The stadium is roaring.
It’s game day and we’re all suited up, shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel, gathered just out of sight, waiting for the go-ahead to take the field. This is a high-stakes game—every playoff game is—so the fans are extra rowdy. There’s a heavy mixture of chanting and booing.
Jamal is buzzing beside me. He loves this. There’s an energy meter above his head, and with every decibel increase from the crowd, it ticks up higher. Mine lowers. I have to tune it all out.
He accidentally nudges my arm while circling his shoulders, trying to get himself hyped up, and for some reason, that makes me irrationally annoyed. The rest of the team is behind us and bouncing on their toes, clenching and relaxing their fists, stretching their necks side to side. We’re a bunch of bulls waiting to storm the arena.
Fog starts filling the air, and we’ll be told to take the field any second now. I try to get my head clear, focus on this game alone and not worry about what it means for us. But it’s hard not to feel the pressure. I always feel it lately, and it’s swirling around me in this moment. No matter how hard I try, I can’t push it away.
I shut my eyes tight, trying to block everything out, but my pads feel tight. Tighter than normal. Constricting.
“Stand by!” a cameraman yells, lens pointed in our direction.
So much noise. The roar of the crowd, the music, the drumming of hands against the stadium seats—I used to love it, but lately I feel like running the opposite way. I can’t figure out why. Something just feels off, and wrong, and I’m sweating even though it’s only thirty degrees out.
I shake my head.
Jamal turns toward me and yells over the excessive noise, “You good, man? You look off.”
My heart is beating in my ears. I feel like I’m going to pass out, but I know I can’t. I have to stay on my feet. There’s no time for whatever this feeling is creeping over me. I don’t get nervous. I help get our team to Super Bowls, not pass out in the tunnel before a game. But maybe I can just sit down on the floor real quick and take a breather?
“Yeah, I’m good,” I lie because Jamal can’t know that I feel like I’m inside a tornado. He depends on me. They all do. Everyone does.
Trying to gain some sort of composure before we have to run out, I shut my eyes again and think of Bree. I see her wide smile and I hear her bubbling laugh. I tell myself that in roughly five hours, I’ll be flying home and I’d bet my entire fortune she will be there waiting. She’ll throw her arms around my waist and squeeze. It’ll be quiet there.
My chest loosens a little.
“Okay, everyone get ready!” the cameraman yells again. The announcer comes over the speaker telling the jam-packed stadium we’re about to take the field. The crowd sounds like an intense rainstorm slamming down on a tin roof. It’s drowning me. Right now, the only thought grounding me is Bree. What would she say to me if she were here right now? It would be something perfect. She always says the perfect thing.
“Three, two, one! Go, go, go!”
We run out of the tunnel, through the heavy fog and directly into the chaos. The only way I keep myself from pulling a Forest Gump and running all the way home is to picture Bree: nose scrunched, tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth with a big thumbs-up just like she did the very first time I took the field in Daren’s place four years ago. I choose to hear her as a whisper in my ear instead of listening to the roar of the crowd. You can do it, Nathan.
Bree
Are you kidding me right now?! Only gigantically tall people keep their 9×13 baking dishes in the very tip top of their cupboards. Nathan had his apartment renovated a year ago to fit his vertically blessed stature, which means taller-than-average countertops and cabinetry that touches the heavens. We get it, Nathan, you’re tall!
Clearly, he didn’t factor in his best friend breaking into his apartment and baking brownies for him while he’s flying home from winning a playoff game! Yep, they won, but it was a tight one. I don’t think I have any fingernails left. The score wasn’t the only thing keeping me on edge though. Nathan seemed really off during the first quarter. He finally settled in and threw four touchdowns, but still, he didn’t quite seem like himself.
I watched the game from his couch and screamed so loud through most of it that I won’t be surprised if he tells me he could hear me at the stadium. There was one play where he got sacked, a really hard hit on a fourth down, and I held my breath until I saw him stand up and walk unassisted to the bench. Other than that moment, he played a solid game. I doubt anyone else was able to notice the difference in him, but I did. Any time the camera zoomed in on his face, I could see something lurking in his eyes that made me nervous. It was more than his usual focused look—he looked sad. Or maybe it was tired? Or worried?
I don’t know, but I’m making him brownies to celebrate and cheer him up. He won’t want to eat them because of his nutritional regimen, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to remind him that there is life and fun and sweet things outside of football and broccoli.
Honestly, I used to be just like him. I would do whatever it took to be the best, to perform my best. I didn’t realize how burnt out I was until I had to take a year-long healing break, only doing basic physical therapy to regain use of my knee after surgery. Not until I was forced to rest and seek out new ways to entertain myself in life was I able to see how I hadn’t actually been enjoying ballet anymore. I had become a task-oriented robot that was obsessed with making it to the next level, no matter the cost.
Now, I try to not take life too seriously. I believe in working hard but taking breaks. Resting. Goofing off and eating yummy carbs occasionally. Yeah, they almost always go to my hips, but I choose to believe it only makes them more squeezable.
The oven beeps, telling me it’s preheated, and the batter is mixed and waiting patiently on the counter. All I need now is that pretty little glass dish sitting wayyyyyy up there. Hey, God, it’s me, Bree—do you mind handing me that 9×13 baking dish right there by you?
It’s fine. I’ll just climb up there like all of us short people learned to do when we stopped growing at the age of twelve. I hook my heel up on the counter then use every muscle in my body to hoist myself up there. Turns out, this was easier when I was twelve. I didn’t snap, crackle, and pop as much back then.
I’m up here just about to grab the dish when I hear the front door open and close.
“NO!” I yell dramatically while quickly moving the smaller glass dishes out of the one I need, hoping I can scramble down with my loot before Nathan can see me up here and make fun of me.
I’m not fast enough.
He turns the corner and I peer at him over my shoulder, arms above my head, fingers clutching the baking dish. He’s wearing black Nike joggers and a matching hoodie. A Sharks flat-billed hat sits backward on his fine, gorgeous head. Nathan always dresses in the finest tailored suits to arrive at games, but he goes for comfort on the flights home. And believe me, comfort looks good on him. There’s something about a man not trying at all but still exuding confidence and strength that is undeniably sexy. It’s in the way he casually drops his duffle bag in the middle of the floor. Tosses his keys onto the marble countertop with a lazy flick of his wrist. Looks up at me and tilts his head as his eyes drop to the small sliver of my exposed torso where my shirt has ridden up.
Oh geez, I’m feeling hotter than a widowed duchess in a bodice-ripping historical romance.
He lifts a brow and grins. “Hi. Whatcha doing up there?”
“Just some sightseeing.”
His grin deepens. “Do you always stand on my counters while I’m gone?” He walks through the kitchen to stand behind me.
The air ripples like it always does when he gets near me. Must ignore it! The problem is, we haven’t seen each other much since we agreed to the endorsement deal, so I’ve been able to block it out of my head that we’re going to have to date for the next few weeks. But now, at the sight of him after a full weekend away, my thoughts are screaming HE’S BASICALLY YOUR BOYFRIEND NOW—JUMP HIM!!!
I turn back to my task of removing the baking dish. “Only when I’m trying to surprise you with brownies for winning a playoff game! But you’re early! I was going to have these ready and smelling glorious by the time you walked in. I even prepared a whole song-and-dance celebration too. It was really going to be something.” My tone is all pout.
He’s standing behind me now. I hand him the dish and he sets it on the island behind him, right next to the batter. “I’m not early. It’s nine o’clock.”
My eyes bug out. “WHAT! That can’t be true.” I look at the clock and sure enough, it’s nine at night. When did that happen?
He smirks up at me and leans back against the counter. I’m relieved to see that his face looks normal again—no weird something from the field still lurking in his eyes.
“Hmm,” he rumbles with a mischievous smile. “Did someone perhaps take a little nap?”
“No!” Yes. I only meant to lie down for a few minutes, and then that somehow turned into four years and I woke up feeling like I had been teleported to another dimension. I think Nathan’s couch is laced with NyQuil because this seems to happen to me a lot over here.
He peeks over his shoulder to the living room where the evidence is strewn all over the place, as apparent as a gruesome murder scene. A cozy blanket rumpled on the couch. A pillow from my—excuse me, THE GUEST ROOM propped against the armrest. One of Nathan’s phone chargers plugged in so the cord could reach beside my pillow.
I clap loudly. “Hey, look at me!”
My distraction doesn’t work. He’s already chuckling smugly and crossing those big arms. “You totally did. You napped hard and lost track of time because you were so comfy on my couch.”
My hand goes to my hip. I feel powerful up here. Is this why tall people are always on power trips? I get it now.
“You don’t know me,” I say in my best re-enactment of one of my sassy teenage dancers.
“You napped your ass off.”
“Shut up.” So I like to nap and they always get out of hand—what about it?
He steps forward so he’s standing right in front of me. “And tell me…why is it that every single time I’m out of town, I come home to find out you’ve been spending all of your time here, napping and”—he peeks into the sink and notices the pan I used to scramble my eggs for breakfast this morning after sleeping a solid eight hours in the guest room—“living?”
I know what he wants from me. But he’s not going to get it.
“Because I’m worried someone is going to break in and steal all your stuff while you’re away and I need to protect it?”
He makes an obnoxious buzzer sound. “Wrong. Would you like to try again?”
I gasp when he wraps his arms around my thighs and easily lifts me off the counter. He pivots us away and slowly lets me slide to the ground. My power dissolves by the second. Every inch of me slides down every inch of him during this descent, and I think I might die. He’s like a brick wall, this man. I’ve never been wrapped so tightly in his arms before, and my heart is stuttering. It’s hurdling into my throat. It can’t keep up.
This is my favorite trip in my history of trips. Along the way, I take mental pictures of all the sights. I pass his hair, flipping out adorably from under his hat. His jet black eyes, as frightening as they are comforting. The full curve of his lower lip. The not-so-subtle suggestion of muscled shoulders under his hoodie. And I finally come in for a smooth landing at his wide, sturdy chest. I’ll make a scrapbook with all of these gorgeous snapshots.
I want to take in a deep breath, add a sharp scent to these memories, but I’m afraid it will sound trembly if I do. I have to be careful. Because of Tequila-gate, I’m already on thin ice. If I want to keep everything normal between us, I must act normal.
I look up and meet his eyes.
BIG mistake.
We’re standing so close, and his arms are still holding me. He smiles, and my stomach goes twisty. “You’re always here because you hate living in your sucky apartment. Admit it—you want to move in here.”
I raise my chin. “Never.” Because it’s not true. I stay here while he’s gone because I miss him and everything in here smells like him. Well, and yeah, I want to live here, but only because he also lives here. I don’t care about his fancy stuff or his soft sheets or the really deep soaking tub or…okay, fine, I like those things too. So the real reason I want to live here is because all of it combined is euphoria.
Speaking of euphoria, why are his arms still looped tightly around me? Should I try to wiggle away? My body will never comply. It’s already curled up and made a new home here. Geez, his five o’clock shadow is hot. I bet it would tickle my neck.
Nathan’s eyes dart over my shoulder, and his smile goes wicked. The next thing I know, his finger is covered in brownie mix and smearing across my cheekbones, slowly and with care. “Admit it,” he says with that villainous grin.
I audibly inhale low and long, blinking like, Oh no you did not just do that!
He’s so pleased with himself right now. “You look like a miniature football player.”
Okay, well clearly brownies are off the table for tonight because he just started A WAR!
I reach behind me, dunk my fingers into the mix, and then stamp them onto the center of his face. Nice and slow.
“Never,” I whisper in front of his lips like the bad guys always do in movies.
He blinks, brownie batter clinging to his lashes. I can’t swallow as I watch him pull his lips in, nodding slowly. He lets go of me to put his hands on the counter in front of him, hunching over like a beast preparing his plan of attack.
I’m not an amateur, so I grab the mixing bowl full of brownie batter and make a break for it. Except…I’m not moving. My socked feet are gliding on the hardwood but going absolutely nowhere. Who put a treadmill in this floor?!
I look over my shoulder and see Nathan has the back of my shirt pinched between his fingers. And now I’m being slid backward, closer to him. That large hand reaches over my shoulder, and I watch it dip—his whole entire hand—into the bowl of brownie mix I’m clutching tightly in front of me. There’s nothing for me to do but close my eyes as he slowly presses a blob of sticky batter onto the right side of my face. Hair and all. That’s going to be fun to get out.
Can I just say, this is the weirdest, slowest food fight anyone has ever witnessed? And oddly, it’s making me super hot and tingly.
I spin around to face him, and it’s my turn now. I take a dip of batter then smear it across both of his eyebrows. He looks like Eugene Levy now, and I have to press my fist to my mouth to keep from laughing. With a subtle grin, he loads up his finger then uses the batter to paint brown lipstick across my lips—really…freaking…slowly.
Oh.
Okay, well my skin is on fire now. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Except I’m not fine because I don’t know what in the hell I’m supposed to make of this! Am I completely off my rocker or is the mood just a little bit sexy right now? I try not to acknowledge the way his finger is lingering on my mouth like he has nothing but time. Is he standing closer than he was a minute ago? His hand drops, and I look up. He’s staring at my mouth. He’s inching closer. His head is dropping.
My breath catches.
He leans down and says quietly in front of my lips, “Thanks for making me brownies. Too bad I didn’t get to taste them.”
Someone has clamped a clothespin over my windpipe. Did he really just say that? Am I still napping and imagining this whole thing? Because it feels a lot like some particularly wonderful dreams I’ve had about Nathan.
He and I have always been blatantly honest with each other (except for when I’m lying through my teeth about my feelings for him), so the question comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Nathan, are you flirting with me?”
He’s not shocked by my candor. “Yeah. I am.”
“Why?” I don’t mean to sound so grossed out, but I think it came out that way. I’m just terrified. I’ve got my heart on a very tight leash. No exceptions.
“I’m…practicing.”
“Practicing,” I repeat, my eyes bouncing to the slash of his full lips and back up to his eyes in a moment of weakness. I wish the fact that he was covered in brownie mix was deterring. It’s not. I love brownies.
“Don’t you think it’s a good idea?” He’s talking so quiet, voice so gravelly. I feel lightheaded hearing his words this way. “We’re going to have to flirt in public, so we’ve got to get used to it for it to be convincing.”
I give that logical response the brilliant reply it deserves. “Uh-huh.”
A small chuckle rumbles from his chest. “You okay, Bree?” He sounds extra flirty now. Amused. And his lips are dangerously close to my brownie lipstick. Ahh! His hand is on my hip! When did that happen?! Wait a minute—are we going to kiss right now? Are two friends about to make out in this kitchen covered in brownie batter?
That’s when it hits me: this is an ego trip for him right now. He’s on a high after winning another playoff game, and I’m nothing but a little mouse for the big cat to play with in the kitchen. We don’t need to practice. He’s just being a flirty jerk and messing with me during his macho ego high. NOPE. That’s not going to happen. Just like I don’t want a pity relationship with him, I don’t want a well-she-was-there-and-it-was-convenient one-night fling either. Maybe he could handle something like that, but I couldn’t. Friends with benefits will never be a part of our description, because it would kill me for him to walk away from me after it’s all said and done. It’s all or nothing for me.
Nathan continues his game. “So let’s pretend we’re in public right now, and everyone is watching.” He’s still staring at my lips. “We’ve really got to sell it. If I said, Too bad I didn’t get to taste them, what would you say to that?”
I have the strongest willpower in all the land. I have a free pass to let Nathan Donelson taste the brownies right off my lips, and instead, I stick my hand in the batter, pull out a whole scoop, and smear it around his entire face until it completely hides his features. There. He’s Mud Man now.
I step back, wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, and smile proudly. “I’d say, Now you’ve got plenty to sample! Enjoy!”
I think he’s frowning under all that batter, but it’s hard to tell.
I turn away and flee the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “I’m staying in the guest room tonight because it’s too late to walk home and no other reason!”
Boom. Status quo re-established. Friendship saved.
