Page 14 of Played
It’s been two weeks since that day I went to return his journal. Two weeks since I calmed down and stopped flipping off every sign or ad about the Pirates. Two weeks since I put him and his journal in my rearview window.
Two weeks since I started believing he wasn’t that fine or sexy.
Two weeks since I convinced myself that my reaction to him hadn’t been that visceral.
How dare he make a liar out of me.
“Yeah.” He glances down, and for the first time, I notice the brown paper bag he holds by the handles. “I’m sorry for popping up on you.”
It’s okaysits on my tongue, because isn’t that the polite and automatic response? But I bite it back at the last second. Oh, hell nah. Rude is apparently our love language.
Wait.Love language?
I want to scrub my brain out with soap for even thinking that shit.
“And yet here you are.” I spread my arms wide, my own grocery bag swinging, the two wine bottles clinking against each other. “And don’t tell me you’re just in the neighborhood. I’m sure Mount Hope is far from ... wherever you live.”
Whereverbeing a wealthier and more exclusive area than here. Not that working- and middle-class Mount Hope is a hole. Well, the area around Camp Street is a bit sketchy, but even that area is gentrifying. Like I said, I loved growing up here. It’s friendly, quiet, a good place for families. A historically Black neighborhood, it remains diverse, vibrant, and thriving. So no, I love my childhood community. But I’d bet a year on kitchen duty that Solomon Young is not from around here.
“No. I had to do some finessing of my own to find out your address. Or rather, your father’s. Someone at your fire station named Jared saidyou would be here. And he only told me that after my PA promised him tickets to the next four home games.”
“Seriously? Ain’t that some shit,” I mutter, copping an immediate attitude. My godfather really sold me out for hockey tickets. Narrowing my eyes, I say, “So why did you go through all the trouble of hunting me down? After our last encounter, I have very little ass left, and I’m partial to it, soo ...”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear his gaze dips below my waist, in the vicinity of my ass.
Yep, I definitely imagined that. Because when I look into those green eyes again, they’re shuttered, as unreadable as the stoic mask he wears on his face.
“Sir?” I prop a fist on my hip, pouring so much attitude into that one word, surely he tastes it.
This time I don’t imagine anything. Something flickers in his eyes, momentarily tightens his face at thatsir.
Damn.
Let me find out Solomon Young gets off on freaky domination shit.
“I came to apologize. And bring you this”—he holds up the bag—“as a peace offering.”
“A peace offering.” I arch an eyebrow. “What? Does something explode in my face when I open it? Will something crawl out?”
“Are you for real?” A frown darkens his face, but just as quickly, it disappears. As if he just reminded himself that he came here to play nice. I silently snort. Yeah, right. I doubt he could findnicewith both hands and a flashlight. “Here, man.”
Reluctantly, I move forward and gingerly take the gift from his outstretched hand. Switching it to the hand still holding the wine, I peer down into the bag and pull out a green jersey. A green Pirates jersey, to be exact. With a Captain Jack Sparrow–looking guy on the front and number 19 on the arm.
“Is this”—I give the jersey a slight shake—“your jersey?”
“Yeah.” He jerks up his chin. “I got it signed by the first line.”
He says that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.
I shrug, dropping the top back into the bag.
“We’re football fans around here. But thanks.” It should bring in a good amount on eBay.
He stares at me, squinting. “Ay. Don’t let me find out you put my shit up on eBay.”
I blink, my lips falling apart. How did he know ...?
“It’s all over your face, ma.”
