Page 162 of Cross Check

I stay at the arena until five, passing the time by responding to my agent’s email with an enthusiastic acceptance of Baltimore’s invitation for an interview and reviewing game footage from our matchup against Dallas last night.

By the time I get home, I’m buzzing with energy. I kick off my heels in the foyer and pull up my text thread with Grant, firing off a message as fast as I can type.

Me

Hi! Do you have a minute?

His response arrives seconds later, just like it always does.

GE

For you, I have a thousand minutes, Lia.

Me

Can I call?

I don’t need to wait for an answer. A FaceTime call comes through, and I prop my phone against the backsplash in the kitchen so I can pour myself a glass of celebratory wine.

“Hey,” he says when the call connects.

“Hi.” I smile at the sight of him in his bed with an arm behind his head. “How was your day?”

“Long and weird. Practice went well, and our film review had less criticism than normal. Coach was in a good mood, and he’s been acting more like a human and less like a robot over the last couple of weeks.” He yawns. “Maybe someone upgraded him to a better model.”

“Maybe we’re in a simulation.” I find the wine opener and pull out my favorite Chardonnay from the fridge. “Or, better yet, the hotel ghosts got Brody.”

“Fuck. I hope it’s not the ghosts. Being haunted by him would be traumatizing.” Grant laughs. “Everything okay? Your text was cryptic.”

“Yeah.” I take a sip of my drink and set the glass on the counter. “I have some news.”

“Still cryptic, and now we’re moving toward ominous. Did you commit a crime?”

“Do I look like a crime-committing citizen?”

Grant dips his gaze to the length of my throat and the spot above my collarbone where my necklace sits. I’ve been wearing more jewelry lately, and I wonder if subconsciously I did it for the thrill that races through me from his attention.

His eyes move lower to my shirt, a low hum of approval echoing from his end of the phone at the black turtleneck I didn’t pair with a blazer today. He’s thousands of miles away, but the slow perusal makes it feel like he’s right here. Like there’s a hand on my cheek and fingers dancing along my jaw. My nipples are hard under my shirt, and I all but snatch my wine off the counter so I can chug it.

“No,” Grant murmurs. “You look perfect.”

It’s dangerously low, a whisper in my ear. A mouth kissing from my neck to my chest, and it’s a fever that won’t break. Hot. Achingly, impossible-to-ignore hot.

“Do I?” I ask. Another sip of wine has me wanting to play with fire. Another glance at him and noticing the way he shifts on the bed, the way he puts a pillow in his lap has me wanting to strike the match. “I’m not so sure about that.”

I’ve forgotten everything I want to say. The only thing I’m aware of is him—parted lips, the change in his breathing. He’s as affected as I am from a silly phone call, from merely the sight of me, and that could make a girl do something she might regret.

“Do you, ah—” Grant coughs. “You said you have news.”

“News. Right. Yeah.” The spell breaks, and my feet are back on the ground. “The Baltimore Sea Crabs want to interview me for their head coach position.”

“Lia. Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Let’s go.” Grant jumps on his bed, bouncing up and down. “This is goddamn incredible. Oh my god. Holy shit. Tell me everything. When did you apply? How are you feeling?”

“I need your enthusiasm in my day-to-day life.” I pick up my phone, walking to the living room and plopping on the couch with a grin. “I didn’t even apply. They reached out to my agent about coming in for an interview, and I said yes. As for how I’m feeling, I’m nervous. I’m also really fucking excited. Hope can be a dangerous thing in sports, but I have a lot of it right now.”