Chapter Thirty

The energy in the clubhouse was relaxed after the Battery's last game before the All-Star break. They'd won at home in decisive fashion, which was always a good way to head into the break, the team was at .500, which felt almost like a winning record, and everyone was excited to have a few days off.

Chris was trying to sneak out of the clubhouse early enough to find Daphne before she left for the night, but Randy grabbed him before he made it. "Hey, man," Randy said. "Cookout at my place Tuesday for the game. Food's gonna be lit—I'm making my mami's mangú. You in?"

"Sure," Chris said. "Sounds good. What can I bring?"

"Just a case of whatever you like to drink," Randy said. "And bring your girl, if you want. It's a family-friendly affair."

Chris wondered suddenly what it would be like to actually bring Daphne. He knew he couldn't. But he already knew she would get along well with all the guys—they seemed to have accepted her completely after she'd slid into Layla's role temporarily. He knew a few of the other players' wives and girlfriends, Kendall's boyfriend, all who he thought would be good friends with Daphne if they knew each other.

And it would be nice. To have someone to laugh in the corner with when Randy inevitably got a little toasted and started making outrageous predictions of what would happen in the game. To be able to casually touch her, a hand at the small of her back, a kiss on the cheek. To watch her across the room and know that at the end of the night, she'd go home with him.

But since that was impossible, he just grunted without responding to Randy either way. And then he grabbed his duffel bag and went in search of Daphne.

When he found her she was already in the parking lot, fumbling through her purse for her car keys. Other than their interactions on the sideline during the games, he hadn't gotten much chance to talk to her after the last road stand nearly ten days ago. If the situation were different, he almost would've thought she was avoiding him. But this had always been their deal—road games only, then back to keeping professional distance at home. He just hoped she was open to the idea of changing their deal.

"Hey," he said, catching up to Daphne just as she'd opened her car door. "What're your plans for the break?"

"Oh." She blew some strands of hair out of her eyes, giving a little laugh. "Sleep, probably. Lots of sleep. You?"

She did look tired. She was still beautiful—she was always beautiful—but now that she wasn't wearing all the makeup she wore for the camera, he could see that her eyes were shadowed, that there was something a little subdued about her.

"Come over," he said. He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. He'd given a lot of thought to the most casual way to ask, and this had not been on the list. But he also found that he didn't want to play any games. He just wanted to spend time with her.

She hesitated, and he couldn't tell if it was an I'm thinking of how to say no type of hesitation or an I really want to say yes type of hesitation. He tried to channel all the casualness he'd lost from his opening gambit now, not wanting to scare her off.

"I got the stuff to make chicken carbonara," he said. "Don't make me go through all that trouble just to cook for myself."

She smiled. "There's always leftovers."

"You're right. We could probably eat it for lunch tomorrow, too."

This time when she looked at him, she seemed completely serious. Much more serious than a discussion about chicken carbonara warranted, that was for sure. Chris didn't know why, but he suddenly had the feeling that he was standing on some sort of precipice, and he could keep his feet planted on the ground or he could tip right over the edge. He held his breath, waiting to see which one it would be.

"Okay," she said finally. "Give me your address and I'll be there by eight. I just have to head home and take care of a few things first."

That time gave Chris the opportunity to stop by the store and grab the ingredients the online recipe he'd found told him he needed to make chicken carbonara. It had been described as "easy," "delicious," and "date-night worthy," so he certainly hoped all that was true.

The recipe also advised that you cut up the chicken and bacon beforehand, especially if cooking for the first time or for guests. "Thank you," Chris muttered to himself as he laid out everything on his counter. "That is exactly what I need to know."

He just barely had time to prep everything the recipe called for and to quickly wipe down the surfaces in the bathroom before he heard the buzz from the lobby that let him know Daphne had arrived. He buzzed her in and was waiting for her in the open doorway when she came up the elevator.

"Hi," she said, looking a little shy. She had a tote bag on one shoulder, the logo on it advertising the Charleston County Public Library. It was stuffed pretty full, a cardigan he recognized as one she'd worn before sticking out from the top. He hoped that meant she was definitely staying the night.

"Hey," he said, leaning in to give her a kiss. "Come on in. I'll give you the very brief tour."

She followed him from room to room as he showed her the dining area with the concrete table monstrosity, the bathroom, the spare room where he kept a stationary bike and some weights, his bedroom. Her gaze seemed to take in every detail of that last one, even though she only lingered in the doorway without coming all the way in. He tried to see it through her eyes. It probably looked really plain, with not much more personality than in the hotel rooms they'd been in over the past month. He'd left a pile of his stuff on the dresser—his wallet, his keys, his phone. There were a few books on his nightstand that he was still trying to make his way through. He wasn't the fastest reader. The art was better than a hotel room's, but it didn't say much about him, either—he hadn't picked it.

Her eyes landed on the king-size bed, and suddenly he couldn't take the silence.

"It came furnished," he said. "It just seemed easier at the time."

"It's nice," she said. "Much bigger than the shoebox I live in."

He thought back to what he'd seen of her apartment, that night he'd dropped her off and then the next morning when he'd picked her up. She'd lined her porch with potted plants, and he'd liked that cheerful, homey little touch. His place might be bigger, but something told him that hers felt better.

But she was here now, and he had a meal to hopefully not fuck up. "Make yourself comfortable," he said. "I'm going to get dinner started."