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The taxi pulls away from the curb, and I stare at the outside of the hotel, certain that last night with Leigh was the best sex I’ve ever had. From the moment I saw her across the room, I was drawn to her. Yeah, that’s all it is. Leigh was the best sex I’ve had, and our chemistry was insane. That’s the only reason she’s still holding my thoughts hostage.
Twenty minutes later, because of traffic, the taxi pulls up in front of my building. I toss the driver some bills and step onto the sidewalk.
Another damn sign that says The Nest is taped to our black iron security gate. Our building used to house three football players from the Chicago Grizzlies, which got it coined as The Den. So when Tweetie, Henry, and I moved in, it was coined The Nest. Women write their numbers or leave notes—stuck up with chewed bubble gum—about how much they love us, how they want to hold our sticks and be our lucky charms.
I walk right by the pieces of paper flapping in the warm breeze and open the gate, then make sure it’s closed and secure behind me. Tweetie, one of our left wings, has the top floor unit, while I’m on the second. One of our right wings, Henry, is the level above the ground floor bar with his son, Bodhi.
I climb the stairs, and when I’m about to open up my door, I hear Tweetie’s door open above. He barrels down the stairs with energy I find surprising given that he’s the old man in the league. I’m always surprised by how fast he recovers from his parties.
“Magic! You missed one helluva get-together last night. More than one girl was asking for you.” He smacks my shoulder.
“I had my friend’s wedding.”
He eyes my bag and pushes his chin-length blond hair behind his ear. “And you spent the night?”
“Yeah.” I don’t give him any more information than he needs, but his eyes bore into mine as if he’s looking for more. “What?”
“You hook up with a bridesmaid who’s always a bridesmaid and never a bride? Those are always the best. Desperate to please.”
I shake my head but can’t help laughing.
“You did.”
I punch the code into the keypad and step into my apartment.
“Come on, we’re going to breakfast.” He picks up my bag and tosses it into my condo.
“Tweetie!”
“Bodhi wants us to go to that pancake place again.” He nods toward the stairs.
“I’m exhausted,” I say, not in the mood to join the Sunday brunch rush.
“You need to replenish those calories.” He remains outside my door. He’s wearing joggers and a Chicago Colts shirt that he bought since the top of our building is fitted with a rooftop bar and stadium seats that overlook the Colts’ baseball diamond.
My stomach growls, and he gives me his classic look that says get your ass moving, we’re going. I might as well just go with them—it’ll help me get Leigh out of my head anyway—so I throw on my baseball cap and lock up my condo.
“By the way, those notes are getting worse, and every time I tear down the sign for The Nest, someone puts one back up. Bodhi lives here, and he doesn’t need to see that shit.” I’m hoping Tweetie will eventually see that for Henry’s sake, we need to make our building a better place for Bodhi to grow up. The kid is only six years old.
“Season starts soon, and it’ll cool down.” I side-eye him and he chuckles one of his full belly laughs, then raises both hands. “I can’t control the women.”
He’s right, but the parties aren’t helping. I give him a look.
“Okay, I’ll cool it with the parties. I gotta detox for the next few weeks if I don’t want to suck at training camp anyway.”
Tweetie doesn’t have to worry. Sure, he’s one of the older guys on the team, but he made his reputation a long time ago as one of the best left wingers in the league. Everyone loves him. He’s one of those balls-to-the-wall players who always gives one hundred percent. I just had no idea the guy could party like he does. He’s like Peter Pan and doesn’t want to grow up.
We reach the second level as Henry is opening his door, Bodhi coming out with his small football.
“Hey, Bodhi,” I say, holding out my hands for him to throw me the football.
He throws it to me, and I examine the small Grizzlies ball with all three of the players’ signatures who used to live here. “Man, Damon Siska, Miles Cavanaugh,andCooper Rice? Pretty awesome, bud.” I toss it back to him.
“Cooper’s way of keeping us happy since he’s been getting complaints.” Henry eyes Tweetie. “Trying to keep the good tenants, I think.”
Tweetie laughs, and I walk down the stairs with Bodhi.
I’m not sure how Henry does it. This is my first year playing with him, but what happens to Bodhi when we travel? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
