheek and shakes her head. “I’ll be moving before she arrives, so I’ll wait and see.”