Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)
Chapter 21

“She’s really pretty, Jaxon. Are you sure she likes you?”

Sarah looks up from Carter’s phone, where he’s showing her a picture of Lennon and Mittens from my cat’s Instagram page. She looks me over, and the preteen gives me a smile so forced it hurts. “I mean, no offense.”

“I never said she likes me.”

“Oh, so you like her, but she doesn’t like you back? That makes more sense.”

“I don’t like her! Not like that!”

Sarah’s nose scrunches. “I’m confused, ’cause you been talking about her since you got here.”

I pin my arms over my chest. “Have not.”

She gestures at my hair, where she’s currently attaching a pink gem to a strand. “You said you bet she’d like to bedazzle her hair too!”

“She likes doing fun stuff to her hair!”

“He definitely likes her,” Garrett pipes up. “Jaxon’s got a big crush on Lennon.”

“I do not!”

“I think she likes you too,” Adam reassures me. “Rosie says she talks about you all the time.”

“You should take her on a date,” Emmett suggests.

I open my mouth to argue that, technically, we go on dates all the time, but Carter holds his finger up. It’s covered in craft glue, tiny paper hearts, and glitter, because Garrett has us on decoration duty for Jennie’s studio opening next week.

“You have to say that it’s a date out loud, or it doesn’t count.” He leans forward on his elbows. “Yeah, I learned that the hard way. Apparently, you have to ‘ask’ them to be your girlfriend now too. You can’t just assume it.” He rolls his eyes. “So even though you guys are basically boyfriend and girlfriend, you have to actually ask her to be your girlfriend.”

“We’re not basically boyfriend and girlfriend!” I half-screech, and Sarah swats my shoulder as my head jerks, pulling her bedazzler free from my hair. “I don’t want a girlfriend!”

“Okay, buddy,” Adam mumbles. His dark curls are pulled back with sparkly orange butterfly clips, streaks of purple eye shadow painted around his eyes, and Barbie-pink powder highlighting his cheekbones. He looks thrilled about it, but then again, his grumpy face and crossed arms could be due to the fact that Lily isn’t here. She moved in with Adam and Rosie a few weeks ago, but her social worker suggested she stay home for now when Adam visits Second Chance. He’s got more time than ever with her, but all it’s done is make him hate every moment he can’t be at her side. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Why don’t you want a girlfriend?” Emmett asks.

“Because I don’t wanna be tied down,” I say out of habit, only this is the first time it’s felt like a lie, and I don’t like the way it settles in my gut, heavy and foreign. I shift in my seat, like I can shift the uncomfortable feeling.

“Right, but how come?”

“Kids, cover your ears,” Carter says, not looking up from his craft to make sure they do. “Do you wanna have a Britney’s Bitches meeting?”

“What? Psssh. No. I don’t wanna talk about this with you guys.”

“We can call a meeting, Jaxon. It’s no problem.”

“I don’t need a meeting. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“We’ve been waiting for you to join us. Even had you a T-shirt made.”

“Well, don’t hold your breath. I don’t need your advice.” I cross my arms, staring down at my knees as I wave them in and out while Sarah winds an elastic around a chunk of my hair. “You get a girlfriend, and then before you know it, you’re staying in on Saturday nights, waking up early on Sunday mornings, having coffee and waffles together while you read your books or watch the sports updates. And then you’re going grocery shopping together, getting her flowers to make her smile, and you get dragged to the craft store to decorate for every holiday or season change, or just because the vibes are feeling off in the apartment.”

“Sounds like you wanna talk about it,” Carter murmurs.

I throw my hands up. “Oh, and? You’re only having s-e-x with one person for, like, ever.”

Sarah cocks her head. “You know I can spell, right? What’s wrong with having s-e-x with the same person forever?”

I sigh. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Some people just don’t want to.”

“Oh. And you don’t want to do that with Lennon? You want to be with other people?”

I’m not answering that. I mean, other people? Ew.

My eyes coast the table, landing on Garrett, watching me closely. “What do you want, you turkey?”

“You realize you do all that right now, right?”

“Yeah, and I⁠—”

“Love it. You love it, Riley. You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you. You like living with Lennon, and you like the mundane routine you two have created.”

“I think that’s the thing,” Emmett offers. “When the mundane doesn’t actually feel mundane. That’s when you know.”

“I have to admit, Jaxon,” Sarah starts. “It sounds like you’re boyfriend-girlfriend, even if she’s out of your league.”

“I think that’s part of the problem,” Carter murmurs, painting a giant sun. “Jaxon has trouble seeing his worth, so he thinks Lennon is out of his league. He probably doesn’t wanna be here when she realizes it.”

“Wow,” Adam whispers.

“Oof,” Emmett puffs out.

“Spot on,” Garrett mumbles.

Carter holds a sticky hand up. “I know, I know. I surprise even myself sometimes with my incredible emotional intelligence. I read somewhere it’s directly related to how hot you are, so, that makes sense, obviously.” He looks up at me, something like a challenge in his eyes. “What do you say, buddy? Did I hit the nail on the head or what?”

Definitely not. He definitely did not hit the nail on the head, and I say as much. I tell everyone at the table three times that I don’t have trouble seeing my worth, that I don’t think Lennon is out of my league, and I tell myself that the entire drive home.

I repeat it in my head as I ride the elevator, and again when I replace the fresh-baked cookies on my kitchen counter, the kind I mentioned I was craving last night.

I repeat it as I take in the photos of Mittens now lining my living room wall, all taken and hung by Lennon. Some of him alone, and some of me and him together, but none of the ones the three of us took together.

I repeat it, over and fucking over again as I stop in front of my bookcase, the framed picture Lennon handed me three days after her birthday, when I told her all about Bryce.

It’s from the Hubble telescope, she’d told me. It’s a starburst in a little galaxy within the Andromeda constellation. Then she’d pointed to the date on the bottom of the picture and smiled up at me. It was taken on the day Bryce became a star.

Christ, it still fucking hurts. The way she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed before pressing a kiss to my lips and giving me the privacy she knew I needed without me having to ask for it. The way she listens but never pushes. The way she cares so deeply, how effortlessly thoughtful she is.

And I struggle to believe I deserve even an ounce of that.

I wander down the hall, following the sound of music to my bedroom. My sheets are on the floor where I left them when I stripped my bed this morning, because today I finally planned on swapping them for the silk set I’ve been hiding in my closet since I got Lennon hers for the days she’s too tired to wrap her hair before bed, or when she can’t replace her wrap.

I pause there, staring down at them, squeezing my fists as I listen to Lennon sing along to her music. Soft whispers about coffee at midnight, burnt toast on Sundays, letting go of your fears, and falling in love.

My gaze rises to my bathroom, where my cat is sprawled out on a blanket on the floor, his eyes on the woman who works at the counter, the same way she does every day. I step closer, until all of Lennon comes into view, bent over the counter, moisturizing her face. Her chestnut curls hang down her back, fresh and voluminous, and I follow the line of her spine down to the curve of her ass, where my sweatpants are rolled, hanging off her hips, and only a thin sports bra hugging her perfect tits. I fight the urge to walk over to her, pull her back against my chest, press my lips to her shoulder, and take in our reflection, the way her smile has amped up so much since she’s been here, she’s nearly unrecognizable from the woman I met in Cabo.

And me. I don’t know who I am anymore either.

Someone who thinks about somebody else when making decisions now. Someone who’s constantly reading the allergy alerts on labels. Someone who gets up at the ass-crack of dawn once a week so there’s a fresh bouquet of pink tulips on the kitchen counter and the brightest smile on the face of the woman who sees them when she wakes up. Someone who takes that same woman stargazing, because feeding her happiness is one of the best feelings in the world. Someone who fucking communicates, talks about the hard shit, even when it wants to stay buried.

Lighter, somehow. A part of something, maybe, because I feel a lot less alone then I did when I rang in this new year.

And happier. I feel happier.

How long will it last?

Lennon’s gaze shifts to mine in the mirror, and a megawatt smile explodes across her face, punching me in the gut with enough force to knock me to my knees. “Hey, you.”

“Hey.”

“How were the kids today?”

I gesture at my face and hair, and she snickers, turning back to the sink. She comes out a moment later, cleaning the makeup from my face with a warm, wet cloth, gently pulling the beads from my hair.

“There.” She touches her lips to mine, then shimmies back to the bathroom. “To be fair, though, you’re extra beautiful when you’re bedazzled.”

Mittens meows like he agrees, but then Lennon pulls out a tiny, fluffy brush and crouches.

“Yes, handsome, I know.” She dusts his face, nose, and paws with her brush. “You like to be pampered too.” She tosses the brush back in her bag. “I got him his own blush brush. He thinks he’s getting his makeup done, but there’s nothing on it.”

I sink to the edge of the bed, looking at my clasped hands as Lennon prattles on about ideas for team content ahead of our first playoff game next week, how nice it’s been to not have to travel during the break between the regular season and the playoffs, and about a star she wants to show me with her telescope on the balcony tonight.

“Why didn’t you hang any of the photos of me and Mitts that you’re in?”

Lennon’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. “What?”

“The pictures in the living room. We took some with all three of us. But you didn’t hang any of the ones with you.”

“Oh. I don’t know. This isn’t my home, I guess.” She glances down, nibbling her lip a moment before meeting my gaze again. “I’m just passing through, right?”

Something thick catches in my throat as I look at her, drink her in. She’s beautiful, every inch of her. I’m addicted to the way the sunshine streams through the window, her brown skin basking in its golden glow. Addicted to the way her hips move to the beat of the music while she does her hair, the way she hums along to every song as she coats her lashes in mascara, paints her lips my favorite shade of berry.

If there’s only one thing in this apartment that makes it feel like home, it’s Lennon.

But she’s temporary, like everything else in my life. Even she just said it.

The best I can do is remember it.

I swallow, looking away. “Right.”

Lennon finishes her makeup, no longer singing as she works, her focus flipping between my reflection and hers. I alternate between watching her and scrolling through Instagram, because I’m wound tight right now and it’s fucking me up. She has all my attention, and nobody, not even myself, has ever had that.

It takes me seven seconds to navigate to her profile, because apparently if I can’t be looking directly at her, I need to be looking at her picture. Jesus, I’m all kinds of fucked up.

I switch to Mittens’s profile instead, which, as it turns out, is just as shit an idea. It’s loaded with photos of Lennon, tons of all three of us. I scroll through them all, one by one, settling on the most recent one, posted this morning. It’s of the three of us on a walk yesterday evening. We drove to a quiet part of North Vancouver, got milkshakes, walked along a trail with Mittens on his harness until we got up to Cypress Lookout, where we sat on the stone wall and watched the sunset over downtown Vancouver. Mittens is over my shoulder, wearing a sweater Gran crocheted for him and gnawing on my milkshake straw. Lennon is smiling at the camera, and I’m smiling at Lennon.

Jesus, smiling isn’t the right word, is it? It’s not enough. I’m looking at her like . . . I’m looking at her like she’s the sunset, and I’m seeing it in color for the very first time. That’s how I’m looking at her.

And the comments? They all notice.

Ok ok, Mittens & Jaxon are the real love story but is anyone else hoping Jaxon & Lennon get together?

OMG Jaxon is SO in love with Lennon!!! Look at the way he looks at her!!!

I’d simply die if anyone looked at me the way Jaxon looks at Lennon.

Watching these two fall in love in real time is the single greatest highlight of my year so far.

Came for the cat, stayed for the roommates to lovers storyline.

“Hey, did you know that if Nashville wins in the first and second round, and you guys win in the first and second round, you’d play them in the third?”

My head snaps up, and I scramble to tuck away my phone as Lennon leans in the doorway.

“My family has this big cookout every year in May, back in Augusta. Mimi goes all out, obviously, and the Jays are in Atlanta that week for a series, so even Devin will be there. I didn’t think I’d be able to go this year, since I’m here and I figure you guys are going to do so well in the playoffs, but I’m thinking it might be possible after all. Nashville’s only an hour from Atlanta by plane.” She lifts a shoulder. “It’s a long shot, really. I mean, what are chances, even if you do play them, that we’ll be in Nashville the day before or after?”

I watch her, the way she fiddles with the clip in her hands, her eyes glued to it. The way she moves back to the sink, licks her lips and takes a deep breath, same as she always does when she’s nervous.

But what does she have to be nervous about?

It hits me the moment she starts pulling her hair back, her eyes coming to mine once more in the mirror, the hope sparkling in them.

And I do what I do best: I fucking panic.

“So, um, I was thinking. And you can totally say no. Like, no pressure, at all. But, um, I was thinking—and this is all hypothetical, obviously—if you guys do play Nashville in the third round, and the dates line up, maybe, um . . . maybe you’d want to c⁠—”

“Hey, can you do that somewhere else? Your own bathroom, maybe.”

Her clip clatters to the sink, corkscrew curls tumbling down her back. “What?”

My pulse pounds in my ears, an angry, thundering sound. Who am I angry at? Her, maybe, for reminding me she’s only here temporarily before inviting me to her fucking family reunion.

Or me. For . . . everything. The dashed hope in her eyes, the confusion etched in her creased forehead, the hurt carved in her frown. For not being able to keep my dick in my pants and keep things platonic. For letting things get this far. For blurring lines. For getting comfortable.

For getting attached to someone I can’t keep.

“I’m tired” is all I manage. “I don’t really want company right now.”

“Oh. Okay.” She looks down, and when she curls her fingers into her palms, I hate myself. “I’ll give you some space.” She picks up her clip, and I stop her before she can leave the bathroom.

“Lennon.”

Brown eyes rise to mine, wide and hurt, but hanging on to that scrap of hope. I want to apologize. Tell her I never meant for this to happen, for us to get this close. That I never wanted to hurt her. But it’s better this happens now. She thinks I’m her best friend, but all I know how to do with a best friend is let them down. I’ll fuck it up, one way or another, the same way I always do. The kind of way that gets me traded from one team to another, uprooting my life and perpetually searching for a place in this world.

The kind of way that has me living a life with my best friend’s death on my hands.

The kind of way where his parents haven’t been able to look at me in fifteen years.

The kind of way where, one day, this can’t be repaired. This friendship can’t be salvaged, and I lose everything, because I lose all of her. Because if I only have so long in the same city with Lennon, I’d rather we be able to coexist in a place where I can see her smile, hear her laugh, even if it’s not with me, rather than be the one responsible for breaking her heart down the road when I eventually fuck this up and she realizes she’s better off without me.

“Can you take all your stuff to your bathroom, please? And if you’re keeping Mitts in your room tonight, can you keep your door closed so he doesn’t scratch at mine in the middle of the night?”

“Oh. I . . .” Her chin trembles, and she presses her lips together before she looks away. She sweeps her things off the counter and into her arms, and I reach for her brush when it clatters to the floor. “No. Please. I got it.”

“Len, I can⁠—”

“No, you’ve done enough.” She snags the brush and walks by me, hair curtaining her face. She pauses at the door, and I nearly ask her to stay. “I hope you feel better, Jaxon.”

Mittens dashes by me, his belly swinging back and forth. He pauses to hiss at me before following Lennon into her room, and when she closes her door, I close mine, softly banging my forehead off it.

In the closet, I stare at the sheets for way too long, the unused silk set on the left, the regular linen ones on the right. They’re just fucking sheets, but they’re doing my head in. This morning when I stripped my bed, I thought of us in it tonight. I thought of the way she always curls into my side, sweaty and breathless. The way she lays her cheek over my heart. How every night I keep her longer and longer, let her sleep where I can keep her safe.

And then, eventually, I pull her into my arms, carry her to her bed, tuck her hair into her wrap, and on the nights I can’t replace it, she says, Don’t worry, you got me silk sheets, remember?

This morning when I stripped my bed, I wanted silk sheets too.

I pick up the linen sheets, pulling them over the mattress, tossing the pillowcases on, and when I stand back, I hate it.

But I fall into bed anyway, because the last thing I want to do is fall into love.