4. Shira

CHAPTER FOUR

Shira

"What an asshole!" I yell as I slam my foot on the brake. I glance over at Blake to see if he'll grab the door handle. Joke's on me, because he hasn't let go of it for the last ten miles. "I mean…the guy cut me off."

"If driving is stressing you out, I can take over," he offers. Though what it sounds like is that my driving is stressing him out.

Felix laughs, not for the first time since we left. I pretend to check the mirror and shoot him a look in the rearview. Quit that. It only makes him grin harder.

"So," Blake says, "does everyone from New England drive like this?"

"Massachusetts," Felix corrects from the back. "People from Massachusetts drive like this."

"Yeah," I call, "mostly because people from Vermont take twenty-five years to execute a left-hand turn."

Felix's laughter fills the car. The same booming laugh that shook his thighs while I was on his lap. My face warms involuntarily. Good thing the heater's running full blast and I'm olive-skinned enough for a blush not to show through.

Blake turns to me in question, hand relaxing but not quite relenting the door handle.

"Felix is from…" I begin, then trail off. Because there's no good reason for me to know where he's from. I swallow around my nerves. "I just figured with the name that he's from Vermont." Though I guess he could be Cajun or from Quebec or from any of the million other places that speak French.

"It's true," Felix concurs. "I am from Vermont."

Blake has to relinquish his grip on the door to turn toward the conversation. Even with the seat back as far as it will go, his knees stick up. He can't be that comfortable in the dip of Lilac's passenger seat. Even so, he hasn't complained: not at my driving and not at the traffic that's varying between a race and a crawl.

"I don't know that I've met anyone from Vermont before." A smooth Blake answer, like he's either being polite to Felix or he wants to save me from being embarrassed even if he's not sure why. My heart does a thing, a skipped beat. He's so considerate toward me…and I'm lying about kissing his teammate, if only by omission.

"I grew up on a farm," Felix says.

"Oh yeah?" Blake says. "What'd your people raise?"

"Dairy. Some vegetables." It's short, the way Felix never was about the farm. "They were thinking about planting some alfalfa."

"Sounds nice."

"Yeah," Felix growls, "it was."

The was catches me. For a second, that hangs in the air between us. Is something going on with the farm? I have Felix's number, mostly because he needed mine to Venmo money for my nails and hair—always with a little musical note emoji—that sometimes got used for gas and groceries toward the end of the month. He texted me a few pictures last year—before June when I'd thank him for the money—and after June when he asked how I was. Those texts I left on read, but I always saved the photos. Eventually he stopped sending pictures when I didn't answer. Hell, he probably deleted the whole album or found another dancer to show them to.

"I don't think I could be a farmer," I say. "I wouldn't want to get up early."

That gets Felix's low chuckle. "It's not so bad. You get to talk to the cows in the morning."

"What do you talk to cows about?" I ask.

A question met with silence. "Doesn't much matter," Felix says eventually. "I don't get home much during the season."

"You'll see 'em in July, right?" Blake asks.

I turn to him. "What's in July?"

"The All-Star Break," Felix grinds out. It takes a second for me to realize why he's angry—Blake's assuming he won't be an All-Star. At the club, when guys got like this, I'd wave over a friend. Most guys calm down with the judicious application of glitter and women saying That's so interesting at everything they say, especially when it's not. I don't think that's gonna work right now.

Okay, plan B. "What'd you want to be when you grew up?" I ask Blake.

He blinks at me, twice. "A ballplayer."

Right, should have seen that one coming. "Felix, how about you?"

"A farmer."

"Not a player for the Boston Monsters?" I prod.

"Yeah," he concedes, "that too." A brief silence settles over the car. "Um, how about you?"

Of course, he already knows the answer—because he asked me the last time we saw each other. I try to keep my voice even. "I always wanted to dance."

"Any particular kind of dance?" Felix asks.

I can't help it. I mutter really? under my breath.

That gets Blake's attention. You okay? he mouths at me as if he's ready to throw Felix from the car at my request.

He wouldn't do that if he knew the truth. I swallow my guilt and motion to the windshield. "Truck up ahead just pumped its brakes."

Blake frowns like he doesn't quite believe me but has been told it's rude to contradict a lady. Given the circumstances, I'll fucking take it. I smile at him, sweet. His answering grin is just a fraction lopsided. Even his imperfections are perfect. I have no idea what he's doing with me.

Still, I square my shoulders and answer Felix in my most innocent tone. "All kinds of dance, really. Mostly ballet, but there's benefit to diversifying. So I did some jazz, even some tap." And some exotic . I swallow that. "You ever just get an itch under your skin that makes you need to move? I guess I got that."

"I don't think I could do that," Felix says. "Have all those people watch me while I was up on stage."

At that, I crane my neck back—briefly, so as not to take my eye off traffic. "You know they watch you play baseball, right?"

"Yeah, but I get to wear a hat."

I can't help it—I laugh. For a second, it's like old times: us hanging out together, drinking, telling each other about our day. Friends . Except for how I was in mesh lingerie and he was doling out twenties.

When I stop laughing, Blake is studying me. He doesn't look pissed. But then I've never really seen him look pissed. That's what Blake asked me the first time we met: why everyone in New England looked so angry all the time.

I told him it was probably because of all the anger.

"Do you still dance?" Blake asks me.

"Occasionally."

"How come only occasionally?"

A throb goes through me, this one dangerously akin to longing. It catches me off-guard, how much I miss dancing—the competence I felt on a stage, even one with a pole as its centerpiece. "You know, stuff happens."

"You don't seem like the type of person to let stuff get in the way of what you want." Blake smiles at me, that movie-star smile like he's never had a dream shrivel up on him.

Yeah, well, my dream died when I was eighteen. I bite that back. Blake shouldn't see that side of me: not the dancer who worried about making it from one month to the next. Who used to writhe in Felix's lap for money. Who kissed Felix.

My teeth tighten on my lip at the memory of that kiss. "I guess I could get back to dancing at some point." There, nice and vague.

"I bet you'd be great on stage." This from Felix, who grins when I glare at him in the rearview.

Blake frowns again minutely, like he's picking up on Felix being weird. Or not weird. Flirting. Fuck.

"If I end up doing any community recitals, I'll be sure to tell Blake to invite the team." Maybe it's mean to remind Felix he probably won't be on the Monsters this year, but at least that teasing smile fades.

Blake leans across the center console to plant a kiss on my cheek. "If that happens, let me know what kind of flowers I should bring you."

Calla lilies. Irises. Bound up in a purple ribbon. "Oh, anything's good, really. I don't have strong opinions."

That gets me another kiss, Blake's gentle laugh, and a noise suspiciously like Felix snorting in disbelief. I'm about to wheel around to ask him—nicely—to shut the fuck up when the driver in front of us really does slam their brakes.

Before us, a line of traffic winds its way up and over the next rise. I slow down and join the crawl. We're gonna be here a while.

For the first few hours, Blake and Felix split their time between reading a giant book about Rome (Felix), trying to make conversation (Blake), and asking if I'm sure I don't want him to take over driving (also Blake).

Eventually, I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration—briefly, because traffic has been a nightmare—and say, "So how're the Monsters' chances this season?"

"Not great," Felix says, at the same time Blake says, "Pretty good!"

Felix snorts. "You don't need to lie to her."

Blake huffs. "It's not lying. It's optimism ."

"What's the difference?" Felix shoots back.

"Why'd you sign here if the team isn't good?" I blurt.

"Well"—Blake adopts a tone like he might with the media—"every team has its strengths and weaknesses."

A non-fucking-answer. Felix must hear it too, because for a second, the only noise is him shifting around in the back. And a low, Why'd you sign here at all?

"What was that?" Blake asks, as if he heard him perfectly.

"Nothing." Felix shifts again. Lilac's springs whine a concurrence. "Boston's a passionate sports town."

"So I've heard."

"Everyone's very direct and honest with their feedback."

"Heard that too."

"You sure you're ready for that?" Felix asks.

That catches Blake off guard. "Guess we'll see." Then he reaches across the center console and squeezes my knee. "But there are some pretty clear upsides already."

And if I didn't know any better, I'd say that Felix flopping across the stretch of Lilac's backseat had an especially argumentative tone. Along with a faintly muttered, Guess we'll see , before he goes back to his book.

After six hours of hard driving, we roll our way through the Philly suburbs toward our two-bedroom rental house, one of the few places with available beds. Once flights were canceled, the entire East Coast all had the same idea: drive . Every hotel room between here and Richmond got booked up.

When I turn off the highway, road conditions immediately worsen. Snow coats the untreated asphalt. I tap Lilac's brakes to avoid skidding—they're anti-lock, but I don't really want to test that.

"You okay?" Blake's hand is back on the door handle.

"I should be." Even as fear contracts my belly.

"Do you want me to drive?"

I'm not surprised that he's offering. Tension sits on my shoulders. My hands are practically strangling the wheel. "Lilac's pretty specific in how she handles."

And right now she's handling like someone who's trying out five-inch heels for the first time. My phone's mounted on the dashboard with my navigation app displayed. We're eating blue line between here and the rental. We just have to make it that far.

"Just seems like you might want someone to take over," he says.

Some part of me wants to—to let another person be in charge for once. Another fiercer part wants to snap that I've been taking care of myself since I was eighteen years old and don't need his help.

I swallow that down. Men like him don't like girls like you . "I got this," I say softly.

"What do you need to get there?" It's not Blake who asks—it's Felix, who's been woken up from his nap. His voice is scratchy with sleep. I can practically hear his bedhead, and it feels…close, intimate, in the quiet dark of the car.

"Just let me take my time," I say.

"Of course," Blake murmurs. From the back Felix concurs. Practically the first thing they've agreed on all day.

That makes me breathe a little easier. Right. I have a dancer's reflexes and an understanding of Lilac's eccentricities. I've been on my own for more than six years. I can do this. I can do this.

It takes almost half an hour to go the mile and a half to the rental house. We creep along, my foot poised above the brake pedal, Lilac's hazards telling other drivers—ones in hulking SUVs or with better tires—to speed past.

By the time we get there, my muscles are stiff. Sweat dots my brow. Finally, finally, I pull into the driveway—and Lilac slips.

Skids a little on the untreated driveway.

I pump the brakes. We could slide backward into the road, we could get clipped by a passing car, we could?—

Roll to a gentle stop a few feet in front of the garage door.

Fuck.

We made it.

For a second I just sit. Then I cut the engine, breathe for the first time for what feels like hours. Shake my fist at the snow still falling outside the car. "Hey, take that, ice." I turn to Blake. "I got us here. Lilac got us here."

Blake laughs. "Can't forget about Lilac. She's the real MVP."

I pat the cracked leather of her dashboard. "Yeah, she is." Relief fizzes my brain. A laugh works its way up my throat.

"You good?" Blake asks.

"Kiss me."

He plants a gentle kiss on my cheek. That won't do.

"I don't get more than that?" I don't wait for his answer before I lever myself over the center console and crawl into his lap. That's better. Some things are easier to say without words.

Blake's hands find my waist, the tense muscles of my lower back. "You're all wound up."

Fuck, am I. "Nothing like a little mortal danger to really put things in perspective."

"Mortal danger?" But his eyes are shining with laughter.

I nod, fake seriously. "You never know with black ice." I pick his hand up, place it on my chest, high up on my ribs against the thump of my heartbeat. "See, that's adrenaline."

"Just adrenaline?" Blake breathes.

"You tell me." And lean in for a kiss.

A noise from the back interrupts us—Felix, clearing his throat. I drag my face up from Blake's shoulder to meet Felix's gaze. He's looking at me. Staring . Between his hat and beard and the darkness of the car, it's hard to make out his expression, but his eyes practically glow in the dark like coals.

Blake shifts me around so he can pull his phone from his pocket, then texts something one-handed. Two phones buzz—mine where it's mounted on the dashboard and presumably Felix's. "There's a box by the door with the key in it," Blake says. "I sent the code if you want to go ahead, Paquette."

Felix doesn't move.

Until Blake clears his throat. "Don't wait on our account." The Blake version of get the fuck out.

Finally, Felix opens the back door—Lilac's hinges squeak reassuringly—hauls himself out on the driveway, and shuts the door. Hard .

The second he's gone, Blake wraps his arms tight around me. He nuzzles the crown of my head. "Sweetheart, you did so good."

"You haven't seen good yet," I crow.

Blake laughs. "You New England girls are pretty tough."

Tough . Great. Tough is for overcooked steak and old shoes. You don't date tough . You admire it and move on from it. "I don't feel so tough right now." I feel like I want a shower, an orgasm, a hot meal, and a deep stretch . Not necessarily in that order.

Blake tilts my chin up. "Promise me something."

"Whatever you want." I roll my hips for emphasis.

Blake's eyes darken. He smiles at me, a version of his smile I haven't seen before, something teasing. "Promise me…" he says.

I roll my hips again. This I know—this is what I'm good at. I let a few strands of hair slip from my bun, the tips of which brush his face. "Whatever you want," I purr.

"Promise me that you'll let me drive tomorrow," he says.

Oh. He's being thoughtful and I'm being…desperate. Or about to pop from frustration. "Sure," I say, "you can drive all the way to Florida if you want."

"I just might. Now c'mon, let's go warm up." And he opens the door and offers me a gentlemanly hand. "Careful, there's ice."

For a second, I study his palm. "I'm used to this weather," I say. You don't have to do this for me. I can take care of myself.

That gets his smile. "Then you should make sure I don't slip."

"Well, if you need the help…" And I put my hand in his.

We spend the next few minutes gathering our luggage and carrying our suitcases up the short stone walkway to the house.

"Hold on." Blake busies himself scraping the soles of his shoes against the path. At first, I think he's just vigilant about wiping snow off his feet, until he nods like he's confirming something. "Here we go."

And picks me up, bridal style, settling me into the strong cradle of his arms.

"Your shoulder!" But I'm laughing. "What are you doing?"

"Practicing doing this for real. Now hold on." And he maneuvers open the front door and carries me right over the threshold.

Some cynical part of me—the Boston part, the dancer part—thinks it's a put-on. How many other women has he done this with? That doesn't stop me from melting against him, from nestling my face against his chest.

Maybe I shouldn't trust this. He's about to be in Florida for six whole weeks. Ballplayers aren't exactly known for their fidelity. Can he even sleep around on me if we haven't slept together?

Well, only one way to solve that…

Except Blake pauses in the living room. "You get lost?" he asks. It takes a second to realize he's not talking to me.

Because Felix is standing—lurking, really—by the counter separating the living room from the kitchen, a dark shape outlined by a strip of overhead lights. "Didn't know which room you wanted," he says. "I know some people have preferences about sleeping arrangements."

I giggle—I can't help it, my laughter dissolving into Blake's shirt like we've been caught sneaking in. "Babe, you can put me down."

Instead, Blake tightens his grip. "Any opinion on beds, sweetheart?"

Yes, you and me in one, ASAP. "Dealer's choice."

For some reason, that answer makes Felix grin. "Sure. Just thought I'd ask." And he wheels his suitcase toward the hallway.

A tendon in Blake's neck jumps. He makes a noise low in his chest, a grumble of irritation. So, they're gonna be like this. Better angry than suspicious .

I tap Blake's arm again; he startles like he's forgotten he's carrying me. "Okay, for real, put me down."

"If I have to." But he sets me on the beige living room carpet. "Sorry this place was all that was available."

As if there's some problem to be found in a snug split-level, with a '90s kitchen complete with oak cabinets and decorative chicken dishtowels. "This is fine," I say, then add, "I've definitely lived in worse."

"Huh." He considers. "How do you like your current apartment?"

"Why? Are you going to get me a new one?" I joke.

Except he shrugs like he might just do that. If he can't handle the fact I've lived in shitty apartments, in worse than shitty apartments, there's really no hope for him understanding anything else. "Babe, I like my apartment. It's really nice. It has an icemaker and a dishwasher."

"Well, if it's got both of those. Anyway, tomorrow, I'll get someplace nicer."

"Honestly, as long as this has a bed and a shower, I'm good. Speaking of…let's see what we're working with."

So we roll our suitcases down the narrow hallway that has three doors along one side. Behind the first, there's the faint shush of water running, as if Felix waited all of ten seconds before claiming the shower. Beyond that, two bedrooms sit side-by-side. The first door stands open; Felix's suitcase is laid out next to a palatial king bed.

"Guess we're taking the other room," Blake says.

Down the hallway at the next bedroom, Blake pauses in the doorway for a moment before he enters. "This'll be okay for the night."

This room is smaller—or maybe it just looks smaller. Two full-sized beds occupy most of it, each clad in a faded paisley bedspread, overseen by a large window that looks right out into the front yard. From the look of it, there aren't even blinds.

Oh, for fuck's sake, Felix. Of course he's doing this on purpose. "We should switch."

"Maybe it's better this way," Blake says. "Give you your space."

"I don't need—" I cut myself off. I want markedly less space in this relationship. But I don't want to push Blake. He should get to go at his own pace too. Maybe he's understandably wary about getting someone pregnant, even if I'm three years into a five-year IUD—a fact I've been trying, and failing, to slip into conversation for the past month.

So I try a different tactic. "Maybe two beds isn't so bad. We should test them out, just to be sure."

That gets Blake's smile. He seats himself on the edge of one of the beds—at least it doesn't groan. From there, it's easy to plant my knees on either side of him, to slide onto his lap. His hands find their way to my waist… Now we're getting somewhere.

I lean forward, about to kiss him, to see if this bed has springs that squeak like Lilac's brakes, when Blake's phone rings—an actual ring like he wants to make sure he gets the call. He groans as he pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen. "I gotta take this." Then he gently but firmly guides me off his lap.

Frustration gathers in my throat that fades just as quickly when Blake pinches the bridge of his nose, then says a weary, "Hey, one sec," to whoever's calling him. He covers the speaker with his palm, then turns to me. "You should grab a shower if you want. Are you hungry?"

My stomach answers for me, rumbling. Great, really sexy.

"I take it that's a yes," Blake laughs.

Outside, gusts of wind beat snow against the bedroom window. "I'd feel bad for making a delivery person go out in this."

"Good thing I asked the host leave a couple bags of groceries." Blake considers. "If Paquette hasn't taken those all too."

Something about the casual way he says it—of course Blake planned for food—makes me throw my arms around him until he almost drops his phone.

"Everything good?"

Oh, I'm being weird. "Most guys I've dated wouldn't have thought of that." Most guys I've dated wouldn't even ask if I wanted to split takeout .

"You should stop dating most guys." Blake strokes a hand down my side, pausing at the curve of my hip. "New agenda: Shower. Food. Sleep."

"Sounds good." Just add one more thing to that list. I tug playfully at the front of his shirt. "You could shower with me…" I whisper so whoever's calling doesn't overhear.

For a second, Blake looks like he might scoop me up again. Instead he kisses the top of my head. "You go on."

It's gentlemanly. Part of me—a few very specific parts—wants him to be a lot less fucking gentlemanly. But I set about grabbing my stuff.

When I get into the bathroom, it's still fogged with steam. A scent lingers: grass, sunshine. With them, the sudden memory of sitting on Felix's lap in a dark club.

Don't think about Felix. Easier to do in a room that doesn't smell like him.

I unpack my toiletries onto the counter between the dual his-and-hers sinks. As a kid, I always thought those were fancy, like refrigerators with built-in icemakers. Like dating a professional athlete .

That's enough to refocus me: life with Blake could mean doing my makeup at a sink like this while he pats in aftershave or pomades his hair. He said he was practicing carrying me over the threshold. I imagine us living together: not in a house but a penthouse apartment, high above the city. The kind of place that has a dance studio in the basement and maybe even my name on the lease. I'm not with Blake for his money, but there's a certainty about him that eases some of the humming tension I've had since I left home. How life could be easy, for once.

A life I could have if I leave my old one behind. If I leave everyone from it behind.

After I set out various products, I run the tap with the faucet handle turned all the way toward H . Sure enough, steaming water pours out without a rattle or cough from the pipes.

Tomorrow, we'll stay someplace nicer. When I got my current apartment, I spent a week obsessed with filling my water bottle from the icemaker on the front of the fridge. A reminder of how far I've come since I left home.

It's strange, being proud of something as simple as having made it through a bad situation. Even if I know the truth: no one gives you flowers for just having survived. Still, part of me wants to tell Blake about my past, to have him look at me just as adoringly when he knows who I really am. I guess I'll have to leave that behind too.

I climb in the shower, groan as water pounds my back. Oh, this feels good, incredible. Dancing never made me sore—I stretch, I hydrate, I do adequate cooldowns—but sitting still? I wasn't lying when I told Felix I could never do that.

A waterproof radio hangs from the shower caddy. I turn it on, scroll until I hit on a song I used to dance to at the club. Smells might have a way of taking you back, but nothing matches the nostalgia of music you used to strip to.

For while, I dance, I lather and rinse my hair, soap and scrub and shave. I'm done. Or I'm almost done. If we're sleeping in separate beds…

Water jets from the handheld showerhead. There's even a slider to adjust the spray pattern.

That'll work. I grab the showerhead, point it between my legs, toggle through the various flow settings until I hit one that makes me sigh. And I'm so busy with that that I—almost—don't hear the bathroom door creak open.

"Did you change your mind?" I call, expecting Blake's answer.

"Oh, fuck, Shira?" comes the reply. Not Blake. Felix .

I drop the showerhead. It clatters against the tub. There's no way Felix didn't hear that or my "oh shit" as water starts shooting up at me. I scramble. The showerhead is slippery with water, my hands slippery with nerves. It takes three tries and an eternity to stick it back in its mount.

Which just leaves me huffing and naked and exactly one shower curtain away from Felix. "You need a hand?" he asks.

"Felix, what the fuck are you doing in here?"

For whatever reason, he laughs.

Annoyance stiffens my spine. "What's funny?" I ask.

"You really do switch it on and off."

The correct thing to do would be to tell him—nicely—to remove himself from the bathroom until I'm done. The incorrect thing is what I actually do: poke my head out from the shower curtain. "I. Am. Showering."

"That all?" Like he knows exactly what I was up to.

I will not be embarrassed. He's the one who shouldn't be in the bathroom. If I told him to get out, he would. The problem is I'm not telling him—not when he's standing on the bathmat wearing a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants and not much else.

His hair is still damp from the shower. A few droplets cling to his chest hair. Even that beard doesn't look…entirely bad. I'm staring. But he's staring right back, long enough that I start to squirm. "What?" I demand.

"I've never seen you look…" He motions to my face, bare of makeup. To my hair, which is wetly plastered to my head. Soap bubbles are probably lingering on my neck. Not just club- naked—in lingerie and heels and a full face of makeup—but naked- naked.

"Well, you weren't supposed to see me. Why are you even in here?"

He holds up a limp bath towel. "Returning this."

"You didn't hear the water running?"

"Figured it was Forsyth."

"And it'd be cool if you just walked in on him?" I ask.

"You know the clubhouse showers are pretty much one big room, right?" But there's a smile playing at the edge of his mouth, like he came here to annoy Blake on purpose.

"Blake let me have the first shower." I don't know why, but it's important Felix knows that.

Felix snorts. "What a gentleman."

"He is."

"Didn't know that was your type."

"Yes, it's so strange that I'd go for a handsome, successful, gentlemanly professional athlete."

"And you're sure you're his type?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure." Except for how I'm not. The problem with Blake putting me on a pedestal is that it'll be a long fall off it.

"How come he's not in here with you?" Felix asks. No, not asks. Needles . Like he knows something is up. I open my mouth to tell him to mind his own fucking business when he adds, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"You shouldn't have."

"Listen, Shira, about all of this?—"

"Whatever you're gonna say can wait." Until I'm dressed. Until I'm not worried Blake's gonna catch us. Until I can stop thinking about you. "Now hang your towel up and get out."

And I drop the shower curtain and fling myself back under the water so I don't say something I can't take back. Like stay.