Say You Swear

Noah simply says, “Will do.”

Brady chuckles next to me, pulling me into a hug. “Funny how these plans popped out of nowhere, ain’t it, and the dude, too?” he whispers.

“Sorry,” I mumble into his sweater.

Brady hates lies. He’s our voice of reason in his own crazy, horn-dog way, and he pretty much just covered my ass. “Don’t worry about it. Had they asked outright, I’d have told ‘em. Lucky for you, they didn’t, so all’s good.”

I pull back and smile. “See you in class tomorrow.”

“I’ll be the sexy one in the front.” He grins and I smack his shoulder.

With a refreshing inhale and a new sense of ease, I turn to Noah.

He smiles, forcing one from me in return.

“Ready?”

Slowly, he nods.

“Bye guys,” I say but don’t look their way.

I fall in line with Noah, and together, we head for the nearest exit.

“Oh my god, Noah, it smells stupid good,” I say as I step out of the restroom.

I follow the sound of his soft chuckle into the little kitchen nook, right as he pulls a chicken breast off of the small countertop grill and begins slicing it into long strips.

“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, peeking over his shoulder as he stirs the meat into the bowl of homemade chicken alfredo, he whipped up like nothing and in no time at all.

“My mom.” He smiles. “She had me help her with dinner every night, said I’d need to learn for moments like this.” He tosses me a wink.

“Smart woman.” I smirk, resting my chin on my elbow against the counter.

“Yeah.” He chuckles, but it’s a weighted sound that makes me look from the food to him.

A small frown creases his forehead, but he doesn’t say anything, so I don’t ask what brought them there.

I want to, but don’t.

“Where are your plates and stuff?” I push up. “Least I can do is get those ready.”

“There’s a stack of paper plates above the microwave. Hope that works for you.”

“My mom said she had children so she didn’t have to wash dishes ever again. So yeah, paper plates are perfect.” I laugh and he joins in.

“Smart woman.”

“Right? It was a joke, but I can see the appeal.”

Noah chuckles as he turns the burner off and rinses his hands in the teeny sink next to the teeny stove. “Want to grab some drinks and I’ll clean off the coffee table so we can eat more comfortably?”

“Yep.” I set the paper plates next to the stove, my eyes flicking to the small table against the wall. It’s a two-seater table, not quite big enough to fit Noah’s long legs under, let alone a second person’s.

“This place is pretty dope,” I shout. “From the outside, you’d never know it was here.”

He steps from around the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. “Yeah, my coach calls it the perks of being team captain, but sometimes the space isn’t worth all the shit I have to deal with in the house. It does make it easier to try and keep the first years in semi-check, though.”

“So, you’re basically the designated party pooper?”

“Nah.” He pours the pasta into a large bowl and nods his head, motioning for me to walk ahead of him.

Snatching the plates, I lead us into the living room, listening as he explains further.

“I let them have their fun, it’s a part of the whole experience they earned by getting here. As long as they’re respectful and keep it to a minimum through the week, they know Saturdays are usually their free nights to live it up.”

I nod and take the seat next to him on the corduroy-looking couch, setting our drinks down.

“Now in the off season…” He shakes his head with a grin. “It gets a bit wild.”

“I bet.” I kick off my slides, folding my legs up. “Spring back home was nuts, but definitely more fun around the house. The boys weren’t so strict on themselves since football was over, which meant they weren’t so hard on us.” I shake my head with a grin. “Not that football was ever really ‘over.’ There were always camps or something or another, but no actual games meant we could party a bit.”

“Yeah, light training and no coach on your ass.” He laughs. “I’m just glad there’s a door at the bottom of the stairs instead of the top. Keeps the wild ones away, and I don’t have to worry about drunk people falling down and busting their heads open when they’re lost looking for the bathroom.”

“Come on.” He nudges my shoulder. “Scoop your plate first, so I feel like a gentleman.”

Leaning forward, I do as he asks, admitting, “And I was over here trying to be polite by waiting for your go-ahead, but fair warning, I’m known to eat like a man, so no judging.”