Page 32 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
“Not anymore,” I said, smirking.
“Please,” she begged, pressing her palms together like a prayer. “Okay, what can I say to get you toun-rescindthat offer?”
I raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You know that’s not a word.”
“Smarty-pants,” she muttered. Then added, with a mock bow, “Sorry,Dr.Smarty-pants.”
I shook my head, but I was already relenting. “Fine. One condition.”
Brooke perked up. “Name it.”
“You start calling him by his real name. Liam.”
The hot goalie.
Great, now that’s what Liam is even in my own head.
She opened her mouth, probably to protest, but I beat her to it. “Because now, thanks to you, I can’t even think about him without thinking my temporary roommate is a hot goalie.”
Brooke leaned her shoulder against mine again, smiling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I didn’t answer. But I was still smiling.
She rolled her eyes but reached out and gave my arm a squeeze. “You’re the best.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Brooke stood and clapped her hands. “Okay girls, Daddy will be home this afternoon, so we’ve got about forty-five more minutes. Then we’ll grab some lunch and head back.”
Emma and Sophie let out synchronized groans, but they didn’t argue.
I lingered by the railing for a few seconds as Brooke herded them toward the next exhibit. Then I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the list I'd made, places to eat with young kids near the museum. I flagged a couple and checked the time. We were in luck; they were all open.
We grabbed lunch nearby, a chaotic but sweet mix of chicken nuggets, juice boxes, Brooke stealing fries off everyone’s plate, and my perfectly balanced meal of grilled salmon, green beans, and mashed sweet potatoes.
The drizzle had stopped, leaving the sidewalks damp and smelling faintly like wet leaves and stone. The walk back to our building was quiet, just the steady tap of my shoes and the occasional car splashing past. The girls held hands and yawned more than they talked.
When I stepped inside the apartment, it felt oddly still. No music. No clatter from the kitchen. Not even a Post-it on the counter. "Liam?" I called lightly, setting down my bag. No answer.
Then, from the living room, I heard Liam’s voice.
“When will you know?”
I walked past the doorway and caught a glimpse of him standing near the couch, phone pressed to his ear. He wasn’t moving, juststanding there, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand at the back of his neck.
“When is that?”
His head turned just enough to see me, and for a second our eyes met.
Then he turned away.
My hand tightened slightly on the strap of my bag.
He slid the balcony door open and stepped outside, pulling it shut behind him. The sound of the door closing was sharp.
I stood in the hallway, coat in hand, not sure why I hadn’t kept walking.
Through the glass, I could see him pacing. One hand still on the phone, the other tucked into his pocket. He said something I couldn’t hear, then shook his head. He glanced back toward the apartment, toward me, and then walked farther down the balcony, out of view.
