Parker (Face-Off 1)

The money is already in his hand by the time Alex turns, his laughter aimed at me. “Are you getting a little rusty now that you’re in retirement, Coach? Do we have to break out your walker?”

I move closer and slap him on his bicep, which does nothing because his arms are like steel. It actually hurts me more than him. “Ha! Keep it up, Parker, and I’ll make you run the suicides my team got out of doing this week.”

Alex bends down and whispers into my ear, his breath making my skin tingle and my body tense up, “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

We engage in a staring contest, my hormones going apeshit as he brushes my arms with his fingers, before Jamie clears his throat in the most obnoxious manner possible.

“You

r sauce is burning,” Jamie says, pointing at the saucepan that’s bubbling over.

Alex takes a wooden spoon from the counter, lifts the rattling lid, the sauce making popping sounds, and he stirs it until it simmers down. “I didn’t know you were having company. I was hungry and thought maybe you’d want to have dinner with me.”

I can tell he’s disappointed that he has to share me with Jamie. He wouldn’t be the first client to think that we’re dating. Most of the time, I let them believe that’s the truth, which is why Jamie usually pretends like he’s my boyfriend, acting more affectionate toward me when we’re in public, like how he did after Alex’s first home game. Now, Jamie has his chest pressed against my back, and his palm is cupping my shoulder. This is normal for us, all of it part of the facade.

Alex acknowledges Jamie’s gesture, and I feel like I’m a T-bone steak trapped between two pit bulls who are ready to rip each other’s throats out. Based on the evil eye Alex gives Jamie, I can only assume Jamie is throwing warning daggers with his eyes.

After an awkward pause, Rico breaks the silence. “Can I get my sundae already? I want vanilla with chocolate syrup and sprinkles.”

Jamie sets the sack down and lifts the tubs out of the bag. I take that as my cue to grab four bowls from the cabinet next to Alex and spoons from the drawer below it.

Before I spin around to help with making sundaes, I say to Alex, “I’ll have dinner with you, but I think I’ll have my dessert first, if that’s all right.” My tone is playful, suggestive even, and now, I see what Jamie was talking about earlier. I am flirting with Alex.

He smiles, but it’s forced, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Clearly, he’s upset because Jamie is here. Weird.

“Yeah, no worries. Whatever you want, Coach.”

In the past, I’d never felt uncomfortable when Jamie marked his territory over me. Being in the same room with Alex and Jamie, the room feels too small, despite the vaulted ceilings and spacious, modern layout. Even though I shouldn’t like Alex, I do. Last night, I shared a part of myself with him that I keep hidden from the world. It was the first time I wanted to talk to someone other than Jamie about my past.

By the time Jamie scoops ice cream into the bowls, Rico has already flipped the top on the sprinkles, spilling some of the rainbow colors onto the table. A minute later, Rico has a field day with the chocolate syrup and manages to get it all over his jersey and down his forearm.

I wet a dishtowel and clean his arm. “Take your jersey off, so I can get the stain out. Your mother is going to have a fit if you come home like this.”

Rico pulls it over his head, leaving on the white tee underneath, and hands it to me. When I dab at the stain, the chocolate spreads from the black mesh to the gold material of his number.

Frustrated, I let out a groan. “I’ll be right back.”

Jamie nods and continues to chew his food while Rico smiles between bites, flashing a set of syrup-smeared teeth. Alex is busy mixing sauce into his pasta. With all the tension in the room, I’m happy I have an excuse to leave, and I set off toward the laundry room down the hall from my bedroom.

Laying the jersey down on the washing machine, I lean over and grab a half-full bottle of detergent from the shelf above the dryer. I’ve ruined my fair share of uniforms over the years. Most of them, I received from donations made by parents whose children attended my school. It’s not like any of my foster parents would’ve spent a cent of the board payment they collected each month to buy me anything other than the macaroni and cheese or spaghetti we ate almost every night.

I wore clothes until they were so tight, I couldn’t move or breathe in them and shoes that had holes so wide, you could fit your hand inside, the soles practically falling off. The moment I was old enough to get working papers, I got a job at the McDonald’s near my house for some pocket change and basketball sneakers. I couldn’t play if my kicks were busted, and with how fast I’d grown and in such a short period of time, I had to wear some of Jamie’s clothes in between paychecks.

After I flip the jersey inside out and rub the detergent into the stain, it starts to fade, but I need to hit it with water. I turn around to leave, so I can wet it under the bathroom sink, shocked to find Alex leaning against the doorframe, looking as though he’s holding up the wall with his strong arms that are chiseled to perfection.

My mind goes blank when I take in the sight of him. Of all the gorgeous athletes I’ve worked with over the years, I’ve never felt as oddly connected to any of them as I do with Alex. He doesn’t speak right away, just watches me for a few seconds, a huge grin on his ridiculously handsome face.

“Is everything okay?” I wonder but end up saying aloud.

“I came to see if you needed some help. I’ve had to scrub blood from my jerseys more times than I can count.” He steps into the room, sucking up all the air as he moves forward. The close proximity and the fact that I have nowhere to move in such a cramped space makes me feel slightly claustrophobic.

“Um…” I’m not sure how to respond because he keeps inching further into the room until my back is pinned against the washer. This man does not seem to understand personal space.

“During the last game of the finals, I was so pissed that we were down in the series by two. I was angry, sad, and all sorts of fucked up over my father’s death, pretty much hating everything at that moment. Long story short, I head-butted a player on the other team. I knew I’d get ejected for it, but I didn’t really give a shit, and when I got back to the locker room, I had his blood all over me. So, if you need help with this,” he says, taking the jersey from my hand, “I’m kind of an expert.”

I doubt he realizes the player he head-butted is one of my clients. But I don’t want to ruin the moment.