Page 48 of We'll Meet Again
“Hi the - woah,” Billie stopped herself mid-greeting as her eyes raked over his torso. She cleared her throat and dragged her gaze back up to his. “You look…dashing.”
Delighted as he was to see her, he couldn’t bring himself to be amused. He forced a half smile for her sake. “Thank you.”
“I heard you missed training today,” she said. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” he lied, running a hand through his hair. “Just…something came up.”
“Your breakfast?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I, uh…I got some bad news.”
Her eyes flashed with sudden concern. “Are you hurt? Is your grandmother alright? What -”
“Take it easy,” he cut across her gently. “Betty and I are just fine. Remember my first coach I told you about?”
“I do.”
“He’s got cancer. They’ve given him about six months.”
“Oh, fuck,” she said. “God, I’m - I’m so sorry, Ethan.” She paused for a beat. “Bet you wish you drank right now, huh?”
A laugh burst from him before he could stop it. Her shoulders sagged with apparent relief, since she likely immediately regretted the words. They probably should have offended him, but he found it too funny to care. God, he adored her already.
“Wanna come in?” he offered, and opened the door a little wider.
“Is that a violation of our agreement?” she asked.
“I’m capable of keeping my hands to myself.” He raised a skeptical brow. “Are you?”
She bit her lip. “Would it be too much to ask you to put a shirt on?”
“Not at all,” he said with a chuckle.
With that, he backed away from the door to let her inside. While she looked around, he ducked into his bedroom and snatched his Charlotte FC hoodie from his bed. He pulled it over his head as he entered the kitchen. Her eyes were still on his abs, but with a more perturbed look than before. She pointed to his scar.
“What happened there?”
He pulled his sweatshirt down over it and sighed. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s not a very nice story, darlin’.”
“It’s a scar, Ethan, I’m fully prepared for something gruesome.”
He walked around her into the kitchen to open the fridge. “Can I get you something before we get started on my tragic backstory? Tea? Water?”
“Tea, thank y - wait, our tea or your tea?” she asked.
“My tea,” he said. “Ice cold and sweeter than apple pie.”
Her lip curled in disgust.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” he said.
“Oh, very well,” she reluctantly agreed.
Smirking, he retrieved a glass from his cabinet, filled it with ice, and poured some from the pitcher he had. He made one every three days or so. Sweet tea was a staple growing up, and he needed to feel close to home today. He even put a straw in it for her. She picked it up like he’d handed her a grenade.