29. Fallon

Iclutch the bag of groceries a little tighter as I face Corey’s door. A formidable combination of regret, exhaustion, and nerves have me contemplating knocking or fleeing back downstairs before anyone sees me.

The groceries feel like they’re a hundred pounds of insinuations.

The elevator dings behind me, and my hand shoots out like a reflex, knocking before anyone catches sight of me here.

The air in my lungs leaves me in one harsh breath as Corey opens his door. He’s shirtless, his tanned skin slightly damp, and his dark hair is pushed back like he just stepped out of the shower.

I swallow thickly.

“Sorry,” he says. “Practice ran late.” He fixes me with a smile as he leans forward so close I’m sure he’s going to kiss me.

Every part of me freezes, including my heart. While his cologne has quickly become one of my favorite scents, the smell of his skin—of undiluted Corey—makes me dizzy with want.

His amber eyes shine with a warmth that stokes a fire low in my belly.

Similar to last night, I’m completely aware of him. Aware of how he makes me feel—and even more aware of how he could make me feel.

I’m weightless, lost in the shape of his lips and those damn tattoos that steal my thoughts, and suddenly, I can’t remember why I’m not supposed to kiss him, only that it feels like if I don’t kiss him right here and now, I’m going to suffocate.

Corey wraps his hands around the bag of groceries and takes them from me as he steps back.

Disappointment kicks me straight in the chest.

I try to shake the feeling as I step inside, slip off my shoes, and attempt to not stare at his back muscles bunching and flexing with every step he takes in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants. Once he’s several feet away, my muscles regain their memory of fatigue.

“How was your day?” he asks, setting the groceries on the counter beside the cookie sheet and large pot I’d asked him about.

The few texts we exchanged today are evidence of our mutually busy days. After morning practice and classes, I spent the afternoon preparing wedding favors with my mom, Aunt Janice, Lexie, and Quinn. Lexie’s solemn mood had me so preoccupied that I arrived at afternoon practice distracted, but it didn’t matter because Becca showed us her vengeful side when two girls showed up late for a second time. We spent the practice sprinting and conditioning harder than we have before—harder than most were prepared for, based on how many girls threw up. My shoulders have a residual ache from the number of burpees we endured, and the adrenaline that had my blood sugar rising is finally waning.

“Long. How was yours? Did you guys finish the flooring?”

Corey nods and grabs a tee from the back of a chair. I try to hide my disappointment when he slips it on.

“Most of it.” He steps closer and hands me his phone, where pictures of the basement stare at me.

“Wow. It doesn’t even look like the same space.” I lean closer, examining the newly installed sheetrock and flooring.

“It doesn’t,” Corey agrees, swiping through images of the new ceiling. “I’m shocked how fast it’s coming together.” He tucks his phone back into his pocket and glances at the small mountain of tomatoes I pull out of the bag. “What are we making?”

“I’m holding you to liking tomatoes,” I tell him. “Because we’re making tomato sandwiches with tomato soup.”

“Homemade?”

“It’s easier than it sounds. If you want to help me chop these up, we’ll get them roasting, and then we can answer the questions for yesterday’s movie.”

Corey grabs a knife from the cutting block and begins dicing up a tomato with the same level of assurance that he moves through life with. It’s addicting and also a bit intimidating.

“How’s Anna? Have you heard anything new?”

He stills, and I hold my breath, fearing I’ve asked the wrong question.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“No,” Corey says before I can consider all the things I want to apologize for. “I appreciate you asking.” He swallows and resumes dicing the tomato. “She was pretty sick and tired today. Vic doesn’t know if it’s from the nerves and anxiety or just the chemo.”

“He sounds really attentive.”

Corey nods. “I wouldn’t be able to stay here if it weren’t for Vic. He knows this shit backward and forward and watches over her like a hawk. Plus, he’ll advocate for her, regardless of who he pisses off.”

Jealousy, or maybe it’s yearning, invites guilt into my chest, where it nestles close to compassion and relief. Tobias, like most friends, coaches, doctors, teachers, and even family members, failed to understand type one diabetes. Outside of my immediate family and Lexie, few know or recognize the symptoms of a low or high blood sugar or how to treat them. And when I explain that I need a break to treat a low or high blood sugar, I’m often met with skepticism, doubt, and judgment, like so many who live with invisible conditions.

The world can’t see when I feel bad, so they assume I don’t.

“I’m glad to hear that.” My voice is soft, reverent.

“I don’t know how he does it. I can’t imagine…” Corey shakes his head as his words drift off, leaving me to fill in the blank space with all the worst possibilities that have me hating my disease and the long list of complications associated with it.

Offense curls around my pride like a shield, recalling countless rude remarks I’ve received that hurt nearly as much as those who have seen me as weak or less than when learning I’m diabetic.

I wait for him to finish his words, but he doesn’t, reaching for another tomato that he begins slicing.

I consider telling him that I have diabetes. I hate that it feels like a secret—one I never meant to keep—but doubt about how he’ll react and how he’ll treat me—look at me—ties my tongue.

We finish chopping the tomatoes and the few other ingredients for the soup in silence, and for the first time since meeting him, it doesn’t feel comfortable.

As Corey washes his hands, I drizzle olive oil, salt, and herbs over the makings of our soup and slide the sheet pan into the oven.

Corey clears his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?” He opens his fridge as I turn to the sink.

“Water would be great, thanks. I think I sweated a gallon today.”

“Rough practice tonight?” He flashes that quick smile that usually makes my heart rate spike. This time, it’s less, and I realize I’m judging him out of fear he’ll judge me.

I shove my emotional baggage and fear of rejection back into their compartments as he hands me a bottle of chilled water and holds my gaze, waiting for a reply.

“I’m not sure I’ve had an easy practice in the last three years.”

He smirks. “Isn’t that the truth?”

Normalcy kicks in as he tells me about the dynamics of having a team four times the size of my soccer team while I finish the bottle of water and set vegetable broth to warm on the stove.

We clean up the mess while everything cooks and sit at the expansive dining room table. I want to hear about the rest of his day and learn more about his inner workings, but we have ten more movies to watch and analyze, so instead of inviting conversation or shared smiles that might lead to flirting, I read aloud the next question about techniques and interpretations used to communicate essential ideas in the film.

Corey lightly drums his fingers over the table. “I think we could discuss examples of power, industrialization, or even religion. What are your thoughts?”

I think he’s painfully distracting in his perfection. I also think he’s read every book on those shelves because, despite his attempt to make a joke about them being used to impress girls because most of the books had dog-eared pages.

I scramble to recall the movie and its main messages so I don’t become the weakest link in our pair.

We complete the questions just as the timer goes off for the makings of our soup.

My muscles burn as I stand, but I barely wince. Diabetes has taught me to be proficient at disguising when I don’t feel well.

I take the pan out of the oven and carefully transfer the contents that have perfumed the space into the large pot of vegetable broth, making me think of autumn nights at my parents’ house.

“What next?” Corey asks.

I reach for the immersion blender I’d brought, but Corey stops me and picks it up. “You should sit and drink more water. You look sore.”

“It’s better if I move.”

His dark brows furrow with what I think is an objection, but he doesn’t voice it as he passes me the immersion blender, and I’m grateful. I need to keep myself busy and distracted so I don’t think about his thoughtful and insightful answers or how many times he’s tried to catch my gaze.

I mix the soup, then add some cream until it’s smooth and velvety perfection.

“That looks and smells so damn good,” Corey says, emitting a low groan that has a shiver descending my spine like a single drop of icy water—impossible to ignore.

I turn away from him with a loud swallow as my phone beeps with a text. A distraction I need to save me from myself and lustful thoughts. “Sorry. I just need to make sure it’s not something for soccer or Lexie.”

“Go ahead.”

My heart skips, guilt soaking into my subconscious as I see Kelly’s name.

Kelly: Want to grab breakfast before practice tomorrow?

I don’t, but obligation dictates my response.

Me: Sure.

Kelly: Remember where that coffee shop we went to is?

Me: Yeah. What time do you want to meet?

Kelly: 6:30?

Me: I’ll see you there.

I slip my phone back into my bag as Corey glances at me.

“Everything okay?” The concern and softness in his tone has me envisioning Kelly here, watching me with judgment and hurt, reminding me of everything he can’t be to me.

I nod as I make my way back to the counter and the remaining tomatoes. “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “The soup’s ready. We just need to slice these tomatoes for the sandwiches.”

I start to reach for the knife, but Corey pushes a chilled water bottle into my hands. “Take a seat and put me to work.”

If my heart were a piano, every note would be offkey as I struggle to find words or my next breath. Based on the heated look in his gaze, his thoughts are in that same darkened hotel room on his knees in front of me like I’m an altar. His altar.

He grabs a tomato and begins slicing it thicker than I normally would, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I take a sip of water, mesmerized by his graceful movements. I’m developing a low-key obsession with the sight of his hands. They’re so much larger than mine, his knuckles and fingers so much wider. As he grips a tomato, I’m reminded how gentle, precise, and firm he explored my body.

I don’t sit. I can’t. I reach for the half loaf of bread I’d brought and slot four slices into the toaster.

“Do you enjoy cooking, or is it a means to an end?” Corey asks.

“Usually a means to an end,” I admit.

“Usually?”

“My grandpa was a cook in the Army and was discharged after breaking his ankle. He stopped cooking for the most part, but after retirement, he had a stroke that required months of rehab. My grandma got him into gardening to help him move around and establish a routine, and it went from a hobby to a full-fledged obsession. They now have a greenhouse that’s nearly the size of their house, and they keep the family supplied with fruits and veggies all year round.” I wave across the remnants of what I’d brought. “Everything here came from their greenhouse, even the garlic.”

Corey’s brows inch upward. “Seriously?”

I nod. “It inspired him to start cooking again. He used to recruit us grandkids to help him, and he’d tell us old Army stories.” A smile crosses my lips, recalling all the many tales shared over pots of marinara, jams, and batches of salsa. “What about you?”

“My cooking skills are amateur in comparison. But, I’m pretty good at following directions…” He lifts his gaze to mine. “When I want to.”

The insinuation in his words burns in my veins as I show him how to make my version of the perfect tomato sandwich.

I fill two bowls with soup as Corey gets me another water, realizing my second is already empty.

Nerves are a flock of birds in my stomach, talons and feathers tickling and tightening my gut as I sit across from him. It’s terrifying how much his opinions and feelings matter to me. I have to remind myself that it’s okay if he doesn’t think tomato sandwiches are the best food on earth.

Corey picks up his sandwich and takes a large bite as though to prove he’s not picky. “Oh my God. Fallon.” He leans his head back and makes a sound that has the memory of the scratchy, overly washed hotel room rubbing against my skin. “It’s so good.” His voice sends a trail of goose bumps across my skin. He shakes his head and takes another bite. “How is this just tomatoes? Why’s it so good?”

I laugh, ignoring the protest of my ab muscles, and pick up my own sandwich. Although I’ve eaten enough of these in the past couple of weeks to sweat garlic and tomatoes, the first bite still makes me hum with appreciation for my favorite meal.

While we eat, he asks me about my grandparents’ greenhouse and how the story inspired Gunner to love cooking, and I ask him about mountain biking and his favorite comic strips.

We make quick work of cleaning up our mess, and then, like last night, Corey turns down the lights, and we sit on one of his ridiculously comfortable couches.

We’re not even halfway through the movie when I ask him to pause so I can take a restroom break from all the water I’ve drunk since arriving.

The backs of my thighs protest as I stand, and I make a pitiful groan. The soreness is bone-deep, reminding me of when I started playing competitively and practices stopped consisting of drills disguised as games and became about conditioning and efficiency.

Corey’s bathroom is a carbon copy of mine, but smells like him. The entire space shines like it was recently cleaned, and I can’t help but wonder if it was for me.

The thought makes a bed in my thoughts and settles in.

“Where are you sore?” Corey asks when I return.

“Everywhere.” I release a soft laugh. “Apparently, I’m not working hard enough on arm days or leg days, or anything days for that matter.”

He shifts, moving to the end of the couch, and parts his legs before patting the spot in front of him, indicating for me to sit there.

“I can’t…”

“Why?”

Because it would blur the lines further. Because I’d enjoy it too much. Because I’m already struggling to remember why I’m not supposed to ask him to put his hands on me—all over me.

“Fallon, you’ll hurt more if we don’t work out some of that lactic acid.”

I know I should tell him I’m fine, pop a couple of ibuprofen, and move on, but instead, I sit between his thighs and try to remember how to breathe when he hits play and then places his hands on my shoulders.

“Relax,” he says as he gently but firmly runs his thumb along my right shoulder blade.

I nearly scoff. Relaxing right now is an impossible feat.

Similar to last night, we watch the movie in silence, only today I can’t steal glances in his direction, but his strong hands remain on me, rubbing my shoulders, neck, and back until I’m boneless and cursing the credits that come too soon.

I arrive at The Spiced Chai twenty minutes early, my breaths still labored from my workout. The barista who heard my outburst when I invited Lexie smiles at me from behind the counter. Too embarrassed to show my face, I choose a table near the back and take out my phone to catch up on work emails while I wait for Kelly.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kelly says as she slips into the seat across from me thirty minutes later. She’s wearing a hot pink headband, and her eyes are slightly puffy, like she just woke up.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“How are you such a morning person? How long have you been up?”

“It’s too hot to run in the afternoon. I have to do it in the morning, or I become a puddle.”

“You went running before coming here?”

“Have you seen how fast Danvers from Notre Dame is? I have to keep up with her and not look like I’ll keel over in the process.”

Kelly stares at me for a second and then shakes her head. “You’re crazy.” She turns, looking at where a short line has formed at the counter. “We should have picked a diner. I want hashbrowns. Think they have hashbrowns?”

I recently finished one of my largest paid jobs and don’t feel even an ounce of guilt for preparing to indulge this morning. “Next time. I want to try one of the breakfast wraps and the cherry and cheese pastries they have here.”

With a grunt of acceptance, we join the line and talk about the weather, the heat index, and surface topics that make time pass easily.

I try not to make eye contact with the barista as I place my order and quickly hand over my debit card.

We return to our seats with coffees in hand.

“I heard we’re scrimmaging with the boys again today,” Kelly says, taking a drink.

I study her, looking for any veiled significance in her words. We’ve conditioned and scrimmaged with them three times now, and the last time, Rafael left the field with Kelly over his shoulder.

“Will we continue scrimmaging them once the season starts?”

Kelly shakes her head. “Coach Mackenzie would rather eat nightcrawlers than let the boys on the pitch with us.”

I chuckle, not surprised in the least. Our team’s dynamics are different when the boys work out with us. Several of the girls become giggly and others a little ditzy, as though they’re afraid to show their athleticism, while others rise to the challenge and become ruthless and overly physical, like they have to prove themselves.

“You know, you kind of play like a guy.”

I raise my brows, amused or maybe offended, though many have referred to my competitive nature as masculine over the years. “What do you mean?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know exactly. I think it’s how you sometimes explode while dribbling or how much ground you cover.” She shrugs. “I don’t mean it offensively or anti-anything. I’m all rah-rah, women power.”

“I grew up playing with my three brothers,” I admit.

“I can tell.”

“What got you into soccer?”

Kelly grins. “My dad got lost taking me to a gymnastics class my mom had signed me up for. He’d pulled over to look up directions next to a field where kids were playing soccer, and I begged him to skip the class and let me play. The rest is history.”

“A happy accident,” I say, raising my coffee.

“Cheers to that,” she says, bumping her cup against mine.

We talk for an hour, sharing stories of our past and school before we get up, ready to leave for practice. As we’re throwing away our trash, the door opens with a jolt that has me looking over to see a blonde-haired man wearing pants that cinch above his ankles, a tank top, and a bowler hat. Tattoos paint both his arms. A beard and low messy bun complete his hipster look.

Lexie was into hipsters a few years ago, intrigued by their known associations with environmentalism, style, and progressive nature, but after dating a couple of them, she concluded they were primarily frauds.

I barely overhear him order something with over a dozen modifications as I follow Kelly to the door.

“What do you mean you don’t have oat milk?” The volume of the hipster’s voice has me looking back. The barista looks like a deer caught in the headlights. I’m pretty sure I would, too, if I were in her shoes.

“I’m sorry. We have either soy or almond milk,” she tells him.

“How do you not have oat milk?”

I glance around, hoping others are ready to object, but the only movement comes from someone reaching for their phone.

“I’m sorry. It’s not something we carry at this time. I’d be happy to make your latte with soy or almond milk, though. Or perhaps you’d like to try tea or juice?”

“I could never work in customer service,” Kelly whispers. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

“I’ll catch up with you.”

Kelly raises her brow. “What?”

“I don’t want to leave her alone with that jerk.”

“Others are here. Besides, she’ll be fine. He’s an asshole, not a predator.”

“I’m already dressed for practice,” I insist. “I’ll see you in just a few.”

“Becca will literally eat your liver if you’re late.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

With a final look of doubt, Kelly leaves.

I make my way up to the counter, nerves thick in my blood. I hate confrontation.

“I want you to call someone who will bring oat milk,” the hipster says.

I clear my throat. “There’s a coffee shop two blocks west of here with a cupcake on the banner that carries oat milk,” I tell him.

He turns to look at me. “That’s ridiculous. I’m here.”

I nod and pull a twenty-dollar bill from my bag. “Here. This should cover your breakfast. Why don’t you go check it out?”

He scoffs and turns to the barista. “Just give me my damn scone.”

The barista stares at him for a long second and then nods. “That will be four dollars and twelve cents.”

“Four dollars for a fucking scone?”

“That means you’ll have sixteen bucks left for a coffee,” I remind him.

He scowls at me. “Add a drip coffee,” he demands before shoving the bill I gave him at the barista.

She glances at me, looking reluctant to process the payment.

I offer a single nod.

She rings him up and gives him the change, an empty coffee cup, and the scone.

The hipster goes to the drink counter and makes a deliberate mess, spilling sugar packets across the counter before he leaves with a middle finger directed at us.

“I’m so sorry about that,” the barista says. “Here.” She opens her cash register.

“No. Don’t worry about it. Hopefully, he uses it to buy a new personality or lunch and will be served a side of E. coli.”

She laughs out loud.

“Can I get you something else? A coffee to go or maybe a piece of coffee cake?”

I shake my head again. “No, but I hope he doesn’t come back.”

She grins. “I’m kind of hoping he does. My boyfriend’s going to be here in about fifteen minutes, and he’d love to meet him.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “In that case, I’ll send him back if I pass him.”

“Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

I sprint to practice, intent on preserving my liver.