Page 29 of Married to Number 22
I don’t know if that’s pathetic.
Or brilliant.
Because Luna couldn’t turn her down.
And now I’m eating my pregame snack—a gas station hot dog (don’t judge)—and staring down at my phone’s screen, a grin playing at the edges of my mouth.
Because my mom just texted me a selfie of her and Luna.
In Grizzlies jerseys.
Christ, I shouldn’t like that so much.
“And now I’ve gotta know why you’re smiling so wide,” I hear. “Because I don’t think it’s that the hot dog is extra delicious today.”
Okay, so it’s lesshearand more boom.
Because my teammate, Smitty, has exactly one volume level.
And it’s loud as fuck, even though he’s sitting right next to me.
Case in point? His voice booms across the locker room, drawing everyone’s focus.
To me.
Great.
I scowl at him even though I know it will have absolutely no effect—the man has no shame. He’s been my teammate from when I first came up in the league—when I secured a roster spot on the Breakers—and he was part of the trade that brought me back to California, to the Grizzlies.
He’s also a pain in the ass.
He’s loud and brash and never gives an inch. Maybe that’s part of the reason I like him so much—he fits in with my family. Hell, the last time my mom was in town for a game Smitty and his—much quieter, but very lovely—wife Kailey ended up out at dinner with my parents and me.
Where my mom declared him and Kailey honorary members of the Black crew.
Something Smitty has taken very seriously.
Case in point? Him leaning over and snatching my phone from my grasp.
He’s a big guy, nearing retirement age, but he can still move as quick as lightning.
I don’t even have a chance.
He glances down at the unlocked screen and whistles. “Who’s this pretty lady?” He lifts his head, holds my gaze, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “And I don’t mean your mom.”
“Dude,” Gray, another teammate, mutters. “Not cool.”
He’s our captain—quiet but a good leader, always putting in extra effort and time to be his best, both on the ice and in the locker room.
But he doesn’t exactly scream open book.
And I’m not sure I’ve ever made it beyond the outer walls of his personality.
Another one with Shrek-like layers.
That shit is catching around here.
“What?” Smitty says…or rather booms. “A-Man’s mom is smoking hot?—”
