“That was so freaky,” I tell him when we walk out. “I swear her eyes were blue when we met almost like mine.”

“Are you done?” he asks me. “I would like to get out of here and take off this suit.”

“I’m ready when you are,” I tell him, and he grabs my hand and walks toward the truck that brought us here. He opens the door for me and helps me in. “Don’t you have to go and say goodbye?” I ask him when he closes the door.

“No,” he says and reaches for me, pulling me to him. “Stay near me,” he says, his voice soft, and just like that, I nestle next to him perfectly. His hand hangs on my shoulder, and I fold my arm up and hold his hand in mine, and I kiss it softly. The whole time, I’m trying to forget the words she just told me.

Chapter Twenty

Mark

“I’m flying back home tomorrow,” I tell her while we FaceTime. It’s been a week since New Orleans, and I’ve been on the road for the past two days. The preseason has kicked off, and I am not going to admit it, but Matthew was right.

Sitting in the box watching the game is nothing like I’ve ever experienced before. Knowing that I have to sit back and watch my team lose is the worst feeling.

“Well, I’m sure Elsa will be happy,” she says, smiling at me, her face filling the phone. New Orleans was a dream. Then we got back, and I had to leave. I already hated the traveling part, but now it was even worse.

“I should arrive in the morning. Do you want to come to my place, or I come there?” I ask her, and she laughs.

“What if I had plans?” she says, turning on her side.

“You do have plans.” I wink at her. “With me.”

“Smooth, Markos,” she says, laughing. Besides my parents, she is the only one who calls me that. “Why don’t you come here? I can cook.”

“That sounds good,” I tell her, and she tells me about what she wants to do this weekend, and we make plans to have dinner after the game on Saturday. I’ll be in the box with Matthew that weekend. It’ll be interesting to see how we act.

“Okay, baby,” I say, using the little nickname I call her sometimes and wondering if she likes it. “I’m going to bed.”

“D’accord,” she says in French. “Je te verrai demain.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but it was sexy as fuck,” I tell her.

“I said I’ll see you tomorrow.” She laughs. “Go to bed.”

“A demain,” I say in the French she taught me in New Orleans.