Page 51 of Mr. Swoony

“She got you, Ike,” one of them says.

“Holy shit, Conor Nilsen, what’s up?” another one says.

I turn to my left, seeing Conor wearing shorts and a T-shirt, his hat backward and AirPods in his ears. God, he looks sexy.

He takes out his AirPods and shoves them in his pocket. “What’s going on here?” He nods to the guy who works here. “You’re not giving my girl problems, are you, Ike?”

His girl?

“She’s yours?” Ike asks with an expression to say he doesn’t believe it. And I’m pretty sure it’s not because he deems me better looking than Conor, but more that Conor isn’t known for having “a girl.”

Conor looks at me as though he’s asking how to answer, and I give him nothing since he’s the one who said it. “She’s my roommate. Eloise, meet Ike. Ike, this is Eloise.”

“Pleasure,” I say.

“Which pack do you want?” Ike sounds more annoyed than happy to meet me.

“Ummm.”

“What are you buying?” Conor asks, leaning in and lowering his voice.

“Cigarettes,” I whisper.

He raises his hand and points. “She’ll take the silver ultra lights and hold up.” He steps away. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be a second.” He returns with a water and a protein bar. Then he picks up and throws a lighter on the counter, which is good because I would have forgotten all about the fact that I have to light the cigarette. “These too. Put it on my tab?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ike says.

“And these guys’ stuff too. Thanks for waiting.”

“Thanks, Nilsen. Can’t wait for the season to start. The Colts are in a fucking drought, and I’m dying for more action,” one of them says.

“Easton Bailey is carrying that whole damn team,” another one says.

Conor talks to them about the Colts and whoever Easton Bailey is while Ike rings up all their stuff. I wait next to Conor, feeling very out of touch with all the sports talk going on around me. Conor shakes all their hands and leads me out of the store with his hand on the small of my back.

We head back toward the condo, walking along the sidewalk.

“Do you get that a lot?” I ask.

“Recognized?” He shrugs. “Sometimes. Usually if my hat is faced front, people can’t tell who I am quite as much. It depends how big of a fan they are.”

“You must feel like I used to at the country club.”

“How is that?” he asks, tearing open his protein bar and taking a bite just like he did the Snickers bar that night in the hotel.

“Like you’re in a fish tank. Everyone watching you. For me, I always felt like they were waiting for me to screw up or maybe wondering why Tristan was with me. But I’m sure not everyone is as nice to you as those guys.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, when I have a bad game, I’ve been called some pretty shitty stuff. Your skin gets thicker the longer you’re in the league. Doesn’t bother me as much anymore.”

“Most of the women my age were jealous because Tristan was a big catch in that circle. If I told you how many older men hit on me behind Tristan’s back, you’d never believe it.”

“Actually, I would believe you. The first night I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

My cheeks heat. Thank goodness for the distraction of having to dart around other pedestrians on the sidewalk. When we approach the security gate, I notice the sign still hanging there.

“Funny, when I walked out of the gate, a group of girls were hovering around. They put up a sign.” I notice the letter with Pinkie written with curls at the end of every letter. “They were asking about Tweetie and a Pinkie? Is there another unit here?”

Conor studies me, a slow smile creeping on his lips. “I’m Pinkie.” He points at himself.

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