by Sarah Adams
I pull my thoughts back to Bree. “You guys know how she gets when she’s been drinking.”
Jamal laughs. “Yeah. She gets cute and talkative. You’re the unbearable one.”
“When I drink?”
“No. When she drinks. You hover around her like a bodyguard and just scowl at everyone who looks at her. So go on.” He’s pushing me out of the booth with the toe of his shiny dress shoe. “Go check on your woman before you bring this whole party down. We’re already obnoxiously sober because of you. Don’t make us all start biting our fingernails too.”
“Agreed. Go find her,” says Price.
Lawrence shrugs. “I think it’s kinda nice how he’s always looking out for her.”
Jamal points at Lawrence. “Don’t encourage him.”
I shake my head and leave the lounge. Thankfully the bar is really dark and the VIP area is tucked back away from the main space, so I’m not immediately faced with fans wanting an autograph. I slip down the hallway and stop just outside the women’s bathroom. I knock and open the door a crack to yell inside. “Bree Cheese, you good in there?”
I hear a drunken giggle immediately and relax. “That’s me! Bree cheesy cheese,” she says, probably to no one in particular in there.
But then a second later, the door opens fully and a tall, dark-haired woman appears. She’s dressed professionally and wearing a smile that has a bite to it. I worry for a second that she’s going to be an obsessive fan and get handsy in the hallway (it’s happened several times), but then she opens the door to the bathroom wider and hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “I think your friend here needs a little help.”
“Is she okay?” I’m already pushing my way in.
The woman follows closely behind me toward the closed stall. “Yeah…if you consider incredibly drunk okay. She was talking my ear off while trying to get that beer stain out of her shirt, and then all of a sudden she went white as a sheet and fled to the stall.”
My heart tugs. Bree can’t handle her liquor. I should have made sure she eased up earlier. I force-fed her a plate of fries (I say force because her attention span is the size of a gnat when she’s drunk and I had to continuously remind her to take bites), but I’m not sure it was enough to soak up everything she drank tonight.
I get to the closed stall and rap my knuckle against the door twice. “Bree? You okay? Can I come in?”
“NATHAN?! Hiiiii.” Her voice is breathy but happy. At least I know she’s not passed out in there or throwing up.
“Yeah, it’s me. Can I open the door?”
I’m aware of the woman still hovering behind me. I want to ask her to go away. She doesn’t need to be witnessing this, but that’s the thing about fans—they don’t believe in giving celebrities privacy. They seem to be under the impression that we “signed up for this” and our private lives should be an open, all-you-can-eat entertainment buffet. But Bree didn’t “sign up” for this and I know she doesn’t want anything to do with the spotlight, so I’m very protective of her in public situations. I’ll be her bodyguard any day.
“Sure, QB! Mi casa is su casa.” Bree is the friendliest drunk you’ll ever meet. If at all possible, she gets more adorable with every shot she takes. I have to be careful with her, though, because one time she literally tried to give the keys of her apartment to a man experiencing homelessness and told him he should have it instead of her. She’s generous to a fault—which is ironic considering that’s what she says about me.
“Can you slide the lock open?” I ask her softly.
“OH!” She chuckles loudly, and I glance over my shoulder again. Brunette is still there, smiling tensely with a wicked gleam in her eyes that I don’t trust. I adjust my body, trying to form a privacy wall with my back.
“Oops. That’s the flusher. Hey Nathhaannn…where do I find the lockey thing? It’s too dark to see anything in here.” Oh geez. She’s so far gone.
“Open your eyes, Bree.” I tap the door. “The lock is over here.”
She gasps loudly—probably when she realizes her eyes were shut. “You’re right! There it is! Oh wow, that’s a spinny room.” I hear the click of the lock and get ready to open the door then remember the woman behind me again.
I look back at her with what I’m hoping looks like a soft smile. I have to be very careful when dealing with anyone in public not to do anything that could be misconstrued as aggressive or angry—basically anything that could go viral on Twitter and reflect badly on my career. Gossip is one thing, but a story about me yelling at a fan is another.
“Sorry, do you mind?” I ask, hoping she can read between the lines that I’m politely asking her to get lost.
She smiles wider and shakes her head. “No, not at all. Go right ahead.”
Not what I meant.
It’s fine. I’ll just need to scoop Bree up and get her home. Well, to my home. No way am I sending her to her place like this. I don’t trust her not to get up and go for a city adventure in the middle of the night.
I open the door of the stall to find Bree sitting on the toilet—thankfully with her pants on or she would be mortified tomorrow—slumped over against the stall wall. Her knees are pressed together but her feet are wide, arms dangling at her sides, a line of colorful woven bracelets drooping down her wrists. She looks like a kid who tried to stay up too late and couldn’t handle the heat. The giant wet stain slashed across the front of her shirt adds to the effect. She’s so cute, even like this. I wish I could lean forward and kiss her. Just a quick peck to let out a little of how I feel about her. It’s been bottled up for so long it physically hurts, but I don’t have permission to be that man in her life.
I squat down in front of her, taking one of her hands. “Hi pretty friend, how are you feeling?”
She smiles with her eyes closed again. “SO good. And my new friend Cheryl is reallllllly nice. Did you meet her?”
I look back at the woman, and she gives a wry smile. “It’s Kara actually.”
I turn back to Bree. “Yeah, I did. Kara told me to check on you.”
“Good.” Her eyes fly open. “And don’t worry. She was really concerned about your problem”—her eyes widen and sink down to the vicinity of my crotch then shift back up to my eyes—“but I set her straight and told her not to believe that lying, shaming witch.” She tries to bop me on the nose but taps my cheekbone instead. “Erfffectyle dips—” She pauses and frowns. “Dips—” She tries to get the word out two more times then gives up. “Your ding-a-ling is nobody’s concern!”
Okayyyy, yep, time to go.
“Well, my ding-a-ling and I thank you for that. What do you say we go home now?”
She pouts. “Whaaatttt. But it’s a party!” Her eyes belong to a puppy, and the side of her face is plastered to the stall wall. It’s going to leave a textured print behind.
“I think the guys are all partied out. It’s time for some sleep because we have practice in the morning.” I stand up and extend my hand to Bree. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
She takes my hand and stands, swaying dramatically as she goes vertical, and then promptly sits back down. “Ashhhhually, I’ll stay here. It’s too twisty up there,” she says while swatting a lazy hand through the air.
“Come on, you got this.” I bend down and help her up, wrapping her arm around my waist and making her lean into me. I’d just carry her out, but I have a feeling that would make a scene and end up on the cover of every gossip site tomorrow. So instead, I try to hold her up while we clumsily exit.
As we emerge from the stall, I find us face to face with Kara just as she’s slipping her phone back into her purse. I don’t have time to worry about that now though. “Thanks for…” Spying? Eavesdropping? Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong? “Checking up on her.”
“Believe me, it was my pleasure,” she says with a glint in her eyes that gives me a weird feeling. Sort of like when you’re watching a movie and suddenly the camera zooms in with the slow, dramati
c music and you think, Oh damn! That person’s bad! Inevitably someone always tries to claim they knew it all along. You knew nothing, Sandra.
Kara turns and opens the door for us to walk through. Once out of the bathroom, I head to the VIP lounge, and thankfully Kara can’t follow us.
Bree lays her head on my chest as we walk and breathes deep. “You smell sooooo good. Even your sweat smells good. How do you do that?”
I smile down at her, wishing she actually meant that compliment. “You’re drunk. That’s how.”
The guys help me get Bree outside and away from prying eyes by creating a barrier around us as we walk. Jamal puffs up like a peacock, winking and flirting with everyone he passes. It’s the perfect distraction from the droopy Bree hanging off my side.
In the parking lot, I’m getting ready to pour her into my truck when she whips around to the guys with a sudden alertness. It’s her second wind, and I know what’s coming. It happens every time, but usually I’m the only one around to witness it. “You guys are coming back to Nathan’s place, right?! I have something soooo fun we can do!”
I give the guys a look that says, Say no. But of course they always give Bree everything she wants because she’s impossible to say no to, and they all agree with gusto.
And that’s how my running back, wide receiver, tight end, and left tackle all wind up at my place, getting our toenails painted in the team’s colors by Bree. We’re all lined up on the couch and arm chairs, pants rolled up while Bree hovers over each of our feet in assembly-line fashion, painting our nails with the same meticulous attention someone would use while disarming a bomb. I imagine it’s because focusing on toes is difficult when the room is spinning. Bree is nothing but joy and smiles the whole time though, telling us this will give us extra good luck and making each of us pinky promise not to take it off before the next game.
When she comes over to lock our pinkies together, she leans over me then accidentally topples into my lap. My stomach dips with her face so close to mine. Her eyes look intently into mine. I’ve never had her in my lap before, and I can’t believe how right it feels. Every inch of me tingles with awareness, and I begin mentally mapping out every way she fits perfectly in my arms. My mind growls. It’s angry that now I have to know what she looks like naked and how she feels pressing against me. Torture.
Suddenly, all eyes in the room are on us, and I clear my throat. “Time to put you to bed, I think.”
Bree’s eyes are hazy, and instead of putting up a fight about me making her sleep here, she curls up against my chest, putting her head in the crook of my neck. “Can’t walk. Too tired,” she admits.
I stand with her in my arms and take her back to her room to the quiet snickers and chuckles of the guys around me like they are in junior high.
“Lovesick puppy,” Jamal says as I pass by him, and I flip him the bird from behind Bree’s back, hoping she didn’t hear his comment, or at least won’t remember it tomorrow.
After I get her in bed, I don’t let myself linger. I tuck her in, turn off the lights, and shut the door behind me, not letting myself have one backward glance. The only way our friendship has been remotely successful in its platonic state is because of my acquired ability to keep moving. For instance, if I walk into the kitchen and see Bree leaning over the counter with her butt looking way too good, I don’t linger and look. Keep moving. If I walk by Bree and we accidentally bump into each other, I don’t stop and lock my arms around her. Nope. Keep moving. If we’re up late at night and I’m tempted to tell her I worship the ground she walks on—keep moving.
So I don’t look back tonight at the sight of her passed out against the pillow with her wild hair swirling around her. I keep moving back into the living room and straight into the sight of my friends, lined up on the couch, brows lifted and arms folded. It looks like an intervention.
“What’s with the mom vibes?” I ask, frozen at the threshold. I’m not sure I want to go in there.
Lawrence is the first to speak. It’s hard to take him seriously with his silver and black sparkle nail polish. “It’s time, man.”
My eyebrows rise. “That’s cryptic and ominous.”
Jamal smacks Lawrence in the chest. “This is why we didn’t want you to be the one to deliver the opening line.” He shakes his head. “He was supposed to say, It’s time to get your girl. He said it all wrong. It was going to be great.”
I try to hide my grin. “Do you want me to go out and come back in? We can start over.”
“Nah, moment’s over,” Jamal pouts. He hates when someone ruins his special moments. And there are many.
I’m already turning around. “No, it’s not. Come on, I’ll run it again. Let’s do it.” I leave the room, coming back in a moment later like someone trying to pretend they don’t know about the surprise party they accidentally learned about three weeks ago.
Lawrence is on his game this time. “It’s time to get your girl, man.”
A little bit of the spark has left Jamal’s eye, but it’s clear there’s a part of him that still wants to play this out. “And we’re gonna help you do it,” he finally adds in his commercial voice. Honestly, the impression was made.
I puff out a breath. “That was worth it, guys. Well done. I have chill bumps.” I appreciate what they’re trying to do, I really do, but it’s not gonna happen. “The problem is, Bree’s not into me like that.”
They all collectively shoot out a laugh. Price is the one to speak up first while dabbing his big toe to make sure the polish is dry before putting his sock back on. “Yeah. Women always curl up to me like a baby cub when they’re not into me. Whatever man. Get your head out of your ass. That woman is in love with you.”
I glance back toward Bree’s room. I want to believe them, but it’s too hard. We’ve had so many years to overcome the friend zone, and she’s never done anything about it. Any time I get close, she puts up an extra firm force field that pushes me back. “I’m telling you—she doesn’t want anything more than friendship.”
“Or maybe she’s just scared,” says Jamal, standing from the couch and rolling his pant legs down.
“Scared of what?”
“Making the first move and it not being reciprocated. Y’all are stuck in a vortex of fear and miscommunication. Someone has to break through it first.”
I know he’s right on my part. I’m terrified to lose her again. I got a taste of it all those years ago when I went off to college and she dropped out of my life, and I never want a repeat. But is the same thing happening on her end? I don’t have enough proof of that yet. “I don’t know how to figure that out without straight-up asking her. It’s too much of a risk. I don’t want to lose her, because she’s seriously the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Jamal slides his jacket on. “First, ouch. And second, you just need an opportunity to test the waters without there being repercussions.”
I’m all ears now. “How do I do that?”
He laughs and slaps my shoulder as he passes toward the door. “I don’t know, man. We can’t do all the work for you.”
“I don’t think you’ve done any work so far,” I tell Jamal, and he waves double birds over his shoulders. “We’ll have a whiteboard planning session soon.”
Price passes by next. “Sorry, I’m too sober to come up with good ideas tonight.”
“A little concerning to hear,” I tell him.
Lawrence stops in front of me next. “I say just go for it. True love only comes once in a lifetime—don’t let it pass you by.” We all blink at our most aggressive left tackle. Turns out he is surprisingly romantic for a man who operates like a tank.
Derek is the last to step up and offer his sage advice on what I should do with Bree to get myself out of the friend zone. But it’s not romantic or sweet, so I won’t repeat it. Although I will tuck it away for a rainy day.
All night I’m lying awake thinking about what my friends said. Part of me thinks they’ve lost it and should be telling me to
get over her instead of considering starting something up. But another part of me is left wondering what I can do to test the waters. And also maybe fantasizing a little too much about what Derek said…
Oh no.
I think someone has mistaken my head for a city road that needs repairing and is taking a jackhammer to it. Curse the guys for letting me drink so much last night! I must have been really far gone because without even opening my eyes, I know I’m in Nathan’s apartment. Everything smells like him, and only in Nathan’s guest bed are the sheets this soft. I had to have been out-of-my-mind drunk if he didn’t even let me go home. How embarrassing.
Memories float through my head, and I give them attention with hesitation. Part of me is not sure I want to remember. What if I took my top off? No. Nathan would absolutely never let me do that. But we all know by now that serenading anyone who will listen is not out of the realm of possibility.
Thankfully, I don’t have any memories of either of those events. I do, however, have a hazy recollection of spilling a drink on my shirt and running off to the bathroom to get it out. I think I remember talking some poor lady’s ear off, and then…oh yeah, Nathan came in and rescued me. He’s always doing that. That probably adds to his reasons for not being attracted to me—he wants a girl who doesn’t ride the hot mess express on the regular.
I kick off the covers, much to the dismay of my screaming head, and look down: fully clothed in my outfit from last night and oddly disappointed by that. In the movies when the best friend gets drunk and the hero gets her home safely, he also helps her change into one of his oversized t-shirts (looking away the whole time with epic chivalry, of course) and she wakes up swaddled in his scent. I just smell like beer. And nail polish?
No time to lie here and wallow. I force myself to sit up and reach for my phone. The sun is out so I know Nathan is already gone. He has to keep a ridiculous schedule for the team and is usually at the training facility by six thirty or seven every morning. I’m grateful for it this morning, because I don’t think I could face him after telling him he smells soooo good. Mmhm, I remember that part, and I regret it deeply. (Although it is true.)