The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(9)

“No. Of course not. But Dex isn’t hookup material.”

“I think you should let Dex decide that for himself, seeing as he’s a grown man and all. And before you start in on me again, I’m not going to do anything with him. Jesus. We only hung out an hour at most.” And kissed like we were dying for it. “That’s all.”

Liar, liar, liar.

Ivy knows I am. I can see it in her eyes. Maybe motherhood has softened her, because she doesn’t push, only takes a sip of her coffee and goes silent.

For a long moment, I sit there, silent as well. Then my fingers start to tap on the table.

“How do you stand it?” I blurt out.

“What? Your weak little innocent act?” she asks with cheek.

I stick out my tongue. “Funny, bunny. I meant, well… How do you stand being left behind while Gray travels to all his games?”

We grew up with a dad who left his family to play professional basketball, then later as a sports agent. And we’ve dealt with it differently. Ivy is the fixer, always trying to soothe ruffled feathers.

Me? I went out and partied, cracked stupid jokes, and shut down any and all deeper connections. It’s worked so far, but seeing Ivy so gone on Gray and still she has to live this life? I don’t understand it.

Ivy’s long fingers wrap tight around her mug. “It was better when I could go with him. It sucks when we’re apart. I won’t lie about that, but…” She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “I don’t know how else to explain it except to say that Gray is my heart. Life simply doesn’t work without him in it so…” She shrugs. “We do what we have to do during his season.”

“And that’s really enough?”

Her smile is almost secretive. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Gray is more than enough.”

The way she says it, like he’s the joy that begins and ends her day, hits me square in the chest, and I have trouble breathing. Loneliness is this cold, drafty thing blowing over me, making me want to hug myself tight.

How must it feel? To be a part of someone else? And they’re a part of you? Someone to have your back no matter what?

My knuckles press against the table. I should be enough for me. I shouldn’t feel lonely. Fuck. Maybe I’m getting hormonal or something.

Thankfully, I don’t have to wallow in my weird maudlin mood because the front door opens, and Dex and Gray amble in. My heart rate kicks up, seeing Dex’s massive frame outlined in the doorway.

Gray zeroes in on Ivy. “Is he sleeping?”

“I put him down twenty minutes ago.”

Baby G might not sleep at night, but he naps like a champ, a good two hours at a stretch. Something Gray knows better than I do.

He grins. “Shenanigans are go.”

Yeah, I don’t even want to know what that means, though I can guess.

Especially when Ivy blushes. “Seriously?”

“As a Hail Mary on Super Bowl Sunday. On your feet, woman. Time’s a wasting.”

Ivy grumbles under her breath about perverted cupcakes—again, don’t want or need to know—and then gets to her feet. She’s hauled off by Gray a second later. He carries her up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I got to give it to him,” I say to Dex, who hasn’t left the kitchen. “His stamina is impressive.”

“Motivation helps,” he answers dryly. God, he has a nice voice. Smooth, deep, even. “But, then, you know, we do train for stamina.”

There’s a gleam in his eyes that goes straight to my sex, gives it a teasing tweak.

I lurch up from my seat and refill my coffee cup because I’m not falling for that one. “You want a cup?” I ask.

Dex still hasn’t moved from the entrance to the kitchen. Steady as always, I suppose. While I’m fluttering around like a fool.

He nods and walks to the heavy pine farm table that sits beneath a wall of windows. The table fills me with pride because I made it. I never intended to make furniture, but my two friends Jackson and Hal are furniture designers and cajoled me to give it a try. I love creating something with my own hands, going from concept to completion.

This table was my first try, and while I see where I could improve things, the design works well here, counterbalancing the modern, gleaming white cabinets and copper-covered appliances—because Ivy thought steel was boring.

And because veritable giants live in this house, the seats are large and sturdy. Even so, Dex’s frame swallows up the chair as he sits in it.

I bring him a cup, and then I notice: he’s wearing his hair down. Holy hell. It falls in thick, brown waves to the top of his collar. The sun has left streaks of gold running through it. And while the combination of full beard and flowing hair should be too much—call to mind an iconic Jesus or something—it isn’t. It just looks hot. Wild. Touchable.

I sit and curl my fingers around my mug.

He does the same, and the late-morning sun shines through the window, illuminating his tattoos. Black and red roses, a clock, a sugar skull, an indigo dragon, a 1940s battleship—there’s a lot to look at. They run up his arms and under his sleeves, making me wonder if his chest and torso are covered too.

“Do they have meaning?” I ask, because I’m clearly looking.

“Some do.” His rich voice is almost a shock to my system, as if by speaking, he’s flicked my senses into overload. But he doesn’t notice. “Some of them just came to me while I was drawing.”