The Hot Shot

by Kristen Callihan

  “No,” I say, trying to soften my tone. Because she’s a victim of Mom’s meddling too. “I’m sorry.”

  “It is because of the photographer?”

  “Chess,” I remind her.

  “Chess. Is it because of her?”

  “No.” It’s the honest truth. Chess has nothing to do with why I don’t want Britt celebrating holidays with me. “I just can’t…” Fucking hell, what do I say that doesn’t make me sound like a complete dick?

  “I understand,” Britt says, saving us both. She takes a breath and stands straight. “I do. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”

  Uncomfortable? God, there’s so much uncomfortable between us, I feel like I’m choking. I rub the back of my neck. “No. I’m sorry if I was abrupt. I’m no good at this.”

  Her smile is wry and bittersweet. “Well, who would be?” She moves toward the front all, and I hustle to open the door for her. Britt pauses and looks up at me. “Take care, Finn.”

  I can barely look at her anymore. It’s wrong of me, I know. But feelings rarely listen to reason. “Goodbye, Britt.”

  I close the door and lean against it, wanting Chess back here more than my next breath. But she’ll probably ask questions. And I don’t know if I have it in me to give her the answers.

  * * *

  Chess

  * * *

  One of my favorite things about the French Quarter is that you can always find a bar no matter what time it is. And not some dank, gloomy dive—although there are plenty of those— but ones with high, pressed tin ceilings, walls of windows, and cute mixologists like my new friend Nate here who kindly slides a perfect Sazerac in front of me.

  I take a cool sip and listen to Ella Fitzgerald muss about being bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It’s almost enough to soothe the weary soul.

  “That’s an awfully big sigh,” Nate observes, as he wipes his spotless mahogany bar.

  I’m no longer a fan of Nate.

  “I wasn’t aware I sighed,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. Good man, Nate, despite being nosy.

  “Practically blew back my hair,” he jokes.

  I eye Nate’s shaved head, and he laughs.

  “I need a short term place to live.” Sadness swamps my chest. I don’t want to find a new place. Which just proves I really need to find one.

  “You just moved here?” Nate asks.

  “No. My place burned down.”

  “Man that sucks.”

  I think of Finn running into the ER to find me, the way he brought me home and made me feel like it was my home too, for as long as I needed it. And then I think of Finn up there right now with Britt, and the way he looked at her. They have a history, and it clearly isn’t a simple one.

  My cocktail chokes me going down, a sticky sweet burn on my tongue. “Yeah.”

  Nate moves closer until he’s standing opposite of me. “I can keep an ear out for you. If you want to give me your number.”

  I stare up at Nate with his shaved head, gauge in his ears, cute suspenders over his shoulders. There’s interest in his eyes.

  “You want my number?”

  The interest turns to heat. “I’m great at consoling.”

  I bet he is.

  Finn is better.

  Finn is in his apartment with a supermodel.

  I hand Nate my phone, and he punches in his number.

  Not even a glimmer of anticipation in my belly.

  “So,” he says, happier now. “You want another drink, pretty little lady?”

  Pretty little lady? I’m regretting my decision more and more. “Another drink and I’ll be buzzed. Better give me a menu.”

  “Let’s get you fed, then.” Nate grins. I know he thinks I’m lingering because of him, but I can’t return to Finn’s any time soon. Short of walking around, I have nowhere else to go, which utterly sucks.

  I eat my dinner and chat with Nate, and a few patrons who sit down at the bar, until my butt is numb and I’m fairly certain I’m leading Nate to a very wrong conclusion.

  When he’s occupied, I leave some money on the bar and slip out into the fading light. And then I do walk around, until it’s dark and I can’t stall anymore.

  At Finn’s place, I turn the lock to his front door as quietly as I can.

  Please don’t let me hear them. Please let them be in his bedroom. God, the horror of actually seeing them makes me pause, my heart thudding in my chest like cannon fire.

  Like a thief, I creep in. The living room is dark, and I heave a sigh of relief as I ease my way toward my bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” Finn asks from behind me.

  With a stifled yelp, I pivot and press a hand to my heart. “Jesus, sneaky much?”

  Finn raises a brow and gives me a pointed look.

  “I was trying not to disturb you.” It’s only now that I notice the TV is on, pressed to pause on one of his games. Finn is in baggy sweats and an old Nike tee with the words “Just Do It” splashed across his broad chest.

  “I’m disturbed that you’re tiptoeing around like some cartoon villain,” he says with an eye roll and then heads for the couch, a sports drink clutched in one hand.

  Setting my purse down on the side table, I follow him. “I wasn’t tiptoeing. I was being quiet.”

  Finn snorts and plops on the couch before peering up at me as if I’m full of it. Which I am. “You’ve been gone a while.”

  It sounds like an accusation.

  “You had company.” Shit, that sounds like one too.

  Finn turns back to the screen. “Not anymore.”

  There’s a tone in his voice that gives me pause. Sorrow or bitterness. It’s hard to tell.

  I make my way over to the couch and hover by the arm, not sure if I should sit down or leave him alone and go to my room. Finn doesn’t bother to look up, but takes a long drink from the bottle in his hand. The faint lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes are deeper now, tight and unhappy.

  “You eat?” he asks, setting his sports drink on the table. “I had to put the cheese away. It was getting sweaty. But I can pull it back out.”

  I clear my throat. “No, I’m good. I ate at a bar.”

  Quietly, he nods and then reaches for his game controller. I turn to go when his voice stops me.

  “Stay.” He glances up, and I nearly rock back on my feet. Because he looks haunted. Angry. Lost.

  I find myself sitting beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, but not close enough to risk leaning on him. “You all right?”

  His expression shutters. “Just tired.”

  The finality in his tone makes it clear he’s not going to answer any more questions. I’m almost relieved. The last thing I want to do is console him on his love life. Even so, I don’t like that he’s hurting.

  He glances my way but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I can put on something else if you want.”

  “No.” I kick off my shoes and set my phone on the coffee table before curling up more comfortably on the couch. “Let me see you kick some ass with your big guns of fury.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you throwing shade, Chester?”

  “Me?” I blink innocently. “I would never.”

  Finn hums as if dubious, but his expression is lighter as he starts up his game. Content to sit next to him and watch him play, I zone out, my body growing heavy and warm. Two hours I’ve been gone, and I’ve missed him like it’s been weeks. I’m so screwed.

  He finishes the game and turns on regular TV, flipping through the channels.

  “Oh, wait,” I cry out. “Stop here.”

  “‘Friends’? Really?”

  “Don’t give me that look. It’s funny!”

  “It’s like… what? Twenty something years old.”

  “You’re a twenty something,” I point out with some asperity. “Should I not watch you on TV?”

  His brows raise at that. “Do you watch me on TV?”

  He
sounds both hopeful and skeptical.

  “James is a huge fan. I’ve been watching you play since the beginning.”

  For a long moment, he says nothing, his gaze darting over my face as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m being truthful. But then a slow, pleased light fills his eyes. “It’s unnerving how much I love knowing that.”

  It’s all I can do not to squirm. “I should clarify that it was mostly out of the corner of my eye, and you were not much more than a padded up dude hiding under a big helmet.”

  Finn shakes his head and tisks. “You’re not going to ruin this for me, Chess. You’ve seen me play. End of story.” He sprawls out, his long legs slanting over the coffee table, like some lord of the manner.

  “Are you going to let me watch my show or keep crowing all night?”

  “I’m good,” he says a touch too happily.

  “I’ll make a convert out of you, just wait.”

  “I’ve already seen it. Dex loves this show.” He grabs his drink. “You remember him from the shoot? The big guy with the beard and tats—”

  “And piercings,” I cut in. “Yeah, I remember all right.”

  A choked, gurgle gets caught in Finn’s throat as he jerks his head up. “Jesus, Chess.”

  “What? The man has his dick pierced. It’s kind of impossible to ignore. Or didn’t you know?”

  His brows meet over a dark scowl. “It’s not the kind of thing I want to notice.”

  God, it’s hard not to grin; he sounds so put out and aggrieved. But the devil in me can’t resist poking the bear. “I’d think a piercing like that would be the talk of the locker room.”

  As predicted, he reacts with an annoyed scoff, but then turns back toward the TV. When he speaks, his tone is almost sullen. “Dex is your type.”

  Oh, we’re going to talk about type now? After I’ve come face to face with Ms. Golden Goddess Pouty Lips?

  “I suppose he is,” I agree. Because Finn is right. Dex is one hundred percent my usual type. We’d even discussed our mutual love of art and painting when I’d taken his picture. And yet I hadn’t felt anything past a gentle fondness and the need to put the big guy at ease. “Are you trying to set me up with him?”

  I’m pretty sure I’ll have to kill Finn if he starts trying to get me to go out with his friends.

  The corners of Finn’s mouth tightens. “Sorry, but he’s taken.”

  “Good for him.” And I mean it. I like Dex.

  Finn grunts in response, and shifts his position on the couch, moving his legs around as if he can’t get comfortable. We’re both out of sorts, and I can’t tell if we’re trying to fight or not. The thought makes me tired and depressed.

  “You need a big ottoman to rest your feet on,” I say, distracted.

  “Usually I stretch out on the couch.” Finn glances at his coffee table then at me. “But you’re right. An ottoman would be better. We should go buy one.”

  We? Oh, hell. I curl up tighter into the corner of the couch. “You don’t have to go through all that. I can always sit on the chair and give you the couch.”

  “Or you could sit on my lap.”

  “Cute.”

  “I thought so,” he agrees.

  It’s our typical back and forth, but everything feels off. I’m tense as hell, and he’s lacking his usual easy charm. The glow of the TV paints his face in flickering blues and reds. The lines of his face are pinched, his shoulders held tight. His hand rests between us, large and wide, the nails trimmed.

  I know that, when stretched wide, his hand is ten and three-fourths inches from the tip of his thumb to the tip of his pinky. They actually measured it for the Scouting Combine before he was drafted. Because, as Finn had once laughingly told me, hand size matters. Perhaps to the NFL it does. Right now, I’m more worried about the way he digs his fingers into the cushions as if he needs to hold on to something.

  I want to pick up his hand, trace the bumps of his knuckles and the fine fan of bones that lead to his wrist. But it isn’t my place to do that for him.

  “I’m glad you’re home.” His voice is low but strong, and it resonates through my bones.

  Our gazes meet. Looking directly at him aches, makes my head light and my heart heavy. A petty, small part of me wants to yell at him for having a life that doesn’t involve me, for so clearly being gone on a woman who isn’t me. And I hate myself for that hypocrisy. He isn’t mine. I can’t make those demands.

  But the tender, needy part of me wants to crawl into his lap and rest my head on his shoulder. That’s all I’d need right now. Just that. “Me too.”

  That seems to please him, but the solemn expression doesn’t ease. “You didn’t have to leave, you know.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  His gaze slides away. “Not for hours, you didn’t.”

  There’s a heaviness about him now, a slowness that isn’t the Finn I know. And I realize it’s pain. He’s in real pain. My throat closes in on me and it’s hard to say the words. “She broke your heart, didn’t she?”

  Finn flinches then holds himself utterly still, his lashes lowered. “I guess she did in a way.”

  I officially hate the woman.

  “I thought you didn’t date,” I blurt out like an idiot.

  The corner of his mouth quirks sadly. “I don’t.”

  He doesn’t expand on that, and I’m left confused with the hard hand of jealousy pushing down on my chest. Clearly, I’m not good enough at hiding my feelings because, when he glances at me, he does a double take, his brows knitting together. “Chess—”

  My phone pings with a text and then another one. Finn reaches for it as if to hand it to me but freezes when he sees the screen. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath. “Who the hell is Nate?”

  I have absolutely no reason to feel guilty. I snatch the phone out of his hand. “A bartender I met tonight.”

  “Tonight,” he repeats as if it’s a bad word. “And what does he mean when he says you didn’t tell him what kind of place you were looking for?”

  I can almost hear his teeth grinding. My fingers curl around my phone. “I’d rather leave before I overstay my welcome. That’s just awkward, you know?”

  My joke falls flat. The muscle in his jaw bunches. “I said you could stay as long as you want, and I meant it.”

  “And I appreciate that. So much.” A cold, sticky feeling lines my insides. “But I’m in your away. Tonight—”

  “Jesus,” he snarls, standing to pace away. “Is this about Britt showing up here?”

  My face flushes hot. I officially hate her name too. “I’ve had roommates in college, Finn. I’m don’t want to relive listening to hookups while stuck in my room.”

  He scowls. “You think I fucked her? Is that why you stayed away so long?” He snorts, an ugly pissed off sound. “What am I saying? Of course it is.”

  “I was being polite,” I snap.

  “Polite,” he scoffs. “First off, I never bring a hookup to my home. Ever. I don’t want them knowing where I live. The last thing I need is a stalker situation.”

  “Well, that’s…bleak.”

  “It’s reality, Chess. Mine.” He sets his hands low on his hips as he glares down at me. “I didn’t fuck her. I haven’t fucked anyone for six damn months, if you want the truth.”

  “Wait, what? Why?” And, what? How can that be? Has he seen himself?

  His expression turns pugnacious. “That’s my business.”

  “Then why tell me?” I grit out.

  Finn turns away, his face flushed, before pinning me with a look. “I know I joke about hooking up and it gave you the impression that I’m a player. That’s on me.” He takes a step in my direction, and the lines of his body grow hard. “But you’re talking of leaving because you think I’m some revolving fuck door, and that’s bullshit.”

  “I’m not judging you, Finn.”

  “Yeah you are,” he says with a bitter laugh. “At least have the guts to admit that much.”

 
; “I freaked, okay? I didn’t expect a woman to show up here because I never picture you with other women.” Only with me. “Not because I think you’re some walking sex act.”

  Finn blinks, his brows lifting high. An awkward silence falls over us, and it’s all I can do not to escape to the safe harbor of my room. But I can’t do that. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” I tell him. “I don’t know how to navigate this roommate situation and it’s confusing.”

  He gives a tight nod, then blows out a breath. “This isn’t a prison, Chess. I can’t make you stay. And, frankly, I don’t want you to stay if you’re uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable—”

  “But if you want to know how I feel about it,” he cuts in. “I want you here. My life is better with you in it. I look forward to coming home. To you. And I really don’t give a shit if that makes me a selfish bastard.” With that, he turns and heads for his room. “If still you want to move, I’ll help you find a place in the morning.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Finn

  * * *

  I wake with a stiff back and throbbing head. It’s par for the course after a game. Doesn’t make it more bearable, though. The pain is bad enough to have me limping to the shower. Five pain killers and thirty minutes of standing under blistering hot water helps me feel almost human. I’m still sore, and my skull feels like glass, but I’ll manage.

  What isn’t going away is the shitty heaviness in my chest when I think of last night. I was over the line when I lit into Chess. Britt’s appearance had thrown me for a loop, and I took it out on Chess instead. The burning bolt of jealousy I’d felt when I saw Nate’s text didn’t help.

  Nate? Seriously? She goes out for two hours and she has some guy named Nate texting her?

  Of course she has. Chess is magnificent. A guy would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice her. And he’d have to be stupid not to make a play if he got her talking to him. No, if he got her to confide in him.

  I rub my chest as I hobble to my dresser. Fuck, it irks knowing she told some charm boy bartender that she needs a new place to live instead of coming to me with her concerns. Cursing, I tug my clothes and slam the dresser drawers shut.