Page 12

12

Holt

Fletcher Huxley wouldn’t have been my first choice of teammate to call for a ride and a place to spend a day when we first met, but the guy’s grown on me over the past two seasons. He’s one of a few guys on the team who played seriously overseas long enough and well enough that he doesn’t need an off-season job. He can also afford a penthouse with a guest room, where I intend to actually get some sleep at some point today.

Plus, his fiancée, Goldie, is one of my favorite people.

She’s keeping me company in their living room while he grabs something he says I need to see.

“So what’s the story on your foot? What happened?” she asks.

I readjust the pillows under my foot, then flop onto my back, facing her on the other wing of the sofa. “Weight room accident. ”

“How long are you on crutches?”

“Four weeks. Longer if it’s not healing well enough.”

I wait for her to wrinkle her nose or grimace or sip from her mug to hide her reaction at the idea of me potentially asking to be underfoot rather than home alone for the better part of a month, but instead, all I get is a sympathetic softening of her golden-brown eyes.

“I’m sorry, Holt. I know how frustrating that is.”

She knows better than I do.

I got to play pro rugby.

She, meanwhile, saw her professional soccer dreams go up in smoke when she broke her hip in college.

I shouldn’t be whining to her.

Sweet Pea, their miniature dachshund, barks. Goldie pulls her onto the couch too, and then Zinger, their other dog, a mutt, leaps up to join them.

These dogs like me.

It’s just my own damn dog who hates me.

No, not my dog.

Ziggy’s dog.

Jessica is Ziggy’s dog. I need to think about her that way so it’s less of an adjustment when they leave.

Maybe I’ll get my own dog. Or a cat. I could get a cat. I like cats.

And I’ll be here for the rest of my career—probably, if I still have a career—so I might as well get settled.

“Oh my god, Fletcher ,” Goldie says on a sigh while Sweet Pea whines.

I glance up. My teammate strides to the center of the room in nothing but a black Speedo with a giant waffle printed over his dick .

“My new budgie smugglers came in,” he says. “It’s between these and the next pair. What do you think?”

He turns in a circle, showing off the word POUNDERS printed over the ass of the tight briefs he opts to wear under his kit shorts.

Most of the rest of us have gone to the longer compression shorts under our shorts, a basic requirement since it’s not unusual for shorts to get pulled down during a match and we’d like rugby to make network TV in America eventually.

Nudity laws on the airwaves and all that.

But Fletcher will likely pick out special budgie smugglers to be buried in.

He’s that type.

“What’s with the waffle?” I ask.

“Don’t you want to know?” He smirks, making his mustache twitch. Some guys can pull off a mustache. Fletcher isn’t one of them, but when he grows it and posts to his socials, the Pounders sell more tickets.

I don’t understand it, but I can’t argue with more ticket sales.

“His favorite idea of a contender for a mascot,” Goldie supplies.

I heard management was contemplating finally adding a mascot, but I hadn’t paid much attention because I wasn’t going to be here. “A waffle? What do waffles have to do with Pounders or pounding?”

Fletcher turns again, modeling. “If you can’t see the connection, you don’t deserve to know.”

Goldie’s laughing at him. “It was one of his ideas while we were hungover on Liege waffles in Belgium last month.”

“And it’s bloody brilliant,” Fletcher says. “Waffles are versatile. You can eat them plain. You can eat them with Nutella or ice cream or syrup. You can call someone a twatwaffle. Or a shitwaffle. Or a fuckwaffle. Or a wankwaffle. Bloody. Fucking. Brilliant.”

Goldie’s suppressing a smile while she shoos Fletcher. “Go put your clothes on and quit torturing Holt.”

“Torturing Holt is my favorite hobby.”

“Torturing Silas is your favorite hobby.”

“Was. Got too easy. I’m moving on to bigger fish.”

Silas, Goldie’s little brother, is also on the team. He and Fletcher butted heads hardcore before Fletcher and Goldie hooked up. Even more in the weeks immediately after they hooked up, but the two of them came to some kind of understanding and are mostly tolerable together. Still have their moments, but this past season was much easier than Fletcher’s first season with the team.

Fletcher says it’s because Silas is growing up.

I think Goldie got to both of them and helped them both grow up. She’s good like that.

“I see you naked almost every week,” I remind Fletcher. “Try harder.”

“Happily. Wait until you see the next pair. You need a picture to remember these?” He strikes another pose, this one like he’s a bodybuilder, or like he’s trying to show off all of the tattoos on his arms. “Goldie. Snap a pic.”

She smiles at him. “Pretty sure I can remember these without a picture.”

“Completely positive? This would help you when you’re missing me the next time we’re apart for an hour.”

And now he’s annoying me.

“I want a picture.” I lift my phone, switch on the camera app, and aim it at him while he poses again. “Also, I have your sister’s number. She’ll love these.”

His face freezes, which is a massive fucking victory when it comes to Fletcher.

Goldie sees it too, judging by the way she laughs even harder. “So these aren’t for your socials to wage a fan campaign for mascot. You’re losing your touch, Fletcher.”

As I’m hitting the shutter button for the seventh time, a new text comes in that startles me enough that I get three blurry pictures in a row.

Ziggy: I called the plumber. He can have everything out of your bedroom today and the bathroom functional in two days.

My heart leaps. I sit up—why, I don’t know, to think better to reply to her?—but it’s too fast and I pull a hamstring, which sends a lightning bolt of a cramp down my calf inside my boot.

I drop my phone and grab my leg as low as I can reach it while the pain flares so hard my shin bone aches too. “ Fuck .”

Fletcher’s at my side in an instant, with his hairy chest and tattooed arms and the fucking tight briefs.

“Down,” he says.

“I’m lying down,” I grumble, once again flat on my back while I breathe through the cramp.

“When did you take your last meds?”

“Hour ago. I’m—fine.”

Fuck , that hurts.

But it’s fading.

He grabs my phone to hand it to me but pauses and tilts his head at my screen. “Who’s house sitter? And where are they staying? ”

I snatch my phone back from him, relieved that I hadn’t got around to changing Ziggy’s name in my phone. “Nobody.”

“You have a house sitter while you’re staying here?”

“Had one here while I was in Europe.”

“So they’re not the nursemaid type?”

I growl at him.

I don’t want Ziggy meeting Fletcher.

He can be an asshole on a good day. Don’t ask about bad days.

Plus, I don’t want to share her with anyone. Even as friends. She’s mine.

Fuck .

She’s not mine. She’s her own person, growing a baby all by herself, with zero interest in me.

Especially after last night and this morning.

The dogs circle Fletcher. Goldie squats next to him and presses his shoulder. “Go try on your other budgie smugglers. I’ve got this.”

He doesn’t listen. “If your house sitter was old and crotchety, you wouldn’t be falling off the couch because they texted you.”

I should’ve called a different teammate. Tatum or Crew wouldn’t have been this annoying. “My house is getting renovated, and she’s making it easier for me to get back in my room. End of story.”

“You didn’t say anything about renovations.”

“I don’t tell you everything.” Far from it, in fact.

“You should. I’m a good listener.”

I look at Goldie.

She suppresses another smile. “He listens more than you think he does. ”

“The guy who told everyone I was from Canada and didn’t know my brother was sick until this time last year?” I say dryly.

“He listens better to more people now that he’s less distracted with his world domination plans,” she corrects.

She didn’t know about Caden either, but she and Silas have a complicated relationship, so she wasn’t around the team much before Fletcher arrived. Didn’t really get in each other’s business aside from Goldie making a regular effort to be involved in Silas’s daughter’s life.

“I’ve been to your house,” Fletcher says. “Don’t you have three or four bedrooms? Had to have at least two.”

“I— It’s complicated.”

He stares at me.

“My house sitter doesn’t have a good option of another place to live until her own house is ready. I fucked up her plans when I came back early, so I told her she could stay.”

“In the only working bedroom in your house?”

“Yes.” No. There’s Caden’s room. And I won’t stay in it.

“One bedroom when you need a place to sleep and recover and heal.”

“Everything will be normal again soon. My bedroom’s getting fixed today. Mostly.”

“If you need to stay here in our love nest?—”

I groan and grab a pillow to shove over his mouth, but he’s too quick and is out of reach in an instant.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but you know what you’re getting into any time you see him,” Goldie says while she rescues Sweet Pea before Fletcher trips on her.

“I can’t get to my own bed easily yet, but she’s working with a contractor to fix it. It’s fine.”

Fletcher starts to grin .

Goldie gives him a playful shove. “He can’t even make his own food right now. Stop thinking what you’re thinking.”

He tosses her a grin before turning it on me. “Is she hot? Have you ever had nurse fantasies? Goldie was reading this book about a couple who hated each other but then they hooked up because they had to share a bed?—”

“I’m calling Zander and getting out of here,” I announce.

Calf’s still cramping.

I feel like ass.

I smell like ass. Can’t remember the last time I showered.

And I want to sleep.

And dream about vanilla honey and wide blue eyes.

Fuck .

Fletcher squints at me. “You’re back. You don’t need a live-in house sitter. So if she’s still staying at the house?—”

Goldie shoos Fletcher again. “If renovations aren’t as fast as you think they’ll be, I can talk to my friend Sheila. She has a spare bedroom, and she won’t torture you about your house sitter. Or wear budgie smugglers in front of you.”

I like Goldie’s friends. They come to practices and matches and afterparties.

They’re all at least sixty-five, and they all give fun aunt vibes.

So it’s a relief that they won’t have a budgie smugglers party.

“I can handle him,” I tell her.

“That’s why you’re the captain.”

I glance at my phone again.

Still the same message from Ziggy. No bubbles indicating she’s texting more. No new messages about her staying.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I can’t type ok .

She said something about me saying ok in text .

But what the fuck am I supposed to say? Thanks is the same as ok .

I should’ve called the plumber myself might make her think I don’t appreciate what she did.

Breakfast was delicious and we’re both going through shit and do you want to get married so I can give you health insurance for the baby? is unhinged.

Where did that even come from?

And why am I getting hot?

“Everything okay?” Goldie says.

Fletcher’s gone. Probably trying on his other budgie smugglers.

Goldie works for herself as a life coach, and she’s fucking good at it. Not unusual to see one or two of the guys corner her with questions when we’re all hanging out.

She gives good advice.

“I scared the shit out of my house sitter when I got home last night, and then I was an asshole this morning because I didn’t sleep and I was off my meds, and I can’t take care of myself, but it doesn’t feel right to ask her to take care of me when all she agreed to do was watch my house and my dog, and?—”

“You have a dog?”

“Long story.”

“How long have you had a dog?”

“Couple months.”

“And you didn’t tell us? Us . Fletcher. Fletcher who carries Sweet Pea everywhere in a pink baby sling. You didn’t think to tell us you got a dog?”

“That’s not the biggest issue here.”

Sweet Pea gives me a look that clearly says I’m wrong. Her brother is sleeping and doesn’t care at all .

Goldie seems to agree with Sweet Pea. “So you weren’t your best when you came back early and now you’re having trouble with your dog sitter .”

“I indirectly participated in getting her fired from a job, so I offered her my house to stay at while I was gone since her other options weren’t ideal, and now I’m back early and I can’t kick her out because she’s pregnant.”

Goldie blinks at me.

I’ve officially moved past the broad spectrum of situations in which she always has good advice.

After the longest pause I’ve ever seen her make when faced with a problem, she clears her throat. “I see.”

“Do I get a point for stumping you?”

“I’m not stumped. I’m thinking.”

“About what I should do?”

“About which questions I want to ask you next.”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.”

“Will you?”

Legit question. I’m asking myself the same thing. “I will. I’m just up in my head.”

“So get out of your head and handle it like you’d handle a situation with Fletcher.”

“I have zero intentions of telling this woman to quit being a fucknugget and then tackling her harder and harder until one of us gives.”

She laughs.

Sweet Pea heaves the long-suffering sigh of a dog who loves her owner but knows he’s not perfect and never will be.

Get out of my head.

I can get out of my head.

Maybe .

Ok is out as a response to her text.

But if she were one of the younger guys on the team?—

Thanks. Let me know what I can do to be more helpful .

Yep.

That’s good.

That’s normal.

That’s legitimate.

I hit send and watch as the status changes from sending to delivered .

But not read .

I hope she’s not puking anymore. And that it’s just morning sickness. Don’t know much about pregnancy and babies, and I’m never having kids, so I don’t need to know. But is she in the normal stage for morning sickness?

Or is this something wrong?

Did the house curse the baby?

Should I tell her to leave instead?

“Holt?” Goldie says.

Fuck. I’m breathing way too fast. “Shitty week. Still up in my head. I’m fine.”

I’m not fine.

My phone dings.

Ziggy: No worries. I’ve got this . But it turns out a baby pink tub was accidentally delivered, so that’s what you’re getting. You’ll love it. It goes perfectly with the white marble sink and the fish shower curtain I just found online.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, I take a full breath.

She’s joking .

If she’s joking with me and sending me long texts, we’re normal.

Not okay—my foot is broken, and I’m going to have to pretend she’s not the most attractive woman I’ve met in years—but normal.

That was a joke, in case it wasn’t clear pops up on my screen.

I smile. I’m fucking exhausted, I smell like ass, and I hurt, but I’m smiling.

Me: Damn. I’ve always wanted a pink tub with a fish shower curtain. Sorry again for being a shit. I’m not usually like this. Thanks for breakfast. It was delicious. I’ll text before I head back so I don’t scare you.

The message almost instantly goes to read .

But no bubbles pop up suggesting she’s texting back.

“I like the waffles better,” Fletcher announces.

I look away from my phone.

Now he’s in another pair of black budgie smugglers, but this time, there’s a flaming meatball on his crotch.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter.

“Management says this was one of their real ideas. I think they’re going for some play on the Thrusters having a hot dog?—”

“Bratwurst,” Goldie corrects.

“—and the Scorned having that weird mascot that looks like an angry chicken leg,” he finishes.

“The Fireballs used that exact meatball when they did a contest to find a new mascot a few years ago,” I tell him. “If management told you they’re seriously considering it, they’re either lying or they’re doing some kind of joint promo with the baseball team. ”

We all look at his crotch again.

The meatball doesn’t look any better on second glance. It’s flaming and angry, shaking its fists.

“Maybe it’s a pound of meat,” he says.

“Why don’t you use a hammerhead shark?” Goldie says.

Easy answer. “Too much like Miami.”

“A jackhammer?”

Fletcher’s still shaking his head at his junk. “They should do a hamburger named Quarter. The Quarter Pounder.”

“Absolutely not,” Goldie says. “A Quarter Pounder is never enough beef.”

That does me in.

I laugh.

And I realize as I start to laugh just how long it’s been since I laughed.

I might be a fucked-up disaster at the moment, but at least I have my friends.