“Yeah.”

  “I’ll join you when you’re done in the media room.”

  This is when I really need a poker face because I did not expect that response. “Cool,” I say evenly, and after I talk briefly to the press, I take off for the weight room.

  Here, I definitely don’t have to fight off teammates for use of the equipment. It’s only the team captain and me, moving through push-ups and bench presses, shooting the breeze about the game, the guys on the other team, and who we’re playing next.

  When we’re done, he says, “If you ever need anything, Bryant, you let me know. I’ll help you out. Like a mentor thing.”

  Oh, shit. He did not just offer that. Please tell me he did not offer that. I feel like a liar, and I haven’t even touched his sister since before I knew who she was. “Appreciate it,” I say, since that’s not really an RSVP, even though the captain definitely offered to take me under his wing.

  On the way back to the locker room, we pass Coach. He gives a crisp hello without cracking a smile. “Good game, guys. See you at morning skate?”

  Christian nods. “I’ll be there.”

  I’ll be there too, and it feels even more important now than it ever has, and I’m not sure why. But I tell him I’ll see him there.

  After I’m showered and changed, I head home, my muscles tired as I drive. Once I’m in the garage, I walk quietly, then stop mid-step before I open the interior door to the house.

  This is still new—this moment. So far, I’ve only come home once post-game with Josie in the house. She did say she goes to bed at nine-thirty, so I’m quieter than usual, slipping out of my shoes, then carrying them up the steps. Don’t want to wake her. She gets up way earlier than I do.

  The home is silent in that slightly eerie, slightly creaky nighttime kind of way. After I set my shoes down by the door, I head to the kitchen in the dark, my stomach growling.

  I’m dead quiet here, too, and I grab an acai bowl from the fridge and⁠—

  Berries. There’s a carton of raspberries sitting next to it, with Property of Wesley written on top, like it’s in an office kitchen or similar. Seems she’s still paying me in fruit. I can’t say no.

  I grab the bowl and the fruit while listening to my new tunes playlist, my earbuds in as I eat, getting lost in the beats of Frank Ocean and GIVĒON.

  A soft light flickers on nearby around midnight. I hit stop on the playlist and peer down the hall. The bathroom light’s on—the one by her bedroom under the staircase.

  She’s awake and my heart stupidly speeds up.

  Get a grip. The woman is up to fucking pee. Not to see you.

  I admonish myself for wanting a hello, or a good game, or a how’s it going. I try to focus on the lyrics, listening for every word when the light shifts again, and I hit stop on the music once more as she wanders into the kitchen.

  She’s wearing a cami with her pajama shorts, and I can’t stand how ridiculously hot that whole look is. Her glasses are on, but her hair is down, and my mind unhelpfully shifts to its own playlist, playing the refrain to My Morning Jacket’s “Librarian,” and the bit about the title character taking off her glasses and letting down her hair.

  “Nice assist,” she says.

  I flinch in surprise as I take out my earbuds. She can’t have just said that. Really, she can’t. She’s not into sports. She’s definitely not into her brother’s sport. “You watched it?” I ask, incredulous and grateful all at once that she gave me a reason not to think about her new anthem.

  “Maybe.” It’s stretched out, a little coy. Her smile lifts. “Did I watch it or did I watch the highlights? What do you think?”

  She’s flirting. She’s fucking flirting, and I’m not sure I can resist it.

  I consider her question, then roll the dice. “I think you watched it.”

  She shrugs playfully, and it’s chased by a slide of her teeth along her bottom lip. A thoroughly distracting move.

  “I wonder,” she says, teasing me more with the possibility of her watching me play. A possibility that is lighting me up, that has electricity crackling under my skin. “By the way, do you have a new bruise from when you hit the boards?”

  I grin. I guessed right. She watched me play. And this excites me. Because that is not roomie behavior. That’s the behavior of a girl who maybe wanted another night with me too.

  I pluck at my shirt as I meet her midnight gaze. “You want to check?”

  Her blue eyes flicker with heat as I up the ante. She matched me, then she raises me saying, “If you want to unbutton that shirt.”

  Briefly, I think of Christian, my impromptu workout partner, my mentor. But thoughts of him evaporate as his sister’s eyes roam up and down my torso. What is with her tonight? I don’t know, but I’m not about to stop whatever this is. So I unbutton the shirt, letting it fall open so she can see my bare chest.

  She steps closer, studying me through those glasses. Checking me out for a good, long time. “Yeah, you have a new bruise.”

  “Shame,” I say, then lick my lips. “I know how much you hate those.”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps her gaze locked on me as the air sizzles. Then sparks. “So much,” she says, then yawns. “Good night, Bryant.”

  “Good night.”

  She leaves and I watch her till the door to her bedroom closes, wishing I could leave this kitchen, march to her room, and knock hard on that white door.

  Then tell her everything I want to do to her.

  But I force myself to replay tonight. The moment on the bench. The moment in the locker room. The moment in the weight room. My team captain’s not in charge of his sister. He doesn’t get to make decisions about what she does or who she sees.

  But I’m in charge of me, and I should not do a damn thing to create a single ripple effect across the team. I finish my acai bowl, go upstairs, and get in bed.

  Counting down the clock till Thursday night.

  19

  YES, AND…

  Josie

  “I spent my lunch break reading up some more on improv classes. The kind of prompts they might give, how to approach them,” I say as I walk to the theater with Wesley a few days later, on Thursday night. I’m trying, I swear, I’m trying not to trudge there. But the pit of dread in my stomach is turning into a gaping maw the closer we get to the old theater in the heart of the Mission District where the Bay Area Banter Brigade hosts classes and shows.

  “Of course you did,” Wesley says, his lips curving up. We turn the corner, passing a huge graffiti mural of animals riding bikes. It looks like something Maeve would paint, and she has painted similar works of art in other sections of the city. But even that can’t distract me from my dread.

  It’s skyrocketing now that we’re a block away from the gates of my personal hell. “I even checked out a couple resources at the library on the history of improv, and I read some articles on the best improv teaching techniques,” I continue, narrowing in on all the data I’m storing in my head. If I can keep my focus on the homework I did, I’ll be fine. Just fine.

  Wesley chuckles under his breath.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You. Doing research on improv,” he says, smirking now as he looks my way with more amusement than his light brown eyes should legally be allowed to hold.

  But this is not amusing. Improv is not funny. “How else would I know what to expect in a class?”

  He stops outside a convenience store peddling fruits and flowers in a display out front with a sign advertising Mexican baked goods inside. “Let me guess what they’ll say.” He taps his chin, then holds out a hand, like he’s an emcee, saying take it away. “You’re a team of astronauts who have just crash-landed on an uncharted planet inhabited by sentient alien beings who communicate through interpretive dance…and go!”

  I shudder. “No! No one said anything about doing interpretive dance. We are not doing interpretive dance.”

  Tilting his head, Wesley arches a brow. “We might be.”

  I frown, then stab his chest. “Take it back. Take that horrid idea back right now.”

  He grabs my hand and curls his bigger one around it. “Josie, you might have to do interpretive dance.” He lets go of my hand, then tips his forehead. “But I’ll be right there with you.”

  Nope. I dig in. My feet are concrete. I refuse to move. I cross my arms. “I’m not doing it. I am never doing interpretive dance. Greta will understand.” I raise my face heavenward and say to the starlit sky, “Love you, Greta. But you know that’s a hard pass, right?” I listen for her answer, hoping it’ll come in the sound of a throaty-voiced laugh, then return my focus to Wesley. “She said she gets it. A hard pass is a hard pass.”

  “Did she say that, Josie?”

  “No,” I grumble, but I don’t look away from him. It’s October in San Francisco so it’s strangely warm out—but that’s typical for this month, I’ve learned. And I don’t mind the weather because Wesley’s in a trim burgundy T-shirt that stretches across his pecs, and shows off those steel arms and the ink that climbs down his fair skin. I catch snippets of his sunburst, all of his music notes, and a view of the line drawing of the dog. The notes make sense—he loves music. I want to know about the sunburst and the dog. Briefly, I picture the bruise under his shirt too. The one I was so tempted to touch the other night in the dark of the kitchen.

  But that night feels like it was years ago, especially since I may never escape this moment.

  Greta was not wrong when she said overcome a fear.

  “I bet there’s a way around it.” Then, it hits me like a baby grand piano crash-landing on a cartoon character. “How did I miss this? My specialty is digital literacy and information, so I should have thought of this sooner. We’ll do an online class. Asynchronous learning. It’ll be perfect. Has there ever been a better solution in the history of the world?”

  He sighs, adding an eye roll, too, as he advances toward me. “Just know this—I have no choice now.”

  Before I realize what he’s doing, Wesley hoists me up and tosses me over his shoulder. In the middle of the sidewalk. As evening crowds stream by. “Wesley!”

  He doesn’t let go, even as I pound my fists against his back while he carries me fireman-style to the little theater.

  “If I die of embarrassment you’d better say nice things about me at my funeral,” I grumble.

  “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, too amused.

  “It’s official. I’m dead. I am dead from improv and you,” I say, and he carries me into the theater, finally putting me down at the back row. I turn around and take it in.

  It’s a packed class.

  Kill. Me. Now.

  “Welcome to improv for adults.”

  The teacher strides across the front of the small theater as a welcoming smile spreads across her plum-colored lips. If I walked into her cottage, I’m sure she’d offer me tea, complete with a honey stirrer, then listen to all my heartache in front of her warm, crackling fireplace.

  And still, I am annoyingly terrified. My chest is tight as I settle into the hard metal chairs placed in a circle around the room. My skin is clammy. My heart beats in my ears.

  I wish I weren’t afraid.

  I wish I were fearless.

  I wish I were bold.

  “You might be here because someone told you you’re funny,” she says, and a couple of the guys in class chuckle. Dude-bros. There are dude-bros here. I want to find a tunnel to another universe.

  “Or maybe you’re here because you need to give presentations at work and your boss sent you to class to prep.”

  A few men and women in business-y attire nod.

  She stops, then looks our way. “Or possibly because you’re on a date with someone, and this is a fun new activity.”

  Who would do this on a date? I’m literally sweating. I only want to sweat if I’m in bed and Wesley’s fucking me so hard he’s grunting and I’m begging.

  And that is not a helpful thought. Nope. Not helpful at all.

  As she talks more about what to expect, I sit up straighter, smooth a hand over my jeans, draw a quiet breath.

  Wesley shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. His touch is reassuring and tingly all at once. He leans in more, moving toward my ear, his scruffy jaw touching my cheek as he whispers, “We can go.”

  It’s said so thoughtfully, with so much tenderness. “Yeah?” I whisper back, a knot of relief untying in my chest.

  “It’s okay to say no, even if it’s on the list,” he says, and I sit with that permission for several seconds—seconds that soothe some of my nerves. That settle my worries.

  This is a make-believe class for adults. The worst that’ll happen is I’ll be bad at it, and we’ll laugh. I lean into him, my head brushing his now, my hair touching his. “I’m staying.”

  Wesley sets a big hand on my thigh, and squeezes.

  It’s distracting, and maybe that’s what I need as the teacher paces across the room, saying, “Some of you might be scared. You might feel uncomfortable, you might hate this, but try to remember this is just for fun. And it’s okay to be silly. In fact, I guarantee it’ll feel silly.” She stops, surveys the class in the theater. “And this is not a try-out for the next Taylor Tomlinson comedy troupe,” she says, and I love her for citing a female comic. “You don’t need to be Iliza or Ali.”

  I officially love her for all time.

  “You’re here to collaborate. Not to audition,” she adds, then sweeps her gaze across the whole class, not singling anyone out as she says, “And it’s okay to be afraid.”

  My throat tightens with emotions as I flash back to the time I had to give a speech in my debate class in high school. I’d researched the hell out of the topic, but no amount of research could truly prepare me for the questions portion from the rest of the class. I’d been nervous for the whole week leading up to it. Would I draw a blank? Trip on my words? Would I sound foolish? That morning, I debated with myself – was I too sick to go to school? I was fine, of course. Just nervous.

  But then Greta arrived, unexpected, and I answered the door as my father made coffee. She stood there, wild red hair tumbling free, her black flowery scarf tossed casually around her neck since it was always chilly in Maine.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” I said as I stood in the doorway.

  “It’s a good surprise, I hope?”

  “Definitely.”

  She bent closer, her voice only for me as she said, “I know you’re nervous but it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay, too, if you’re not perfect on stage. And even if you’re not, you’re going to do just fine. And you’re going to tell me all about it when I see you this weekend.” Then she pressed a little charm into my hand. A silver book, like the kind that goes on a necklace. “Here you go. A reminder that it’s okay to be afraid. You’ll get through it.”

  She was right. I did get through it. I didn’t fall in love with public speaking. But I survived it. Thanks to those encouraging words from her.

  I shake off the fond memory but hold tight to the meaning—it’s okay to be afraid.

  Since I suppose I do want to do better at all the things I can’t prepare for. That’s why I’m here. To learn, to grow, to try.

  I repeat that mantra till the clammy feeling fades right as the teacher claps her hands, drawing our attention back to her. “Let’s begin. I want all of you to stand up, grab a partner, and get into pairs. Or work with a partner if you came with one. We’ll start with a simple exercise to warm up. It’s called ‘Yes, And…’ This exercise is all about embracing the ideas of your partner and building upon them, no matter how silly or absurd the suggestion may be.”

  Curious murmurs ripple through the crowd as she explains the concept a little further. She points to a woman in khaki slacks and a white button-down, then to the man in a polo shirt next to her. “Would you like to start?”

  “Sure,” the woman says, with some trepidation in her voice.

  It’s okay to be afraid.

  I try to send that message to her.

  “Great! Don’t worry about sounding perfect. You can be absurd or silly. Goofy or serious. Let’s start. You’re two suburban neighbors competing for the title of ‘Yard of the Month.’”

  My brain kicks into high gear as I invent scenarios. Just try to beat my flowers, buddy.

  They head to the stage. The man starts off saying his garden with its gurgling fountain is better. She says her flowers grow the tallest. They keep going, layering onto the scenarios to the point where they’re pretending they’re splashing in the fountain with flowers, and I’m wishing for an interpretive dance when it’s my turn.

  A little later, the teacher calls us up. It’s okay to be afraid.

  With mischief in her smile, she steps closer to the stage, the chime of her ankle bracelet floating through the theater. “You’re two strangers who keep running into each other on the bustling streets of the city. Each time you meet, you start to realize there might be a deeper connection between you.”

  Can she read my mind? That was…exactly what I needed.

  I look to my scene partner. Wesley gives me a reassuring smile, his eyes sparkling with encouragement. I return the smile, feeling a surge of courage at his side.

  “I didn’t see you there,” Wesley begins in a playful tone.

  Okay, that’s a softball. Nice and simple. What’s my yes, and? I imagine reading this scene in a book. What would the next line be?

  I raise an eyebrow, playing it with some sass. “Well, maybe if you watched where you were going, we wouldn’t keep bumping into each other.”

  “Then my days would be less interesting. Wouldn’t yours?” he asks, and it’s a simple question. But it’s also a lifeline—a chance for me to build on what he’s asking.

  “Or perhaps you’re just following me around the city for some unknown reason.”

  He’s right here with me, offering me another easy response. “Or maybe for a known reason. Like I wanted to see you.”