The Secret Hook-Up

Someone replaced my brain with a dying sloth.

But that’s not the weird part.

No, the weird part is that the dying sloth in my brain is jackhammering in my ears.

You’d think a dying sloth wouldn’t move fast enough to operate heavy equipment, yet here we are.

I whimper as it pounds again.

My mouth tastes like rotten cranberries. My arm aches. There’s a crick in my neck.

And I’m still wearing last night’s dress.

I pry my glued eyelids open enough to verify I did, in fact, make it to my own apartment last night, though I didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Not that I’ve been sleeping in my bedroom even when I’m sober.

It’s easier to sleep in my recliner while I’m supposed to keep my arm immobilized.

The sloth pounds once more, and I realize it’s not a sloth jackhammering.

It’s someone knocking on my door.

I hit the button to make my recliner go back into its normal upright position with my brains sloshing around the whole time.

I’m never touching alcohol again.

Not for how it likely made me look in front of all of the Fireballs’ staff and board and owners last night, but for how it’s making me feel this morning.

I push on one ear to hold my head together. Pushing on both would be more effective, but that doesn’t work with the damn sling. I move around my simple gray couch adorned with all of the bright throw pillows that one of my sisters-in-law quilts for everyone she knows. My dress rustles too loudly. Sunlight streaks through the slats of the white wooden blinds, and I squint against the audacity of the sun shining so brightly today.

Whoever’s at the door isn’t giving up.

They knock again.

I can’t squint through the peephole—my eyes aren’t working well enough—so I fumble through unhooking the slider and fiddling with the tricky deadbolt, and I peer through the crack in the door.

And then I utter a dammit that’s too loud for my own ears.

Duncan quirks a half smile at me that has more audacity than the freaking sun.

He’s solo—no niece with him today. And he’s slouching, hands in his jeans pockets, plain maroon Thrusters polo hugging his pecs and biceps, chin tipped down, eyeing me like he’s half ready for me to tell him to pound sand, half ready to let his smile reach full smile status depending on what I say next. His broad shoulders and over-six-foot height make the hallway outside of my apartment feel smaller than it is.

And he’s so damn gorgeous my nipples ache.

Or possibly that’s my hangover.

“I like your pajamas,” he says.

My good hand grips the doorknob tighter as I remember he bid over a hundred thousand freaking dollars on me last night. “You didn’t bid enough to own me outright,” I blurt.

The man who seemed furious at my very existence a few days ago is now sucking in his five-o’clock-shadowed cheeks like that’ll stop him from laughing. “How much do you remember from last night?”

“Touch grass.”

He lets that full smile fly, and god help me, he’s using the dimples too. I hate his dimples. They’re fucking glorious.

“I’ve never been told to touch grass by a hungover raccoon in a prom dress.”

I’d flip him off, but he’d probably have something cheeky to say about that too.

And I’d probably laugh.

Just like I did when he would’ve said something like that to me back when we were secret-flinging.

Instead, I order myself to not wonder how my makeup is faring this morning or how much it’ll cost in dry cleaning to get this gown back to its original shape and try to channel Baseball Coach Addie and all of her badass attitude.

“What do you want?”

There was a time when he’d knock on my door and I’d grab him by the collar and haul him inside so we could strip each other out of our clothes and let off steam and just be.

With no expectations.

Or so I thought.

I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking about now too.

“Just checking in to see how you’re doing,” he says.

“Not much different than when I saw you last night.”

He stares briefly at my face before his gaze drops to my dress—to my cleavage?—then lifts to meet my eyes again.

“I can see that. Can I come in?”

Most things about last night after me being on stage are hazy. And that means my priority needs to be getting cleaned up, texting Waverly to ask if I embarrassed myself and need to apologize to anyone, and then doing whatever she tells me I should do.

The idea of getting cleaned up makes my eyes water though.

In the bad way.

It’s fucking hard with my left shoulder immobilized.

Duncan takes advantage of my silence to slip past me and into my apartment.

He glances around, and I stiffen, which annoys both the crick in my neck that I’m starting to feel from sleeping in the recliner and also my shoulder.

Time for pain meds.

And coffee.

Three or four vats of it.

“Take it you haven’t seen the news,” he says as he casually strides through my living room toward my small kitchen. Dishes litter the counters and sink. I live alone, so I don’t go through a lot of trash. Usually, anyway. Since I got hurt, I’ve been living off of takeout and prepackaged meals, so my garbage can is overflowing.

Cooking one-handed is a pain in the ass.

So is taking out the trash.

And then my sloth brain catches up to what he just said. “What news?”

He lifts an empty to-go cup from a café down the street and waves it at me before putting it back on the counter. “You still drink coffee?”

I don’t answer so much as I whimper in yes, please.

He opens the white cabinet door next to the sink and pulls out my coffee beans, then digs my coffee maker out from the lower cabinet under the row of cabinets separating the kitchen from the living room.

And then he does something even worse than starting my coffee for me.

He searches the back of the freezer for my stash of premade egg muffin sandwiches.

I whimper again. “Why are you doing this?”

“You need coffee and food before I piss you off.” He pops a single sandwich into my microwave. The beeping pierces my skull and makes the very center of my brain ache.

And the aching is why I cave and sit on one of the barstools opposite him at the long countertop. I’d lay my head down, but I’m not sure my shoulder would like it.

“You’re here to piss me off.”

“I’m here because you’ll be pissed when I tell you what I have to tell you. Even though I’d rather it not piss you off, but you’re within your rights to be pissed about it.”

Is my sloth brain still sludging, or is he absolutely perky about pissing me off? “And you’re going to enjoy it.”

His smile slips. “Not at all.”

“Then why are you in such a good mood?”

“Acceptance.”

“Acceptance?”

“Hold that thought.” He grabs my coffee grinder and the bag of beans, and he carries them out of the kitchen and into my bedroom.

I don’t argue.

Not even when he shuts the door.

The man is grinding coffee beans in another room while I have the hangover from hell.

Which means he’s either here to sprinkle ground coffee beans all over my bed, or he’s thoughtfully keeping loud noises as far from me as he can.

My eyes water again.

I hate depending on people. I hate needing help. I hate vulnerability as a general concept.

Too many people have used it against me, so I make it a point to not need anyone else.

Want is fine.

I can want to be friends with someone. I can want to sleep with someone. I can want to share parts of my life here and there with the people who come and go.

But I never want to need it.

Needing it is what gets you in trouble. Needing it can destroy your life.

The coffee grinder whirs to a halt, and moments later, Duncan strides out of my bedroom.

He gets the coffee maker prepped and hits the button to turn it on as the microwave beeps that the breakfast sandwich is done.

Before my sloshy brain can contemplate moving, he opens the microwave to stop the beeping, grabs a plate from the cabinet next to it, and grins at me again while he gets the food on the plate.

“You want one of those too?” he asks.

I gawk at him.

“Kidding. I didn’t come here to raid your kitchen.”

“Why are you in such a good mood?”

I already asked him that.

Shit.

What did he say?

He said⁠—

“Acceptance,” he repeats. “I think I was an ass when we broke up. And I regret that. But I don’t regret that we’re back in each other’s lives. I’m looking forward to what comes next.”

“Whoa, buddy, slow your roll.” I blink hard, mostly because I don’t want to have this conversation.

I want to go into my bedroom and flop down and sleep for another three days.

Which I can’t do comfortably because I still can’t move my shoulder for nearly another week.

“You buying an experience with me,” I say slowly, concentrating on every word, “does not equate to you buying your way back into my life.”

He slides breakfast to me. “Yep.”

“Yep, you understand, or yep, yep it does?”

“Both.”

I look down at the plate with the egg sandwich to distract myself from Mr. Puzzles, and I whimper at how good it looks.

And don’t ask how it smells.

There is nothing on earth that could smell as good as this microwaved egg sandwich.

It’s making me drool.

I suck at my lip while I make a quick swipe with a napkin that I’m reasonably certain I used to wipe up spilled cheese dip the other day.

But it’s sitting there.

So I use it.

“Eat,” he says. “Coffee will be ready in a few.”

The scent of egg and cheese and bacon tickles my nose, and my mouth waters more. There’s a part of me that would generally argue on principle, but that part of me is still hungover.

So I do as he’s suggested—not told, suggested—and I pick up the sandwich with my good hand and take a bite.

And oh my god.

Absolute.

Freaking.

Heaven.

I don’t look at Duncan, but I don’t need to.

I know he’s smirking like he’s Captain Hangover Cure to the rescue.

I do shoot a look at him when I realize what he’s doing now though.

He’s putting my dishes in the dishwasher.

“I was getting to that,” I say around another bite of my breakfast sandwich.

“Can’t be easy managing your life without full use of one of your arms.”

Every time I injure my shoulder, I realize how much I take two working arms and two working legs for granted. “Temporary inconvenience. I can do my own dishes.”

The expression he aims at me needs no words to accompany it.

You can, but it’s easier for me, and I’m here, so I’m doing your damn dishes.

Today.

Today, he’ll do my dishes.

That was my issue when we were—whatever we were. Dating? Flinging? Situationshipping?

He’d do nice little things, and while I always said thank you, and I always appreciated it, I didn’t trust it.

You do nice things when you’re trying to impress someone.

Doesn’t mean it’ll last.

God knows my mother learned that lesson long before I came into my parents’ lives. I was baby number five after four boys. And she was already done, except she wasn’t.

She wasn’t allowed to be.

She had mouths to feed and bodies to bathe and clothe and endless laundry to run, and my father thought that since he made more money, he didn’t have to do any of those things.

And she willingly spent her life sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of everyone else’s.

I force the memories of her out of my head and concentrate on my breakfast instead.

Eating takes longer than normal both because the sandwich is pretty hot and also because my body is moving at the same speed as my brain this morning. So Duncan’s finished the dishes and is squishing the errant napkins and food containers from my countertop into my trash can before I’m done.

He also gets the trash bag tied up and sets it next to the door, then replaces the bag in my can.

Pours me a cup of coffee when it finishes brewing, using the last clean mug on my mug tree next to the fridge.

Wipes my countertops with a soapy wet dishcloth while I’m lost in the bliss of a cup of coffee that someone else made me.

Which isn’t necessary.

It’s not.

I can make my own coffee. I appreciate my own coffee.

I’m just exceptionally grateful today that Duncan made it faster than I could’ve made it or gotten down the street to buy a latte.

And I finally remember to say thank you.

Which prompts my snail’s-pace brain to remember the other thing about Duncan being here. “We should pick a date for me to fulfill your experience.”

He smirks.

He freaking smirks.

“I don’t care how much you bid on me, it doesn’t come with sex,” I say dryly.

“You already texted me about setting up a date,” he says. “Remember?”

Oh, shit.

I don’t.

I don’t remember.

Which means I could’ve said anything.

I reach for my phone in my pocket, but I’m still wearing my dress from last night.

Which has a pocket.

Waverly’s costume seamstress is a freaking goddess for that.

However—my phone isn’t there.

“Your phone’s on the charger in the bedroom,” Duncan says. “I saw it.”

That’s good news.

I autopiloted plugging my phone in.

Good job, me.

Also, who else did you text while you were drunk last night, me?

“You can look at your calendar later and get back to me,” Duncan adds. “I’m pretty open the next few weeks.”

“Not golfing every day?”

He grins. “For you and Croaking Creatures, I can cancel a tee time.”

Croaking Creatures is a little niche. It started as a mockery of a popular sim game where you pick what animal you want to be, then go live on an island and grow fruits and vegetables and hunt and fish and raise livestock and build your dream house. The creators of Croaking Creatures had been playing the original game and started wondering what would happen if your character had an accident with an axe or didn’t fully cook their recipes and gave themselves salmonella. But it’s morphed into utter chaos in the years since launch.

It seems there’s a new way to hurt yourself and die—and respawn, naturally—every week or so.

Morbid, but hilarious and fun.

And seriously good stress relief.

“You do not play.” He said he did last night. He named a favorite character.

I remember that part.

He hunches over, leaning his long, corded forearms on the countertop. “Our last away trip, we were on the plane, it’s like one in the morning because we were coming back from the West Coast, and I crowed so loudly in victory when my creature impaled himself on a tree branch while simultaneously having his slingshot malfunction and hit him in the eye that I woke up half the plane and had to buy them all dinner after the season was over.”

I stare at him for a very long beat, and then I crack up, which hurts, but I don’t care. “Double-death! Paisley was serious.”

The man has the nerve to hit me with the full force of his smile. His fucking gorgeous smile that comes with those killer dimples. The smile that swooned me right out of my panties the night we met.

“I’m going for triple next,” he says smugly.

I scoff. “I was out swimming, looking for a treasure chest with the black hole in it to plant at Dorcas’s house because she’s so annoying, but a seagull pecked my eye which made me crack the chest with the black hole, and my medicine turned out to be a poisonous mushroom since I bought it at the market instead of making it myself, but not even that ultimately did me in. That was the day the flying kitten of death attacked as soon as I surfaced with the black hole trying to suck me back in.”

He laughs, and it’s like we’re once again the two people who hung out and enjoyed each other’s company in a totally chill way a few years ago.

No pressure.

No expectations.

It’s why I kept hooking up with him longer than I would’ve normally let a guy stay. He was just so easy to be around.

Before I hurt him.

“You did the triple,” he says. “And with the flying kitten of death?”

“I had half an idea she was the flying kitten of death when I adopted her, but she was so cute, I didn’t care.”

If anyone who doesn’t know the game were listening in, they’d likely think we’d been dipping into edibles.All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

“I never adopt anything,” he says. “I’m afraid it’ll eat me in my sleep.”

“That’s the whole point. And why we have unlimited lives.” Half the fandom is lobbying for an option to die so many times that you get to be a ghost for a day, but so far, the creators aren’t having it. I’m holding out hope though.

“I can handle it if I drown or if my slingshot malfunctions and takes out my eye, but there’s something about being eaten by a pet that doesn’t work for me.”

“You must’ve been a crazy old cat lady whose pets ate her after she died alone in a previous life.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Must’ve been. You feeling better?”

I blink once. Then again. “I am. Thank you.”

“Good. Time to ruin it. Sorry.”

He pulls out his phone, thumbs over the screen, and then slides it in front of me.

Athletes’ Auction Breaks Record and Brings the Drama.

I take another gulp of coffee before setting the cup aside so I can use my good hand to scroll.

Auction opened as normal, blah blah. Decent food. Levi Wilson made a great emcee. Blah blah blah.

But the real excitement began when Addie Bloom, batting coach for the Fireballs, stepped on stage draped in a pink dress with a matching sling that she’s been sporting for unknown reasons. The sassy L’Addie and her quick mouth on stage sparked a bidding war that ended with the unexpectedly feminine coach fetching the highest price of the evening, beating even an offering from pop star Waverly Sweet and her husband, future baseball Hall of Famer Cooper Rock.

Adding to the unexpected, she was won not by a local real estate magnate twice her age, but by the captain of the Thrusters.

Is an afternoon of playing a second-rate video game truly worth over a hundred grand? Or is there something more going on here?

I shove the phone away. “Who cares what the gossips say?”

“It’s the lead headline on the paper’s website. Written by a sports guy.”

My fingers prickle.

So do my toes.

Will Santiago see that?

And Tripp and Lila?

Also— “‘Sassy L’Addie?’ What the actual fuck? That reporter should be fired.”

Duncan clears his throat. “The comments indicate people around Copper Valley have decided to call us…Daddie.”

I’m in my sixth season with the Fireballs. I’ve seen grown men launch glitter bombs in locker rooms. Use jock straps as slingshots to send plush mascots flying at each other. There’s a hat that makes its rounds in the locker room every year with a stuffy attached that looks like a dick and balls, thanks to the mascot contest management ran my first season with the team, when they tried to convince the city that Meaty the Flaming Meatball should be the Fireballs’ new mascot. More than once, we’ve been subjected to the entire team wearing mascot thongs over their pants.

It takes a lot to make me gape in disbelief.

But I’m actually speechless as I stare at Duncan.

“I already called the Thrusters’ PR team to ask what they can do about it.”

“Daddie?” I shriek loudly enough to re-spark my own headache. “Daddie. Oh my god. Do you know how this looks?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to grab my head with both hands, but my left shoulder reminds me it’s not supposed to move. “Fuck.”

What did I say on stage last night?

I can’t remember.

But it’s probably on the internet by now.

He shifts around the kitchen again, heading toward my bedroom once more.

I don’t stop him.

I automatically thank him when he emerges and hands me my cell phone.

I want to check my text messages to see what I drunk-texted who last night, but the missed calls catch my eye first.

People don’t call me.

I don’t call people.

Not unless it’s an emergency.

So six missed phone calls?

Those are top on the priority list.

There’s one from Santiago, one from Tripp Wilson, and one from the Fireballs PR number.

“They wouldn’t be talking about us if you hadn’t bid over a hundred grand on me,” I mutter while I click over to voicemail.

“It’s fine. You can hate me forever for that.”

I glance up at him. “Why did you bid so much on me?”

He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

Whatever reaching acceptance means, it’s clearly working for him.

Nice to see him happy again.

Even if I’m flipping him off at the eyebrow wiggle, which makes him snort in amusement.

I look back at my phone and skim the automatic transcription of my voice messages.

Santiago wants to know if I’ve seen the news and if I’m okay. He also wants me to know it’s fucking stupid that the press is having a field day with me when they wouldn’t if I were a man, but also, if I were a man, I wouldn’t have fetched such a high price, and that’s fucking stupid too. He thinks he should’ve gone for over a hundred grand last year.

Tripp wants to know if I saw the news and if I can swing into the office today to discuss a potential opportunity to turn the shitty side of the article into a positive. And he also wants me to know he was uncomfortable with some of the things he heard men saying about me, and he’d prefer that I don’t offer experiences again in the auction so long as I’m a member of the Fireballs staff.

Sadie in PR reiterates what Tripp said, that she’s been speaking with management and they think they have a spin that’ll fit in well with a new community outreach program, and could I please call her back?

Waverly’s left me a message telling me to not look at social media and to trust that someone else will be tomorrow’s front-page news.

My sister-in-law wants to know if she should fly in now to help me handle everything.

And someone’s left me a message about my car’s extended warranty.

I thought we were done with that scam. Fuckers.

When I look up from my phone, I have to turn around to locate Duncan.

He’s picking up used tissues scattered around my couch and straightening the pile of books on my end table.

Little things he used to do when we were together too. Things I never told him I appreciated because I didn’t know how to balance the weirdness of having a man straighten for me—my father and brothers would never—with my unwavering need to take care of myself.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say quietly.

“I’m a figment of your imagination. When I leave, your apartment will be messy again and you can do all of the dishes and picking up yourself.”

I stare at him while my heart does a funny thing in my chest that I don’t like at all. “You’re not funny.”

“I am, but you’re Coach Addie-ing me with all of your walls up. It’s fine. I know you think I’m funny under the badass glare. All good with the Fireballs?”

This man. He’s not wrong, and that bothers me more than it should. I test my head as I rise from the stool. “Boss wants to see me.”

Duncan eyes my dress. Then my face, which I haven’t looked at myself yet today. “How soon?”

I wince, which makes my head throb, which makes me wince harder. “ASAP.”

Duncan looks at my dress again.

Then at my face again.

And then the bastard smiles that dimple-popping smile. “Need a ride?”

“I need a shower.”

His smile fades, but his eyes—fuck me.

His eyes stay kind.

And I know what he’s going to ask before the words come out of his mouth, and unfortunately, I know how I’m going to answer.

Out of necessity.

Which means my eyes are watering already as he says, “No innuendos, no ulterior motives, if you need help, if it’ll make showering faster…I’m here.”