The Hot Shot(30)

I'm pretty sure I'll have to kill Finn if he starts trying to get me to go out with his friends.

The corners of Finn's mouth tightens. "Sorry, but he's taken."

"Good for him." And I mean it. I like Dex.

Finn grunts in response, and shifts his position on the couch, moving  his legs around as if he can't get comfortable. We're both out of sorts,  and I can't tell if we're trying to fight or not. The thought makes me  tired and depressed.

"You need a big ottoman to rest your feet on," I say, distracted.

"Usually I stretch out on the couch." Finn glances at his coffee table  then at me. "But you're right. An ottoman would be better. We should go  buy one."

We? Oh, hell. I curl up tighter into the corner of the couch. "You don't  have to go through all that. I can always sit on the chair and give you  the couch."

"Or you could sit on my lap."

"Cute."

"I thought so," he agrees.

It's our typical back and forth, but everything feels off. I'm tense as  hell, and he's lacking his usual easy charm. The glow of the TV paints  his face in flickering blues and reds. The lines of his face are  pinched, his shoulders held tight. His hand rests between us, large and  wide, the nails trimmed.

I know that, when stretched wide, his hand is ten and three-fourths  inches from the tip of his thumb to the tip of his pinky. They actually  measured it for the Scouting Combine before he was drafted. Because, as  Finn had once laughingly told me, hand size matters. Perhaps to the NFL  it does. Right now, I'm more worried about the way he digs his fingers  into the cushions as if he needs to hold on to something.

I want to pick up his hand, trace the bumps of his knuckles and the fine  fan of bones that lead to his wrist. But it isn't my place to do that  for him.

"I'm glad you're home." His voice is low but strong, and it resonates through my bones.

Our gazes meet. Looking directly at him aches, makes my head light and  my heart heavy. A petty, small part of me wants to yell at him for  having a life that doesn't involve me, for so clearly being gone on a  woman who isn't me. And I hate myself for that hypocrisy. He isn't mine.  I can't make those demands.                       
       
           


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But the tender, needy part of me wants to crawl into his lap and rest my  head on his shoulder. That's all I'd need right now. Just that. "Me  too."

That seems to please him, but the solemn expression doesn't ease. "You didn't have to leave, you know."

"Yeah, I did."

His gaze slides away. "Not for hours, you didn't."

There's a heaviness about him now, a slowness that isn't the Finn I  know. And I realize it's pain. He's in real pain. My throat closes in on  me and it's hard to say the words. "She broke your heart, didn't she?"

Finn flinches then holds himself utterly still, his lashes lowered. "I guess she did in a way."

I officially hate the woman.

"I thought you didn't date," I blurt out like an idiot.

The corner of his mouth quirks sadly. "I don't."

He doesn't expand on that, and I'm left confused with the hard hand of  jealousy pushing down on my chest. Clearly, I'm not good enough at  hiding my feelings because, when he glances at me, he does a double  take, his brows knitting together. "Chess-"

My phone pings with a text and then another one. Finn reaches for it as  if to hand it to me but freezes when he sees the screen. His nostrils  flare on an indrawn breath. "Who the hell is Nate?"

I have absolutely no reason to feel guilty. I snatch the phone out of his hand. "A bartender I met tonight."

"Tonight," he repeats as if it's a bad word. "And what does he mean when  he says you didn't tell him what kind of place you were looking for?"

I can almost hear his teeth grinding. My fingers curl around my phone.  "I'd rather leave before I overstay my welcome. That's just awkward, you  know?"

My joke falls flat. The muscle in his jaw bunches. "I said you could stay as long as you want, and I meant it."

"And I appreciate that. So much." A cold, sticky feeling lines my insides. "But I'm in your away. Tonight-"

"Jesus," he snarls, standing to pace away. "Is this about Britt showing up here?"

My face flushes hot. I officially hate her name too. "I've had roommates  in college, Finn. I'm don't want to relive listening to hookups while  stuck in my room."

He scowls. "You think I fucked her? Is that why you stayed away so  long?" He snorts, an ugly pissed off sound. "What am I saying? Of course  it is."

"I was being polite," I snap.

"Polite," he scoffs. "First off, I never bring a hookup to my home.  Ever. I don't want them knowing where I live. The last thing I need is a  stalker situation."

"Well, that's … bleak."

"It's reality, Chess. Mine." He sets his hands low on his hips as he  glares down at me. "I didn't fuck her. I haven't fucked anyone for six  damn months, if you want the truth."

"Wait, what? Why?" And, what? How can that be? Has he seen himself?

His expression turns pugnacious. "That's my business."

"Then why tell me?" I grit out.

Finn turns away, his face flushed, before pinning me with a look. "I  know I joke about hooking up and it gave you the impression that I'm a  player. That's on me." He takes a step in my direction, and the lines of  his body grow hard. "But you're talking of leaving because you think  I'm some revolving fuck door, and that's bullshit."

"I'm not judging you, Finn."

"Yeah you are," he says with a bitter laugh. "At least have the guts to admit that much."

"I freaked, okay? I didn't expect a woman to show up here because I  never picture you with other women." Only with me. "Not because I think  you're some walking sex act."

Finn blinks, his brows lifting high. An awkward silence falls over us,  and it's all I can do not to escape to the safe harbor of my room. But I  can't do that. "I'm sorry if I offended you," I tell him. "I don't know  how to navigate this roommate situation and it's confusing."

He gives a tight nod, then blows out a breath. "This isn't a prison,  Chess. I can't make you stay. And, frankly, I don't want you to stay if  you're uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable-"

"But if you want to know how I feel about it," he cuts in. "I want you  here. My life is better with you in it. I look forward to coming home.  To you. And I really don't give a shit if that makes me a selfish  bastard." With that, he turns and heads for his room. "If still you want  to move, I'll help you find a place in the morning."                       
       
           


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Chapter Eleven





Finn



* * *



I wake with a stiff back and throbbing head. It's par for the course  after a game. Doesn't make it more bearable, though. The pain is bad  enough to have me limping to the shower. Five pain killers and thirty  minutes of standing under blistering hot water helps me feel almost  human. I'm still sore, and my skull feels like glass, but I'll manage.

What isn't going away is the shitty heaviness in my chest when I think  of last night. I was over the line when I lit into Chess. Britt's  appearance had thrown me for a loop, and I took it out on Chess instead.  The burning bolt of jealousy I'd felt when I saw Nate's text didn't  help.

Nate? Seriously? She goes out for two hours and she has some guy named Nate texting her?

Of course she has. Chess is magnificent. A guy would have to be deaf,  dumb, and blind not to notice her. And he'd have to be stupid not to  make a play if he got her talking to him. No, if he got her to confide  in him.

I rub my chest as I hobble to my dresser. Fuck, it irks knowing she told  some charm boy bartender that she needs a new place to live instead of  coming to me with her concerns. Cursing, I tug my clothes and slam the  dresser drawers shut.

Fact is, I'm the stupid one. I want Chess. I've wanted her since the  beginning. But I got caught up in old habits and let her think I was a  bad bet, good for only one night. And she's made it clear she has no  interest in taking a chance on me. Hell, I orchestrated it so that she  wouldn't.

Why did I do that?

I don't have an answer, but now I have to face her, and tell her what?  Hey, Chess, I know I've never dated a woman, but the thought of you  leaving fills me with fucking dread. Because I don't want to be your  friend anymore. I just want to be yours.

Yeah, that would go over well. She'll probably cut and run.

It occurs to me that this is why I don't do relationships; I know fuckall about how to navigate one.