Page 37 of End Game

Heavy footfalls in the hallway make me look up. Wes is shirtless, a towel around his big belly as he makes his way down the hall. He spies us waiting in the living room and goes pink, from his cheeks to his broad chest. He closes the bathroom door with force. A moment later, the pipes hum as the shower turns on.

I look to Sam, who has her eyes closed, and Mack, who pulls out her tablet. Right. Okay then.

My social media profile used to be active and vibrant. My former teammates haven’t exactly kept in touch, and I haven’t had the energy to reach out to them. The women I used to consider my sisters as recently as two months ago have practically forgotten about me in the few short weeks since I last saw them. My phone is equally silent. The only people I talk to with regularity now are my parents and Barrett.

It’s isolating, not having a support network on campus like I used to. I took for granted that my team was supportive and engaged and fun to be around. I thought this new team would be the same. Instead, I have Johanna and her minions.

And, yes, I know I have Barrett and his teammates who will be there for me if I need them. I know in theory I have Sam and Mason and even Mack to rely on. But it’s not the same.

The women I thought were my best friends have barely spoken to me since I left USC. Some of them have graduated and are off to bigger and better things. Some of them are still in school, about to embark on their senior seasons. Everyone is in a different place now.

It makes me think about next year. Do I want to pursue grad school? Do I want to work for a bit first? Do I want to move back home? I honestly don’t know. Graduation looms over me like a rain cloud. Two more semesters and I’ll have that diploma in my hand. Where do I go from here?

Footsteps on the stairs make me look up. Barrett and Greg thunder down the stairs, both freshly showered and changed. Barrett shaved, his cheeks ruddy and clear. When we make eye contact, his face flushes a deeper pink. I wonder what that’s about.

“Food should be here in about ten minutes,” he announces to the room at large. “Someone else gets to pick the movie.”

“I’m good with whatever,” Amir says, coming into the living room. His hair is wet and sticking up in every direction.

With a soft laugh, Sam gets up from her spot on the couch and moves in front of him. She puts her hand on his shoulder and pushes, and he obligingly lowers himself so she can finger comb his hair back into place. She pats his cheek lightly, and he beams at her.

Within five minutes, all the other guys have gathered in the living room. Wes makes a beeline for his armchair, his book in his hand. I don’t know where to sit, where to go.

Barrett makes the decision for me. He tugs me onto the couch beside him and props his arm on the sofa behind me. At the other end is Mack, reading on her tablet. Miles and Sam sprawl on the floor in front of us with a pile of pillows—I’m not too sure I want to know what’s going on beneath their blanket. Wes is in the corner with his book. Amir, Greg, and Tucker are in the other individual armchairs.

The doorbell rings, and Barrett heaves himself off the couch to pay for dinner. I know he, Greg, and Wes usually take turns buying, and the other guys contribute in other ways. They’ve never flaunted that they have more spending money than everyone else.

He comes back with three overloaded bags of Chinese food. They’ve ordered at least ten dishes plus sides of rice and noodles for everyone to share. Greg pops up and heads to the kitchen, coming back with a pile of mismatched plates. Amir disappears and returns with a handful of forks, napkins, and plastic chopsticks. Clearly, they do this often.

Miles murmurs something to Sam and then to his sister before he gets to his feet and he, too, heads to the kitchen. He comes back with three bottles of water. His eyes fall on me and silently he thrusts the bottle in my direction.

“Water?”

“Sure, thanks.”

His smile is faint. His head dips, and he lumbers back to retrieve another bottle for himself.

“Ladies first,” Barrett announces, blocking Greg from picking up an egg roll.

I frown.

“It’s not chivalry,” Tucker laughs. “If you don’t eat it, the rest of us will.”

Okay, that’s fair. I’ve seen the way these guys eat on a regular day. Add in a long bus ride the day after a game? Yeah, this could get dangerous very quickly.

“All of it is safe,” Barrett says. “We didn’t order anything with nuts.”

My stomach swoops. I know his favorite is cashew chicken with brown sauce, and he purposefully didn’t order something that could send me into anaphylactic shock. Even if I were to abstain, it’s still risky having it in the same room as the dishes I’m eating from. I like that he knows that. I like that I don’t have to spell out how dangerous my allergies are.

Loading my plate, I take a little bit of everything. Barrett ordered large portions of nearly a dozen entrees, mostly my favorite dishes—and knowing this group, there won’t be any leftovers by the time we’re done. I snag a steamed dumpling and then, at the look on his face, grab a second one.

It’s a free-for-all when the guys dive in. Amir bares his teeth at Greg, who rolls his eyes and takes the last egg roll. Wes hunkers down in his chair, his enormous shoulders raised as he watches the fray. Miles retakes his seat on the floor.

Barrett settles in next to me. There’s a steamed dumpling on his plate, and I know for a fact he doesn’t like steamed dumplings. It’s something that my very Chinese mother takes personally. He credits it to eating too many growing up because it was the only thing his mother could cook from frozen without burning. He can eat other types of dumplings just fine.

Before I can question him about it, he lifts the offending dumpling with his chopsticks and places it onto my plate.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs lightly in Cantonese.