Page 72 of Tripped Up

The water runs cool and I reach over to turn it off. Elsy steps out, wrapping herself in her towel, before grabbing a second from the linen closet. I hadn’t planned that far ahead.

We dress in silence. She has rehearsal this morning and then lessons this afternoon.

“Can I see you tonight?” I ask.

Elsy laughs. “Not playing hard to get?”

“Babe, I told you, I’m not playing games.” I kiss her cheek. “So, tonight?”

“Maybe.” She shrugs.

“Guess I’m going to have to try harder next time,” I decide.

“We’ll see. If this is how we’re going to start the morning, you should stay over more often,” she says with a teasing smile.

Dropping a soft kiss on her lips, I promise, “Anytime.”

twenty-five

Elsy

Wyatt has slept over three out of the last five nights, the only time separated because of a road trip to Detroit. The two nights he had home games, I had performances, but there’s something nice about knowing he’d rather come home to me than go back to his place. He shows up with food, wearing his game-day suit, and it takes everything in me not to peel it off him the second he shows up on my doorstep.

Every night, he gets me off with his fingers or mouth before he pulls me into his arms and holds me until I fall asleep. He lets me return the favor now. Touching him or sucking him is easier for me to handle than full penetrative sex. A part of me still thinks that as soon as he gets what he wants, this will end.

I make it through lessons and rehearsal, have a late lunch with Anastasia and Katrina, and then head to the training facility. Security badges me in and I wind my way through the halls to the players’ lounge. There are a few Aces staff members in the hallways, people I vaguely recognize, but none that I’ve spoken to before. A few Aces players are still hanging around, even though the facility is open to the visiting New Orleans Thunder.

“Nicholas David Mitchell.” I stand at the entrance to the lounge, one hand on the doorframe.

My best friend looks up from his plate, his fork tumbling to the table. “Elsy!” His easygoing smile stretches from ear to ear.

“You don’t write, you don’t call…” I choke out a laugh as my best friend lopes across the room and pulls me into a tight hug. “I missed you, asshole.”

“Missed you more,” he says, squeezing me until I can barely breathe.

“That your girl, Mitchell?” One of the New Orleans players asks.

“She’s better than that,” he says, slinging his arm over my shoulder. “She’s my best friend. Basically my sister.”

“He’s, like, totally obsessed with me,” I joke, as a few Aces players enter the lounge. I nod to Henry and Riley. “Hey, guys.”

Riley eyes me curiously.

Henry reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze, his hand landing two inches below Mitch’s like he’s reclaiming his territory. “Elsy,” he says evenly. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

“You know these clowns?” Mitch asks. “I knew you’ve been to a few games, but I didn’t realize you were on a first-name basis.” He trails off. “Please tell me you didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?” I smile innocently up at him, but my stomach flips and I’m fairly sure he can see the manic gleam in my eyes.

I should have told him. But how do I tell my best friend, the guy who’s defended me and protected me at every turn, that I’m doing something I know he won’t agree with? Especially when what we have is so new and fragile.

Mitch sighs. “You and Whitney?”

“No comment.”

He shakes his head. “I thought you knew better than that.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”