Beauty and the Baller

He’s wearing his teaching clothes, a pair of gray slacks and a long-sleeved tailored blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up. His back is tense, his strides long.

“Ronan, wait,” I call, but he keeps going.

I’m out of breath by the time we step outside to the sidewalk that leads to the field house.

I glance at his hard, chiseled jawline. “I started my period.”

His nose flares.

“You told me to tell you,” I remind him lightly.

“Good,” he bites out.

“What you saw, it wasn’t what you think. He asked to speak to me in private. It was good—”

He jerks to a stop, putting his hands on his hips, his face flat. But those eyes. Boy. They are blazing. “Was it? I guess so. He had his hands all over you. And his mouth!”

“He kissed me,” I say calmly. “I didn’t want him to.”

“I didn’t see you pushing him off!”

“You didn’t give me time. You came looking for me?” I give him my sweet smile.

“I’ve been gone. I wondered where my goddamn PA was,” he says, then starts walking again.

I glare at his back, then take off after him.

He swings open the door to his office and marches in. I follow and slam the door, then jerk the blinds shut on the windows. If he wants a showdown, we’ll have one.

He’s already stomped to his closet when I turn. A sharp inhale comes from me when I take in what’s on his desk: a dozen or so yellow rosebuds with bright-green magnolia leaves tucked around them in the vase. A Dairy Queen Blizzard with M&M’S, my favorite, sits next to them.

My breath hitches. I carefully pluck one of the buds from the vase and twirl it between my fingers. The creamy petals haven’t unfurled yet, and I rub it against my cheek.

I open the closet door. His back is to me as he whips off his shirt and tosses it on the floor with force. He stops and scrubs his face. “Leave me alone, Nova. You don’t want to be around me right now.”

I clear my throat as I enter. “He and I . . . we never had closure, and he wanted forgiveness.” I stare down at the rose. “That story I told you in the bookstore? I never finished it. Andrew came—”

“Don’t say his name,” he growls.

I huff. “Fine. He came to New York before his wedding, and we made plans. I was going to leave NYU and come back to UT. Then he changed his mind and left.”

He turns around, legs planted wide, arms crossed. “You still have feelings for that asshole.”

“No. I mean, it was a shock to see him after so long that first day. Regardless . . . I want to forgive him. It gives me peace.” I take a step toward him. “He made the wrong choices, but it worked out for me.”

He captures my gaze, holding it captive. “Really.”

“Mm-hmm.” I ease closer, wary, as if I’m approaching a tiger, taking in his sculpted chest, the six-pack on his abdomen, the way his slacks hang on his lean hips.

His lashes flutter. “Jesus. You were all I could think about in Austin.”

“Me puking or the awesome sex in your pantry?”

“Mostly the sex.”

“Honest. I like it.” I twirl the rose across his chest, grazing his collarbone, over to his shoulder. “You bought me flowers.”

“I missed you,” he growls. “I got them myself. No one did it for me.”

“Wow, you’re a big boy.” Smiling, I come closer and lean my head on his chest as I wrap my arms around his waist. “And the Blizzard?”

“Is melted.” His fingers land on my hips as his chin rests on the top of my head.

“It’s my favorite,” I whisper. “I’m glad to see you. We didn’t get to talk before you left.”

He sighs. “I recall saying a lot in your bathroom. About a crossroads . . .” He exhales. “I—I need to tell you something.”

I start at the uncertainty in his voice. “Okay.”

“One minute, I was sitting in a restaurant in Austin with five other coaches discussing the new regulations for next year, and this girl walks in and . . .” His words trail off.

“Was she pretty?”

“No, it wasn’t that. She rushes up to this guy at the bar, and he picks her up and swings her around, then kisses her. Like, really lays one on her. People around them hooted and clapped. They sat down and ordered drinks but barely drank them. They just kept smiling, leaning in, and touching each other’s faces. You know what I saw when I looked at them?”

“What?”

“Joy. Pure rapture. It’s as if no one else was in that room but them, you know? Not the customers. Not the bartender or servers. Then before I knew it, fifteen minutes have passed, and the coaches are waiting for me to answer a question I never heard . . .”