That thought alone makes me want to puke more than the alcohol still sloshing in my gut.
I feel slightly better after using the restroom, washing my face with some bright orange face wash bottle on Gigi’s tiny bathroom counter and hijacking her toothpaste so I can give my teeth a quick scrub with my finger. I still taste and smell the bourbon seeping through my pores, and my eyes are still killing me. A quick dig through a basket of products she has on the floor beneath her sink tells me she doesn’t have eyedrops, so I’m out of luck there, but at least when I give myself a quick glance in the mirror I look slightly more human than before.
All I need to do is get home and spend the day sleeping and I’ll be back and ready for another game tomorrow. Thank God I at least have today off other than a workout I’ll throw in later—puking or not.
Heading out of the bathroom, I catch sight of her messy, open bedroom again before turning to the other direction and seeing quite possibly the world’s smallest living area that contains a loveseat and a chair.
A bookshelf is next to the chair, filled with so many books facing every which way the shelves heave from the weight of them. There are several piles of books on the floor. A few litter the small round coffee table in front of the couch and I’m pretty sure next to the loveseat, she’s using another stack of books as a side table.
There are more bright colors, something that surprises me about Gigi. She’s always dressed in black. The only color she wears on her is in her hair and a tattoo on her upper arm.
With her penchant for traveling frequently, I would expect her apartment to be bare-bones, ready to empty at a moment’s notice, not packed to the gills with knick-knacks and posters and artwork and photos all over her walls… and books. So many books.
Not that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Gigi and where she would live, but I’ve come to know her some over the last year since she showed up at George’s Bar and pole vaulted herself over it to hug her dad who was giving her shit, squinting at her in a teasing way and asking, “Do I know you?”
At first, the guys on the team who were there that night braced to peel some crazy girl off him until she told him to shut up. He’d given us a round of drinks on the house, plopped his daughter on the bar, introduced her to everyone and kissed her cheek, saying, “Tell me everything.”
She regaled us for hours that night with the Red-Light District in Amsterdam. The beaches in Denmark which brought Mikah Lutzgo, our Center who’s from there, into the conversation. They’d talked and laughed for hours, bonding over her trips through Europe. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she made a pit stop in Africa or went to Asia by herself.
She’s interesting, to say the least, and apparently, she’s nice as hell to help a drunk jackass like myself.
It’s quiet in her living room, and while there is a small kitchen, blocked by a row of upper cabinets, I catch sight of her small frame and head that way where I find her, plating up eggs, buttering toast, and lip-syncing to whatever music is coming from the white earbuds stuck in her ears.
Gigi notices me, tugs out an earbud, and smiles. She’s always smiling. So damn happy it’s almost offensive given my current state.
“Feeling better?”
“Almost.” I scrub my eyes and cringe. “Any chance you have some eye drops? My eyes are killing me.”
Her head tilts to the side, and she says nothing for a second before dropping the knife she was using to butter the toast. I swear I see a pink fade across her cheeks before she shakes her head.
“Sure. I probably have some in my purse.”
I step back to give her room to get around me while she heads toward a small eating table for two with chairs that look like they could collapse under my weight. I grab the plates and silverware she already has set out and follow her there.
To my complete non-surprise at this point, she’s digging through a purse the size of Massachusetts.
“They’re somewhere in here,” she says, face down, purple hair hiding her face from me. I watch as papers and receipts and pens go flying. There are hairclips and sticks of gum and Chapsticks and lotions. There are other knick-knacks I can’t decipher. Business cards. I’m anticipating her pulling out a floor lamp like Mary Poppins when a condom wrapper gets tossed to the floor.
My gaze spears that thing with eagle-eye precision. Hard to miss the bright red, square piece of foil that plops down inches in front of my feet.
Cherry-flavored.
The hell? There’s only one reason for a flavored condom and it’s been so long since I’ve had that done to me, my dick, I swear, against my will also notices.
Shit. I turn and head back to the kitchen. Thank freaking hell she has a coffee maker with boxes of pods stacked next to it. Her upper cabinets aren’t cabinets but shelves, so I grab a coffee mug and hiss in a breath through my teeth.
Do not dare think of Gigi on her knees with a dick in her mouth. Don’t even fucking think…
“Aha! Here they are!”
“Shit,” I whisper. Once my mug is filled, I take a healthy sip so quick it burns my throat. Which I need. The pain helps clear the completely insane and asshole-ish visual still lingering in my brain.
I head back to the dining area, coffee in hand, keeping my eyes up so I don’t spy anything else that might be on the floor. In her small hand with dark purple fingernails are two bottles. She examines both again and holds them out to me. “I don’t think they’re expired.”
I’m too hungover to care if they are. “Thanks.”
She surveys the mess. “Looks like cleaning out this purse got added to my list today.” She swoops it all up and dumps it back inside.
It’s none of my business. I definitely shouldn’t ask. My mouth moves before my brain sends the memo.
“What else are you doing today?”
“Ordering for the bar. Maybe a hike if I feel like it. That’s usually all I do on Sundays.”
A quiet life. A simple one. Without traveling and hassles and constant go, go, go. I might envy her if I didn’t love my job so much.
I put my back to her and flood my eyes with eye drops until they finally feel like they have a minuscule amount of moisture in them. Then I wipe my eyes and turn back, where Gigi is already sitting, digging into her food, acting way too interested in her toast on her plate which makes something perk up inside of me.
Was she checking me out?
It doesn’t matter.
I wobble the chair across from her, testing the weight of it which makes her giggle.
“It won’t break. Dad comes over and eats here all the time. They look more breakable than they are.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right.” I take a seat, not surprised at all when it creaks beneath me. “If I fall flat on my ass and bust something though, I’m telling the team trainers it’s all your fault.”
She shoves a bite of toast into her mouth and chews. “I’ll accept that. You feeling okay?”
“Like I got ran over by a truck.”
“I don’t mean to pry and you can tell me to mind my own business, but last night really didn’t seem like you. You sure you’re okay?”
“Madison left me.” It’s out before I can suck it back in and it takes me a minute to realize what I’ve said, and to register the look of surprise on Gigi’s face. “So no. I’m not really okay. And yeah, last night wasn’t me. Any of it.”