Page 10 of The Last Person (Baker Girls #5)

CHAPTER EIGHT

brIAN

I have the same routine the nights before away games as I do the nights before home games.

I sit in my hotel room and crochet while Hardy reads or finds some kind of melodramatic TV show to watch.

It’s a weird glimpse of what I’d love for my future to be, but that idea is unrealistic. At least with Hardy by my side.

Don’t fall for your straight friend. It’s a rule all queer folks learn early on. It only leads to heartache.

Yet, here I am, crocheting a blanket for his bed in the apartment we share. Totally normal things two pro football players do for each other.

“I’m bored,” Hardy says, tossing the remote to the side.

“Not enough drama for you on TV? There has to be a bunch of terrible reality shows to pick from.”

He shrugs. “I’m not interested in any of them.”

“Try the news. You can definitely find some drama there.”

He scrunches his face. “Not the kind of drama I want.”

I sigh and look over at him. “What do you want from me?”

“Let’s go somewhere.”

“Curfew is in half an hour.”

“Fine, then talk to me. Something. I don’t know. You’re my roommate. It’s your job to entertain me.”

“Remind me to talk to Coach in the morning.”

“Brian…” he whines.

I hate when he says my name like that. I have to work way too hard to keep from popping a boner.

“Fine,” I say, setting my crocheting to the side. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. What were you thinking about while you were crocheting? Or is it just blank darkness?”

“Like the blackness of my soul?” I laugh.

“Please. That’s far from black. You’re one of the purest, kindest humans I know. Your soul is probably white. Not sparkly and shimmery white, though. More like that gray-white of an early morning fog lifting over the mountains.”

“Wow. That was profound.”

“Thanks. Now do me.”

No. Mind. Gutter. Bad.

“Do you?”

“What color is my soul?”

“Red,” I answer without a second thought. “A deep, fiery red because everything you do, you do with brightness and passion.”

He blinks at me for a moment. “Damn, that was a good answer.”

“So was yours. It’s almost like we know each other.”

He climbs out of his bed and comes to sit next to me on mine.

This is one of those moments where I feel an intimacy with him that doesn’t fully make sense to me, to the point that I wonder if I’m imagining it simply because it’s what I dream of.

“Seriously, what were you thinking about while you were crocheting? Or what do you think about?”

“I don’t have a regular topic that I think about when crocheting. Sometimes it’s just breathing deep and focusing on where I am. Tonight, I guess I was thinking about my future.”

He leans back against the pillows, covering them with his scent, and I already know I’ll be shamelessly hugging them all night.

“What about your future? Like after football?”

“Probably. Or at least in the offseason. During the season everything is so regimented, there’s not much wiggle room for daily life to change.”

“Truth. So, what does that look like for you? Your future?” He puts his hands behind his head, getting even more comfortable.

“I don’t know exactly. It’s more snippets or vibes than anything else. Mostly. One thing I really want is a sprawling home out in the country with lots of natural light.”

“Windows filled with plant babies,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” I slide down against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

“And then I want to cultivate acres of gardens. Vegetable gardens, flower gardens, trees—especially fruit trees. I want to surround myself with peace. Nature. That’s what I want for my future.

An unhurried life. Getting up in the morning and cooking breakfast, sipping tea by the big windows, and enjoying the simple things.

Hopefully, with someone I love by my side.

I’d sacrifice so many things in my dream to have love.

But in a perfect fantasy, they’d be in that dream with me. Maybe even a couple of kids too.”

I look over at Hardy and find his eyes closed as he breathes deeply.

That future must be nice and peaceful if it lulled him off to sleep.

It’d probably be far too slow for him. Still, I don’t let the fantasy evaporate. It can be my sweet secret that I only get to have in my dreams.

I look at Hardy sleeping peacefully and face an unsettling urge to lean down and kiss his head. But I can’t do that. He’s not mine. Not the way I want him to be. So, I climb out of bed, grab my notebook, and work on more angsty, longing poetry to soothe my restless heart.