Page 17 of Rookie Season
“I’d better not,” she says at last. She’s standing too.
Disappointment crashes over me. It’s like losing a close game at the buzzer.
I hear Jay and Brooke talking upstairs about some Christmas when they were kids.
And then I’m alone.
The cabin is quiet. Creaky.
I fix another drink and return to the fire.
I think about my family back in Kentucky—the things we’d do for the holidays, the line of stockings along the fireplace. I drag a finger along the mantel.
Then I switch off the lights and head upstairs too.
5
RYAN
There’s a bear in here. One that’s rumbling and roaring.
I jolt awake, sitting straight up in bed. The bear rumbles again from my right.
It’s only Jay snoring under the covers of his bunk.
“He didn’t used to be this loud,” I mutter, astounded. We’ve been on the road to games, sleeping on planes, and I can’t remember this noise.
“He was worse.” Atlas’s voice comes from the top bunk.
I shake my head and get up. There are sounds downstairs, and when I stick my head out of the room, I smell coffee brewing.
My stomach growls louder than Jay in his sleep.
When I step into the bathroom, my hair is sticking up all over the place. Guess I didn’t sleep the best—probably due to the bunk bed situation. What seemed cozy in theory is a little rough in practice. I’m used to a king bed, and anything less means I’ve got body parts hanging off the sides.
But it’s not nearly as rough as the time we went camping as kids and my sister dropped her sleeping blanket in the lake so I gave her mine. I thought I’d never know how it felt to be warm again, though I wouldn’t have complained out loud. The chill only lasted a few hours, and the smile on her face made up for it.
Funny how quick you get used to the way things are.
Now, I grab a quick shower and tug on purple plaid Kodiaks pants.
There’s no early-morning workout or game tape watching session. For two days, we’re free and we’re together.
I get down to the kitchen, expecting to find Miles already working his barista magic. The guy can brew a mean espresso and do it for a crowd.
“Miles. My favorite guard…” I start, leaning over the island that separates the dining area from the kitchen.
It’s not Miles.
Sierra’s standing next to the coffee machine, her hair tucked up in two little buns on her head. A soft purple tank top, the same shade as her shorts, reveals fascinating tattoos. She’s drumming her fingers on the countertop as the coffee brews.
Hell yes.
There’s no part of this I’m not instantly committing to memory.
“Morning,” I say at last.
Sierra opens a pine cabinet over the sink. “Ran out of clothes on day one?” she asks as she pulls four mugs off the first shelf. “You could put a shirt on.”
