Deciding Tomorrow (4 page)

“That’s not what I meant. I’m saying, he’s kind of become a tight-ass, but when he told me you were coming…let’s just say, he’s stopped being such an asshole.”

I tilt my head, not sure what point Cohen is trying to make.

He adds, “This weekend is the first time I’ve seen him
relax
in a long time, maybe even since high school. He’s been acting…different.”

FOUR

Three and a half hours later, the game is over. Brent’s team won and is progressing to the next round on Thursday. For my first professional soccer game, I found it beyond riveting. I’ve only been to one other professional game in my life, and it was a Chicago football game a few years ago. It wasn’t nearly as fun as this. Then again, I didn’t have the enjoyment of watching Brent play on the field and assist with the team’s only goal, which happened to be the winning point for the match.

Cohen and I wait in our seats while the majority of the fans exit the stadium. He says there’s no reason to rush since we’ll be meeting Brent, and it could take him some time to wrap up. After most of the seats have cleared, we decide to head out.

Cohen leads the way up the steps and into the hall.

“Wait!” I half-shout as we come to one of the vendors near the exit.

Cohen stops and joins me, assessing the team merchandise. “You don’t need to buy any of this. Brent has a ton of this stuff at his place. I’m sure he’d just give you one.”

“Maybe.”

My hand goes to a cardboard box sitting at the edge of the counter. On the outside of the container in large print is the team name and
Cromwell
. Inside, behind the clear plastic, lies a figurine with Brent’s face…on a bobblehead.

“But does he have one of these?” I lift the object closer to his brother’s face.

Cohen cracks up. “Nope. That he does not. They must have just gotten those for the play-offs.”

“I’m so getting this.”

I pay the man for the mini-Brent toy, and Cohen and I continue walking through the halls to the place where we’re supposed to meet his brother. People are gathered around the locker room door, waiting for the team to exit. A group of women, heavily dressed in tight-fitting team attire, are obviously here as more than fans. Some of the players trickle out, greeting fans, family, and friends.  

“Hey, Cohen,” a blonde waves in our direction as she passes by to meet her friends.

Cohen waves back, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Do you know her?” I ask
. Yes, I’m wondering if Brent and her…

“Nope, not at all.”

“She knew your name though.”

“They all do.” He shuffles the hair on his head. “Groupies. Internet.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.

I’ve seen Brent do a similar gesture when he’s contemplating.

“Remember that no-fun thing I was telling you about?” he adds.

“Yeah, I do.”

He gestures his chin toward the group of women. “Applies to them, too.”

“Really?” I say, not believing him.

“He’s nice, but he doesn’t go out with them. Not his scene.”

“Geez, Cohen.” I bump his hip. “No fun. No girls. A total dick. I’m sure he dates though.”

He quirks his brows, indicating the negative. “Not that I know of. If he does, he certainly hasn’t introduced me to anyone.”

“Well, maybe he’s just been too busy—”

“I was starting to wonder if he was gay.”

“I think I can safely say, he’s not.”

“Is that your way of telling me that my brother got some last weekend?”

My cheeks heat up.

“Stop. Don’t tell me.” He turns away and then looks down to his toes, trying not to laugh. “Guess that explains his good mood.”

“All right, enough!” I quip, embarrassed.

It’s not that Brent and I slept together last weekend, but this is not a topic of conversation to be having with Cohen.

About ten minutes have passed since we arrived at the locker room area when Brent finally comes out the door. He’s dressed casually in jeans, a button-up shirt, and an open jacket, and his dark hair is slightly damp, glistening a little from the artificial lights. He stops to talk with a few people asking for autographs, and he signs a couple of balls, notepads, and T-shirts. Then, he takes a few pictures with fans.

Out of the way and to the side, Cohen and I wait patiently until he’s finished.

Brent high-fives a little kid and then comes over to join us.

“Great game,” Cohen says.

“Thanks,” Brent replies, pulling his bag higher up on his shoulder.

“Yeah, it was really awesome,” I add.

“You enjoyed it?”

“Sure did.”

“She was yelling and screaming like a seasoned fan,” Cohen pipes in. “I had to tell her to sit down a few times.”

“It was that good, huh?”

“Thanks, Cohen,” I tease. “And yes, I loved it.”

“Why don’t you show him what you got?” Cohen says mischievously.

Tightening my grip on the bag in my hand, I sternly say, “No way.”

“What is it?” Brent insists, focused on the plastic bag swinging near my knee.

“Just a souvenir.”

He whips his head toward Cohen, knowing we’re keeping something from him. Cohen lifts his hands in a motion of surrender, and Brent tongues the inside of his cheek.

“Fine,” Brent says, resolved. He pulls out his phone, peers at the screen, and then shoves it back into his pocket. “Well, Cohen, we don’t have too much time before your flight. Guess we’d better get you to the airport.”

Brent takes my free hand in his, and we all walk together to the parking lot that is now filled with significantly less cars. Cohen pops the trunk and hands Brent his keys. He loads his bag, and we all get into the car. I sit in the back, allowing Brent to have some time with his brother before he leaves.

Cohen and Brent tease each other throughout the ride to the airport, but it’s easy to see that they’re enjoying one another’s company. If there was ever any tension between them in the past, it’s undetectable now. The highway is brightly lit, and I zone out for the majority of the drive, watching the sprawling city pass by. It doesn’t take too long before we’re pulling up to the curb for airport departures.

“Well, this is it,” Brent says, leaning down and pressing the button to pop the trunk before opening his door.

Cohen exits as well and I allow myself out of the car to say good-bye. After Cohen has retrieved his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, Brent shuts the trunk.

“I’ll be sure to have you out if we make it to the National Cup Finals,” Brent tells Cohen. “But if not, I’ll see you at Christmas.” He comes to stand next to me.

“We’re going to Dad’s this year, right?”

“Yep. Mom has plans with friends in Hawaii.”

“Sounds good.” Cohen opens his arms, and he and Brent exchange what I like to call a
man hug
. It’s the kind of hug where their arms might be around one another, but they’re trying really hard not to let their bodies touch. “See you soon.”

“Yep.” Brent pats him on the back. “Keep in touch.”

Cohen adjusts his stance and then swoops me up into a hug. It takes me by surprise, and I end up making a few awkward noises as I’m lifted off the concrete sidewalk.

“It was nice to see you, Ruby,” he says, lowering me to the ground. “Make sure to give my brother hell for me.”

“I sure will.” I back out of his arms and rejoin Brent.

“What is this?” Brent interjects. “Are you two ganging up on me?”

“Nah,” Cohen says. “We both love you.”

My heart hits my spine as Cohen includes me into the affection.
Do I love Brent?
Love comes in many levels and there’s no doubt that a part of me has always loved Brent. So, maybe Cohen is right, but I’m not sure to what degree.

“Have a good flight,” I tell Cohen.

“See you guys,” Cohen says with an uncanny smirk similar to his brother’s.

He tightens his grip on the strap of his bag and then turns to enter the airport, leaving Brent and me alone together.

FIVE

It’s nearly eleven by the time we reach Brent’s apartment. He opens the door, lets me inside, and then closes it softly, encasing us in the dimly lit space. Despite my desire to be here, alone with him, my anxiety is palpable. Anticipation buzzes in the darkness. A switch is flipped, and the overhead light floods the hallway, clearing away some of the nerves.

Brent sets his bag on the floor, and I stand aside, watching as he settles into his home. I’m unsure of what to do with myself.

“Are you tired?” he asks, hanging his jacket in the closet.

“No, not really.” Taking the cue from his waiting hand, I slip off mine as well, never letting my recent bobblehead purchase leave my possession, and hand it over. “I took a little nap before the game. How about you?”

“Not at all.” He shuts the closet door, reaches around my shoulder, and flicks on the light in the kitchen while turning off the light above us simultaneously. “So, what do you want to do now?”

Brent’s palms slowly drags across my shoulder, down my arm, and to my hand. Taking their time, his fingers note every curve and indentation of my body while his green-gray eyes are set on my brown ones.

“Not sure.”
Like I can think when he’s touching me like this
.

I relax my digits, and Brent swiftly swipes the bag from my hand.

“Hey,” I playfully screech, surprised. “That’s mine.”

“So, what did you get?” he taunts, holding the bag in his outstretched arm, out of reach.

“None of your business.” I lunge, trying to reacquire the bag, but it’s no use.

Brent’s arms are too long, and I don’t even come close. With his other hand, he pins me by my shoulder to the wall. Most of his strength might be in his legs due to his career, but there’s no denying he’s solid and strong.

Holy shit!
He’s way stronger than he used to be.

“So,” he drawls, “are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Brent…” I laugh as I reach for the bag once again, but I know it’s useless. “It’s a super secret, private, and very important piece of art.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.” This time, I tickle his ribs, hoping it will cause him to bring his arm closer. It doesn’t.

His hand leaves my shoulder, grabs a hand attacking his sides, and pins it against the wall above my head.

“So…” he says again, trying to act serious.

I attempt to snatch his arm with my free hand. He jumps back and out of my reach.

“Do tell.”

His face is full of mischief, so I come up with another plan. Slowly, my hand floats into the space between us, landing deftly on his taut abs. His muscles contract, and his pupils dilate from my touch.

“If I tell you,” I seductively tease, dragging my finger lower toward his waistline, “will you give it back to me?”

His breaths quicken and catch the moment my hand reaches his belt buckle. His body remains stagnant while one hand holds my merchandise out to the side as the other presses my wrist to the wall. I lightly trace my fingers along his beltline.

“Yes,” he speaks evenly.

“It’s you.” My palm pushes up to his chest and over his shoulder.

Brent takes a step closer, and I run my hand down the length of his arm, almost reaching the item in question.

“Your bobblehead.”

He bends his elbow, allowing our fingers to meet, and he hands the bag over to me. I let my arm fall to my side and drop the bag of dispute near my feet.

“Now, was that so hard?” he questions.

“Not really.”

He edges closer to me, and his heavenly warm breath dusts across my lips. His grip on my wrist relaxes and guides my hand down the wall until it meets my thigh. Brent’s fingers find mine as he completely annihilates the vacancy between our chests with a final step. The beat of my heart echoes through my entire body.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“Do you want some…” He softly breathes near my cheek, resting his free palm on my waist.

“Some what?” I utter in anticipation.

“Dessert? Maybe some ice cream?”

“Tease.” I push my free hand against his chest. “And here I thought you were making your move.”

He kisses me quickly near my ear and then steps into the kitchen, pulling me in with him around the bar dividing the space.

“I can’t give you everything at once.” He grins with mock modesty. “Don’t want you to think I’m easy or anything.”

Brent rummages through the freezer before taking out a pint of ice cream while I lean against the counter.

“Mint chocolate chip, right?” He holds a container out for my inspection.

“Yeah, it’s my favorite.”

“I remember.” He pops off the lid. Then, he grabs two spoons out of a drawer next to my hip and hands one to me. “Go on,” he insists, pushing the ice cream in my direction.

I plunge the spoon into the pint and scoop up a generous amount. Deliberately and with emphasis on every movement, I bring it to my mouth, making sure to lick my lips first, and then I take a sensual bite.

“Who’s the tease now?” he asks, digging his spoon into the small tub of mint chip.

“Let’s call it sugar-infused foreplay,” I reply, going back in for another deliciously cool spoonful. “And you started it.”

“Technically, you started it. I seem to recall someone feeling me up in the hallway.” He takes a bite and then enticingly runs his tongue through the shape between his lips. “So, what do you plan to do with that bobble mini-me?”

I lick my spoon and then reach for another helping. “Not sure. I’ll probably put it on my nightstand, so you can watch over me while I’m sleeping.”

“That sounds kind of creepy.”

“Or romantic. Maybe I’ll add some candles, too. Make it a nightly ritual of you telling me yes to my every desire by candlelight. A mini-Cromwell will give me everything I’ve ever wanted, all for the price of nineteen ninety-nine.”

He raises his brows. “I think you might have frozen your brain cells,” he says, filching the spoon from my hand.