Page 138 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Tops!

In fact, I would kill to see her everyday.

I’m totally hard for her, twenty-three hours of the day.

Don’t know if it’s something I did or she’s just being stubborn, but she’s been dodging my FaceTime calls. Not to mention, her messages have been lacking those cute little emojis she sneaks into her messages.

Something is definitely up.

The plane lands, and I practically sprint to baggage claim, which is pointless because my bag isalwaysthe last one off the carousel. I stand watching my teammates grab their duffles and leave, while I’m stuck waiting for my poor, beat-up bag to tumble out like a drunk toddler.

By the time I get to my car, it’s late, and I’m starving.

I contemplate hitting up a drive-thru but decide against it. My nutritionist would strangle me if I showed up to practice tomorrow smelling like a bacon cheeseburger and large fries, so instead, I scrounge around my center console and unearth a protein bar.

Gnaw on it as if it’s the best meal I’ve had all week.

I debate going home.

I should.

I’m beat.

Sore.

Tired.

Glance at the clock in my truck: ten after ten PM.

Just need some time to myself.

Her message plays on a loop in my brain and before I can think better of it, I’m hanging a right instead of turning onto my street. Within a few short minutes I’m pulling into the parking garage in Austin's complex. Search for a spot—one where my truck will fit—and cut the engine.

Dropping by unannounced has never been my thing, but I’m feeling neglected and for all that talk she’s done about good communication, hers sucks right now.

Something is wrong and I want to know what that something is.

The elevator dings as I step inside, and I hit the button for her floor. The ride up feels longer than it should, and I spend the entire time rehearing in my head what I’ll say.Hey, passing by… thought I’d check in… totally not because I’m spiraling and imagining every worst-case scenario possible.

Are you breaking up with me?

By the time the doors slide open, my palms are sweating.

I wipe them on my jeans and make my way down the hall, stopping in front of her door.

I hesitate a moment, wondering if this is a terrible idea. But then I hear her voice in my head:I love the way you communicate. More men should be like you…

Yeah, well—that works both ways, doesn’t it?

I knock twice and step back.

Stuff my hands in my pockets.

Bounce on the balls of my feet, anxious.

The dog barks; it’s a sharp bark erupting on the other side of the door—one of those small-dog yaps that sounds more like an alarm system than a greeting.

There’s a pause, followed by shuffling on the other side of the door. Her hair’s up in a messy bun, and she’s clutching Gio, the dog, in one arm like he’s her tiny bodyguard.