Page 21 of The Game Plan
Q: When is she moving in?
Crew Riggsby: I only had one mug. I swear. It’s this new coffee Rebel picked up. Some death by caffeine or something like that. All I know is death was in the brand name, and it’s strong.
Cody Jacobs: Man, I’d love to be Harris and have a front-row seat to you and Bret’s relationship. You two could be on a reality show.
Crew Riggsby: *thinking emoji* hmm, that’s not a bad idea.
Q: Campbell, you gonna fill us in or let these two take over the chat. It’s six AM here and Cleo slept for two hours last night. I’m exhausted.
My phone is still sitting on the couch cushion, face down, where I left it after sending that first text this morning. I knew that if I sat around, waiting for all their replies, I’d get even more in my head about the decision I made. Honestly, if I stop moving, I’ll start panicking about the fact she’s moving in…today.
Last night, I barely slept. I tossed and turned until my sheets were a tangled mess at the edge of the bed. When I checked my smartwatch for the millionth time and saw it flip from 3:59 to 4:00, I figured it was morning enough. I jumped out of bed, hit the gym for a workout, and then got to work prepping the guest room—if you could even call it that. Since I moved in, it’s been a dumping ground for random stuff and a crash space for my dad when the football team gets in late or he needs to be on campus early.
Even though I assume Savannah will have her own sheets, I still went ahead and washed the bedding, making sure they were fresh. I couldn’t stop with the bedding, so I dusted all the furniture next—headboard, dresser, and side table—vacuumedthe floor, and I even bought a stupid basket and filled it with bath bombs, Tums, and something called belly butter—whatever that is.
I know nothing about pregnant women or pregnancy, but insomnia had me scouring the internet, searching for symptoms and milestones at thirty-plus weeks. Then that led me down a rabbit hole on freaking Pinterest, looking for basket ideas to make her move feel more comfortable.
Who the hell am I?
I swear to myself as I scrub the bathroom floor. Yes, I’m mopping…on my hands and knees. I don’t do this kind of crap. Curated throw pillows, matching towels, and a deep-cleaned apartment? Definitely not me. I’m the guy with bare surfaces, dark furniture, and the same bath towel hanging on a hook for far too long. I usually keep my space picked up, but dusting and deep cleaning aren’t my strong suits. Today, though, my apartment looked like a clean freak’s wet dream.
Somehow, I found myself in my truck heading to Target. I wandered the aisles, searching for a shower curtain that didn’t screambachelor pad. I grabbed a slip-resistant tub mat, plush bathroom rugs, and two candles—one peach-scented, reminding me of Savannah and her sweet, subtle scent. I knew I needed it for my—our—space.
Tossing the rag in the small bowl of cleaning water, I stand and shake any excess water before moving to the sink and scrubbing my hands. With clean hands, I drag a hand through my hair, taking a deep breath before moving into the kitchen. My stomach grumbles with hunger when I notice it’s a little after noon.
I open the fridge, moving around the freshly stocked items—because yes, I did do a full grocery shop—and pull out the lunch meat, cheese, and mustard. Going through the motions ofmaking a sandwich, I exhale a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment.
She’s moving in with me. I can’t believe she said yes.
Reluctantly agreed, but still. She’s coming here. To my place. Where I can keep her safe. Where I can sleep better at night, knowing there’s a damn lock on a metal door between her and the outside world, instead of a paper-thin apartment door in a shady neighborhood.
Standing at the kitchen island, I chew my turkey sandwich on multigrain with light mustard, staring out the window at the landing of my floor’s open walkway. The place is anything but fancy, but it’s clean and ready for her. It’s masculine and moody, much like the occupant.
A black leather sectional separates the kitchen from the living room. Black tables, a large-screen TV opposite the kitchen, and sparse décor—a few family pictures my mom placed around, some of me and the guys. Front and center sits a frame with a picture of my CTU family from Quinton and Brynn’s makeshift baby shower.
Taking another bite of my sandwich, my mind drifts off to this morning…
The complex is quiet, the sidewalks damp from the sprinklers that kicked on before sunrise. I shove my hands into my shorts’ pockets and head toward the small gym by the clubhouse. It’s not much—a few treadmills and ellipticals, a rack of free weights, and some battered resistance machines—but it’s enough for when you’re in a pinch.
I round the corner, and there she is. My little sister.
She’s leaning against the brick wall, staring at the sky, soaking in the early morning sun rays. Her head turns in my direction when she hears my footsteps.
“What’s got my big brother hitting the weight room this early?”
I grunt as she steps forward. Her arm wraps around my waist, and mine instinctively goes across her shoulders, like we used to do when we were kids. “Needed to lift something heavier than what I’m thinking.” Her head tilts to mine as she squints her eyes but doesn’t press the issue. She gives a squeeze before we separate, moving through the doors.
We set up by the free weights. Both of us reach for dumbbells—me for the fifty-pounders, her for the twenty-fives. She starts her reps in silence, the quiet gym amplifying her growing impatience, waiting for me to explain why I asked her to come work out.
Curling my arm and bringing the dumbbell to my shoulder, I start on my bicep curls. After the fifth one, I blurt, “Savannah’s moving in with me.”
Bret nearly drops her weight. “Shit, Grant. Way to bury the lead.”
“She’s moving in today.”
Her eyes practically bulge out of her head as she stares at me, flabbergasted. “What the fuck happened in the last twenty-four hours?”
I shrug, then spill everything—from the diner to the news, driving across town to get her, confronting her intimidating cousin, and blurting out that she should live with me. To my surprise, her cousin agreed.
