Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

Jake

July 2nd

“ C ounselor.”

It comes out rougher than I meant it to.

My voice is shredded, lungs tight, ribs screaming.

But I had to say something.

Tahlia stares for a beat, eyes wide, hair wrapped up, blanket still around her shoulders, like she was trying to hold herself together.

She doesn't speak, doesn't ask questions.

Instead, she steps back, giving us entrance into her domain.

I ease inside without waiting for an invite.

My side protests every step.

The air smells like something soft and clean, and I hate how much it feels like a place I’d want to stay.

Behind me, Marcus—the trainer who drew the short straw—sets my duffel and gear bag just inside the door.

He gives Tahlia a short nod before disappearing down the hall and heading home.

The door clicks shut.

The silence between us hangs heavy, but the tension outweighs it all.

Tahlia turns toward me, arms folded tight against her chest like she doesn’t trust herself to reach for me.

“You look like you had a bad day at work.”

I offer a half-smile.

“Feels like it.”

I take a step toward the couch but wobble.

My balance’s all off.

Probably the meds.

Probably the adrenaline crashing now that I’m off the field and out of the spotlight.

Tahlia moves fast.

“Whoa—okay, nope.” Her hand comes to my arm, steadying me.

“Where are you going?”

“Your couch looks soft," I mutter, blinking slowly. "Didn't think I'd make it to mine."

She gives me a look. One of those I’m-not-doing-this-with-you-tonight stares.

“You’re not walking next door like this.” She shifts her grip and slips under my arm as if she’s done it before. “Come on. My bed’s closer.”

I blink. “Didn’t realize we were on those terms already.”

“Shut up and walk.”

Her room is dim, clean, and warm. It smells like something calming—chamomile, lavender, or whatever smells like peace.

I drop onto the edge of her bed with a groan, clenching my side as I lower myself.

Tahlia kneels to untie my sneakers.

I watch her, quiet for a beat.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

She doesn’t look up. “Jake? Why didn’t you just text me or go home?”

I pause, thinking of my words before letting them leave my lips. "Because I needed to see you," I say, ignoring the pain in my side. “Hear your voice. Make sure that you saw I was okay.”

That makes her freeze for half a second before she tugs off my other shoe and stands.

“I’m not sure ‘okay’ is the word I’d use.”

I half-smile. “Okay-ish.”

She pulls the comforter back, waiting while I ease in. I shift, wince, settle. Still in my athletic shorts, but it’s the most comfortable I’ve been since the game started.

“I’ll bring you some water,” she says, already heading out.

I sink deeper into her bed, the mattress comfy but firm enough to brace the ache in my ribs. Everything smells like her—vanilla, cocoa butter, and something warm and clean. The kind of scent that settles under your skin without asking permission.

And I’m in her bed.

Not mine. Not some hotel room. Hers.

I’ve had hundreds of women offer their beds before. But none of them have ever looked at me like she did at the door—like she'd been holding her breath all night and seeing me gave her permission to breathe again.

Plus, she didn’t ask me to stay. She didn’t need to.

I barely made it three steps toward her couch before she caught me. No hesitation. No dramatics. Just… Come on. My bed’s closer.

And I let her help me to her room.

I don’t let people in. Not like this. Not when I’m wrecked. But with her, I didn’t even think twice.

When she returns, she hands me the bottle of water. Her fingers graze mine, and her eyes linger—quiet, steady, like she’s trying to memorize the edges of me in case I break again.

“Thank you,” I say. “For letting me in.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you do this alone.”

She grabs a blanket and pillow from the linen closet and nods toward the living room. “I’m sleeping on the couch. Let me know if you need anything.”

I almost argue. Tell her to stay. Tell her I don’t want the distance, but I’m too tired. Besides, she’s already gone.

The door clicks softly behind her.

And I finally let myself breathe.

July 3rd

The sound hits first.

It's not rain, but something somewhere closer. It's constant. It takes my brain a minute to register what it is.

The shower. But why is my shower running?

I turn over to see what’s going on, my ribs ache in protest, but it’s the bed that really throws me.

Because this isn’t my bed. This one is stupid soft. Top-of-the-line cushion. Memory-foam-wrapped-in-clouds pillowy. The sheets are cool and smooth, the kind of thread count you only get if you care about shit like thread count. And right now? I do.

I sink deeper into it on instinct, and it holds me. It is not like a stranger's bed or a hotel—it is like a place someone built to rest in.

And that’s when it clicks—I’m in a bed that’s not mine.

Tahlia’s.

Memories drip back in slowly—her at the door, her arm around my waist, her telling me to stop trying to play hero. The second I tried to walk alone, she didn't ask questions. She just… took me in.

My fingers graze the edge of the comforter, soft and tucked in around me as though someone gave a damn. I blink, slow and heavy, and shift just enough to catch the sound.

The bathroom door is cracked, and steam rises into the room like it belongs there. The smell of her—cocoa butter and a faint trace of something sweet—clings to the air like heat.

I shift again, just enough to glance that way—and that’s when I see her.

She’s facing away from me, towel slipping low around her hips, bare back exposed, the curve of her ass catching the light. Her skin’s still damp from the shower, the steam rising off her like she owns it.

Smooth. Warm brown, kissed with gold in all the right places. More than I ever let myself imagine. Unfiltered.

She moves fast—the tank top is over her head, and the cotton shorts are pulled on in one quick motion. Not careful. Not shy. Just moving through her space like I'm not even here.

And I shouldn't be watching. I turn away quickly and close my eyes. I exhaled as if I didn't feel something shift in my chest.

I've thought about her naked. I'm not proud of it, but I have. Late at night. In the quiet. During away games when the hotel AC hums just loud enough to make a man admit the truth to himself.

But this isn’t some fantasy.

This is real. She’s real.

And I’m in her bed like it’s mine.

I shift again, trying to sit up, and knock something off the nightstand with my elbow.

Thud. Clatter. Fucking hell.

“Jake?” Her voice slices through the condo, fast and sharp.

Footsteps come next and then the door pushes open, and she’s standing there—braids still damp, tank clinging to her curves, lounge shorts hitched high on her hips.

“You good?” Her eyebrows raise with curiosity.

I wince, half-laugh. “Define good.” I shift again, trying to get my legs under me.

Tahlia steps in fast. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I have to pee,” I mutter. “Unless you want your duvet sacrificed in the name of dignity.”

She sighs, already moving to my side. “Stubborn.”

“Chivalrous,” I counter.

She slides under my arm again like it’s routine. Like she’s done it before. “Let’s go, hero.”

My steps are short. Controlled. The pain licks up my side with each movement, but I grit through it. I hate being helped, but I hate the idea of pissing myself more.

She walks me to the bathroom, and I pause at the door.

“I got it from here.”

“You sure?”

I nod. “Unless you’re planning on holding it for me.”

She lifts both hands and backs away. “All yours, Slugger.”

I close the door behind me, lean on the sink for a second, and catch my breath. The bathroom is clean—like super clean—and organized. It has neutral colors, soft textures, and the smell of eucalyptus, coconut oil, and something floral.

Everything about the space feels like her: sharp and gentle, with no clutter or frills. It's just intentional.

A fresh towel is placed on the counter, as if she put it there without being asked. She knew I'd need something and didn't want to make a thing of it.

That hits harder than it should.

I take care of what I need to, rinse my hands, and splash cool water on my face. The shock jolts me awake, and I look at my reflection. Damn, I look rough. Hair's a mess, stubble's past the casually rugged stage, and the compression wrap beneath my shirt isn't doing me any favors. Being benched for two weeks because of one wild pitch feels like a joke I'm not in on.

Shaking it off, I step out of the bathroom and smell something cooking—my stomach growls its approval.

She's at the kitchen island, plating two servings with surgical precision.

“You made breakfast?” I ask.

“I made you breakfast,” she corrects, not looking up. “You need to eat before you take any more pain meds.”

I limp toward the stool closest to her, one hand on the counter, the other gripping my side. “I’m not big on pain meds. I usually switch to over-the-counter stuff once the worst wears off.”

She doesn’t argue. Just slides a plate in front of me and says, “Then eat now, skip the crash later.” She moves around the kitchen like this is something we do on a regular basis.

I watch her pour herself a glass of juice, calm like this is any other morning.

“Shouldn’t you be at work or something?” I ask between bites.

She leans against the counter, unfazed. “I put in for a three-week leave of absence.”

I blink. “You serious?”

“You’re benched and bar prep doesn’t care where I study from. Figured I’d rather do it here than listen to Joi side-eye my flashcards.”

I look down at my plate, then back at her. “Didn’t think I rated PTO.”

She grins. “You don’t. But your busted rib does.”

I don’t say anything right away. Just nod, slow, like I’m chewing on more than breakfast.

She didn’t have to do that.

Didn’t have to choose me.

But she did.

And I don’t want to question it.

Tahlia lets me rest after breakfast, but somewhere between sitting back down on her couch and closing my eyes to let them rest, I pass out cold. Meds? Exhaustion? Both? I don’t even know. I know the environment is very relaxing, and I'm glad I knocked on her door last night.

When I wake up, I see some of my stuff folded and stacked on the bench by her front door. Clothes, toiletries, and even my favorite hoodie, which I always forget to wash until it's desperate.

I squint toward the pile. “Did… my clothes sleepwalk over here, or am I missing part of this story?”

Tahlia glances up from the kitchen, completely unfazed. “Found your keys in your duffle bag. Took that and your gear bag next door and grabbed what you’d need for a few days.”

I blink. “So… breaking and entering?”

She shrugs. “Technically, I used a key. That makes it borrowing and returning.”

“That’s not how the law works.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And yet somehow, I don’t feel guilty.”

I pause, studying her for a second—barefoot, moving like none of this is a big deal, like helping me is just part of her schedule now.

“Thank you,” I say, quieter this time. “For all of it.”

She meets my eyes, just for a second, and nods. “Don’t mention it.”

I nod back. “Still gonna, eventually. Probably with food.”

“Make it something sweet,” she tosses over her shoulder, moving around the kitchen.

I watch her as she finishes putting away a few groceries.

She crosses the living room, a bottle of water in hand, and sinks into the cushion opposite me.

Onscreen, The DEN rolls highlights—Arizona vs. Tennessee front and center. I already know what’s coming.

Tahlia settles in, eyes flicking toward the screen.

“How can you even stand to watch yourself get nailed like that?” she asks, tilting her head.

I smirk. “Pretty sure when you do start closing arguments, someone’s gonna need CPR.”

She smiles, low and slow. “God help whoever sits across from me when I finally do.”

I lean back against the pillow, watching her for a second before the replay rolls.

“You’re gonna be dangerous,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t argue. Just shifts beside me, pulling her legs up onto the couch.

Onscreen, the analysts reset. Game highlights cycle through like nothing happened—until it does.

The pitch. The crack. My body twisting as I go down.

Her gaze stays locked on the screen, but her posture changes—her shoulders tense and her jaw tightens.

I see it.

This bothers her. More than she wants me to know.

I hand her the remote without a word.

She takes it. Doesn't even hesitate and changes the channel.

Eventually, we switch to crime dramas—nothing heavy, nothing that demands too much thinking. I let my head tip back, eyes fluttering half-shut with tiredness that settles deep.