STROKED LONG (16 page)

“Trials are the worst,” he confesses. “No one really likes them. They are a hump you have to get over to get on the team. You could be the best in the world but one bad day can hand you a ticket back home with no Olympic rings set for your future.”

“So I take that as a no.”

“That’s a no. I will be happy when they are over.”

“Does that make you nervous?”

He doesn’t answer right away. What could he possibly be thinking? Is he mad I’m asking too many questions? He has his limits, and I’m trying to find out what they are. I pray I didn’t hit one.

After a moment of silence, he says, “I don’t think nervous is the right word. I’m confident in my skills, in my training, in my mental game; those are all factors I can control, but there is always something I can’t control, which doesn’t sit well with me.”

There is so much I want to know. I want to ask about his need to control, about his parents, why he’s so adamant about keeping things a certain way, about his obsession of locking everything, but I haven’t earned that privilege yet and if I ask too early, he will distance himself for good. He’s already teetering on the brink of accepting me into his little world. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my chances of being accepted.

“That’s frustrating. At least you have a grip on what you can control. You will do great. I know you will.”

“I believe so.”

It’s one of the first times I’ve actually heard him talk positively about himself, and it’s refreshing.

“So you never answered my question.”

“What question is that?” His voice is low, almost sultry, but I know he’s not doing it on purpose to entice me. He sounds more relaxed, which I can relate to thanks to the little thumb strokes he’s making on my hand, easing the tension in my body from the storm.

“What do you do on your days off?”

“Nothing spectacular. I’m pretty boring actually,” he admits. “Pay bills, do laundry, catch up on anything I’ve missed during the week, answer fan mail, and hang out at the club offering free lessons to whoever is there that day.”

“You don’t have a personal assistant?”

“I don’t trust anyone to do my things for me.”

And right there, that’s a little window into his world. He doesn’t trust anyone besides the ones closest to him. I know the only reason he trusts me to work on the foundation is because of Eva. Am I in his inner circle? I don’t think so, but I’m getting pretty damn close.

At least I hope I am.

“What do you do?” he asks, pulling the attention away from himself.

“I don’t pay bills and answer fan mail if that’s what you were wondering.”

Chuckling quietly, he says, “Oh yeah, fan mail is answered on Mondays for you, right?”

“Only with my pink gel pen. If I don’t have my pink gel pen, then no fan mail.”

“You’re ruthless.”

“I have my standards,” I joke.

“Do you ever think about selling your art?”

I cringe. “Would anyone even want to buy my art, is the question. It’s not much. I play more with color than anything.”

“I think it’s something,” Bodi replies, still caressing my hand.

Seriously, my heart is about to explode in my chest.

“Thank you, but I don’t plan on having my own gala. I paint more for therapy.”

“Eva did the same thing growing up,” Bodi says almost absentmindedly.

“The reason for the foundation—art and sports—outlets that shaped who you both are today.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, not fully agreeing with me.

It’s obvious I struck another chord with him, one I don’t want to cross so I switch gears again. “If you could cheat on your little lettuce and kale diet, what would you eat?”

“I like lettuce and kale,” he says, brightening up again.

I look around the room, and then whisper, “You know it’s just us, you don’t have to lie, it’s okay if you hate eating shrubs every day.”

He laughs and I commit the sound to memory. “Honestly, I really do like kale and lettuce, but if I had to go outside the crisper in my fridge, I would say Double Stuf Oreos. Well, any kind of Oreos really but Double Stuf are my favorite.”

For some reason I thought he was going to say something manly like buffalo wings, or a five-pound burrito, but Mr. I-Don’t-Eat-Sweets has shocked the hell out of me with his little Oreo answer. Why do I find it so adorable? Why does the image of Bodi with a package of Oreos in front of him make me melt inside? I can picture it so vividly, him twisting the two cookies apart and eating the filling. It’s so cute it sends a pang straight to my heart.

“Oreos, huh? That’s kind of adorable, Bodi.”

“Adorable?” he lightly sneers. “How is that adorable? I said Double Stuf, that’s a manly cookie.”

Reaching up, I pat him on his stubbled cheek. “Oh Bodi, Double Stuf Oreos are not a manly cookie. Double Stuf Oreos were specifically engineered by Nabisco for raging pregnant woman and for those of us riding the red tide into Crampsville, but you’re cute for thinking otherwise.”

He ponders that for a second. “But they’re double stuffed.”

“With frosting. It’s not like they are double stuffed with a half-pound of bison meat.”

“So they’re not manly?” His lips quirk up as he asks.

“Not so much.”

“Damn.” He chuckles quietly. “Despite being labeled as a hormonal woman, I will stick with my answer. What about you? What’s your diet breaker?”

Frowning, I answer, “Bodi, come on, the only reason I work out is so I can have my daily intake of doughnuts, pie, or cookies. But if I have to pick one thing I hypothetically would eat to cheat on my so-called diet, I would have to say Funfetti cupcakes with Rainbow Chip frosting.”

“Good choice. I remember having those as a kid.”

“A kid? I call that my Friday night, but you have to use the Betty Crocker Rainbow Chip frosting, not the Pillsbury crap.”

“What’s the difference?” Bodi asks the same time lightning flashes through the room followed by a burst of thunder. I’m too upset by his question to be too startled. Still, he grips my hand tighter.

“What’s the difference? Oh my God, Bodi! That’s like asking what’s the difference between a regular Oreo and a vanilla one. There is a huge difference. Betty Crocker, that magnificent bitch, put the sprinkle chips inside the icing while Pillsbury, the lazy asshole, separates the sprinkles for you to put on yourself, giving you absolutely no wonderment if you’re going to be delighted with a little sprinkle chip or not.”

Cringing, he says, “I think I’ve only had the Pillsbury kind.”

“That’s obnoxious. Absolutely obnoxious. What kind of man has never had rainbow chip frosting on a Funfetti cupcake? You know what? I can’t stay here.” Joking, I start to get up but Bodi stops me with one pull of my hand, bringing me even closer to his heat.

“You can’t go; you might drown in the flooding waters. We all know you can’t swim your way out of a gutter.”

“Hey,” I say with a mocking horrified look. “I can doggy paddle just fine.”

“Doggy paddle will get you nowhere, Rubes.”

Rubes.

Yup, that little nickname just made my heart thump harder, my toes tingle faster, and a deep ache take place down below. Not to mention how close we are lying. So close that if I stretched just a little more with my body, I would be able to easily lean in and kiss him.

What would he do if I kissed him? Would he kiss me back? Would he palm my face and put an arm-length distance between us while dry heaving? The latter would literally force me to become a nun.

I want to ask why he’s still holding my hand, why we are so close right now. I want to ask, like the little school girl I am, if he likes me. Not just as a friend, but if he likes me as a lover.

Lover? Is that the right word? Sounds so Madge and Ken like. Hello, this is my lover—said in creepy seductive voice.

Let’s not go with lover, let’s say if he likes me as a lady. Hmm . . . nope, don’t like that either. How about if he feels as though I’m worthy enough for him to stick his tongue in my mouth. Yes, I like that. Is my mouth worthy of your mouth? Does your tongue want to play house with mine? How about your penis? Is it looking for a home in my vagina?

Maybe that’s going a little far.

Bodi’s long yawn pulls me out of my thoughts. “Are you getting tired?” I ask. It’s kind of obvious; he is if he’s yawning.

“Long day. What about you?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Silence falls between us and just when I think he’s asleep, he says, “Ask me another question.”

I smile to myself. What he doesn’t know is I can play this game with him all night, so he has no clue what he’s asking of me.

“Another question? Okay, what’s your favorite sport other than swimming?”

“Easy.” He smiles, his knee connecting with mine. We are so close to cuddling that I almost can’t breathe. It’s taking everything in me not to throw my body at him and bury my head in the nook of his neck. “Baseball.”

“Oh duh, I knew that. The Oakland A’s, right?”

“Yeah. Growing up, my room was decked out in Oakland memorabilia. I still have some of it packed in storage. I can watch baseball all day.”

“It’s such a shame,” I say, shaking my head.

Confusion laces his face. “What is?”

“That you’re an A’s fan.”

“Why?” He sits up slightly, his face hovering over mine. God, even in the dark of the storm I can see his muscles ripple in his chest as he moves to get a better look at me. “What team do you like?”

I smirk and say, “If my hand was free right now, I would be flapping my Angels wings.”

And just like that, he releases me and grips his head as he falls flat on the bed. The warmth from him dissipates and leaves me feeling cold inside, but I’m not too bothered by it because for one of the first times ever, I get to see an animated Bodi. A Bodi who actually is enjoying himself, who’s showing his true colors, and I love every second of it.

I feel honored I can bring that part of his personality out.

“No. You are not an Angels fan. Please tell me you’re kidding.”

I prop myself up on my elbow to get a better look at the agony in his face. “I’m afraid so.”

“Why?” he asks through his hands, muffling his voice.

“It was 1994, Tony Danza and Danny Glover graced the big screen in one of the most epic sports movies of all time.”

Sitting up to meet my eyes, he gives me an incredulous look. “Are you trying to pass off
Angels in the
Outfield
as cinematic brilliance?”

“I am. Do you not agree?”

It’s obvious he doesn’t agree but I love playing around with him. Actually, I’ve come to crave that with him. To see that smirk, to hear that chuckle, to see the change in his facial expressions—it’s addicting. And I suspect not many others see this side of Bodi Banks. So, I also feel privileged.

“Rubes, that movie is fucking embarrassing with the wing flapping and horrible baseball playing. Joseph Gordon-Levitt should have shame for partaking in that film.”

I study him, really give him a once-over and place my hand on my hip. “Bodi, do you believe in angels?”

“Are you quoting the movie?” His grin is turning into a full smile.

Drool worthy!

“I don’t know, can you hear inspirational music in the background and see a poor little foster kid flapping his arms in the stands, a look of pure determination on his face, hoping and praying that the manager, George Knox, believes his story about angels guiding his team to win the pennant?” I poke his side. “Well, do you?”

“I can’t handle you right now.” A full-on laugh escapes him as he turns to face me, rolling his eyes and gripping my hand in his once again. “An Angels fan. Just my luck.”

Just my luck.

Those three words give me hope, hope that he might actually like me, that he might open up to me more and give me an exclusive spot in his inner circle.
And right now, I crave that.

Tonight may have started with intentions of working on the foundation, but instead, it’s ending with the development of something more than a friendship. At least that’s how I feel.

Friends don’t hold hands in bed.

Friends don’t stare you in the eyes with such a powerful force that flip your insides.

Friends don’t inch closer and closer to you during a thunderstorm, so close that your knees touch.

He might be closed off, and he might be short with me, but his body language is telling me an entirely different story. His body language is speaking loud and clear; he wants more than friendship.

***

The pitter-patter of rain against a skylight wakes me from a deep slumber. A grey dim of light fills the room, morning barely poking through the continuous storm that hasn’t stopped overnight. Feeling out of sorts, I take in my surroundings.

Soft bed.

Cool, silky sheets.

Monotone colors.

Behemoth of a man wrapped around me.

Bare hand spanning the width of my stomach.

Wait, what?

Catching my bearings, I carefully look down and see Bodi’s body wrapped around mine, his hand barely up my shirt—just enough to be gripping my stomach—and his wonderfully handsome face is buried in my hair.

Bodi Banks is one hundred percent spooning me. Not only is he spooning me, but his hand is up my shirt, and he’s glued to my back, to the point that it almost feels like I’m his lifeline.

I’m not going to lie. I’m a cuddler. It’s intimate, it soothes the soul, and it’s a way to connect with another human being without pulling down your pants to let your privates meet up and have a party.

The question is, where do I go from here? Does he know he’s cuddling me? He looks at peace, which seems to be something he doesn’t find very often.

Before I can get too comfortable, the distinct sound of his alarm starts to beep and I hear his front door opening.

What was once a comfortable cocoon of Bodi muscles and warmth has turned completely cold as Bodi shoots out of bed, bare chest heaving in panic, his eyes wide with absolute terror in them.

He looks down at me but doesn’t quite register what I’m doing in his bed.

Instead, he looks frantic with his hands gripping his head, his eyes wide and wandering, and his chest falling heavily as he sneaks around the bed, tiptoeing to his door.