Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(50)

He slaps me playfully on the butt as I head into the shower. When I’m just about finished under the life-giving spray of hot water, the bathroom door opens. “Can I hop in after you?”

“Of course.” I step out, and he hands me my towel.

Our hips brush as we trade places in my tiny bathroom, and Tank takes the opportunity to press a kiss to my neck. “Open the door if the deli guys buzz, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling suddenly shy. I like the closeness a little too much, and I don’t want him to read it on my face.

After getting dressed, and texting Eric that I’m running late, I go into my miniature kitchen to pour two glasses of orange juice. Breakfasting with Tank feels so domestic. Hell, I’ll sign up for a class on cooking eggs if it meant spending more time with him.

I wonder if that’s a thing? Cooking for domestic dummies. Maybe he’d enroll with me.

Although it sounds a little pushy. Like I’m planning a life with him. But you can’t rush a man who’s just getting out of a terrible relationship. Hey, now that your divorce is final, let’s talk about the future. On the other hand, I can’t avoid wishing for things. And that feels a little dishonest, too.

So I really can’t win.

Tank is singing in the shower. I recognize the song as “Aint No Man” by the Avett Brothers. He doesn’t know all the words, so he has to improvise with some “bop bop” here and there.

I can’t help but smile as Tank hits the high notes. And my hungry heart wants to know—if he’s comfortable enough with me to sing in my shower, does that mean we’re on the road to a long-term relationship?

I don’t know how to turn off that part of me that’s always looking for a sign.

A knock on my door distracts me. God, I love New York. Delivery is so fast. I run over and flip the lock and open the door.

Only to find Jason Castro and Anton Bayer standing there.

“Hi,” I squeak. “I thought you were the deli guy.”

“No! I got—” Castro starts.

“Bop bop boppy bop,” sings Tank from the bathroom.

Castro blanches. He opens his mouth to continue. And then closes it again.

I can almost see the synapses connecting behind his eyes. Surprise morphs into a darker expression as the truth slowly dawns.

This is partly why I don’t have a personal life. I spend all my time trying to make sure that thirty-five athletes believe they’re the center of my world. And they are. Usually.

The sound of the shower cuts off. “Is the food here, baby?” Tank’s voice calls.

“Um...” Words fail me, because I’m busy watching my clients’ eyes widen even further. “That’s, uh…” My jaw slams shut, because I’m just making things worse. We all know whose voice that is. “Is there an emergency of some kind?” I ask, trying to redirect the conversation. This pair never turns up at my door.

“Um…” Castro echoes. He doesn’t know what to say, either.

“He got a call from Sports Illustrated,” Anton says. “They want him for the body issue.”

I blink, hoping Tank stays in the bathroom so this doesn’t get any more awkward. “Congratulations,” I say haltingly.

“Thanks,” Castro says slowly, his eyes darting over my shoulder. “I, uh, wondered what you thought. Georgia says it’s up to me. But will it help me land future endorsements, or hurt because I’m doing it for free?”

“It will help!” I say brightly. “Let’s talk about it later today.”

“We’re heading out on a road trip,” Castro says. “That’s why I…” He clears his throat. “We’ll talk on the phone, maybe.”

“Sorry, Bess,” Anton has the good nature to say. “I didn’t know you and Tank were…”

My face is in flames when Eric comes into view on the landing behind the players. “I’m sorry, boss. I tried to stop them. I knew you were keeping it on the lowdown.”

“Wait. This is an ongoing thing?” Castro asks. “Since when?”

“Pretty sure that’s none of our business, man,” Anton says with a grin.

“Nine years ago!” Tank helpfully supplies from somewhere behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s standing in the doorway to my bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “And then September.”

“Yeah. We met a long time ago,” I stammer.

Castro’s eyes narrow. “You told me you don’t date players.”

“Guys,” Eric says quietly. “I’m going downstairs. Who’s with me?”

Nobody moves.

“Tank is the only player I’ve ever dated,” I say, feeling the need to explain myself. I can almost feel Jane Pines looking over my shoulder, whispering, I told you so.

“I’m that irresistible,” Tank says from the bedroom.

“Does your brother know?” Castro asks.

“No!” I yelp. “It hasn’t come up. God, don’t—” I stop myself before I say something snippy to my client. “It’s private,” I say in a low voice.

“Okay. Sorry.” He sighs. “The whole thing is none of my business.”

“Rightio!” says Tank from the bedroom.