Most nights, he sleeps with me anyway, curled in my hoodie, tucked into the crook of my arm, or using my chest as a mattress. However, last night I came in reeking of beer and smoke, so he probably noped out the second I opened the door.
Fair enough.
I shuffle to the bathroom, wincing as the floor tiles press too sharply against my feet. The mirror greets me with a face that looks better than it should after a night like that, even though my blue eyes are bloodshot, and my dark mullet is flattened on one side from sleep, wild on the other. There’s a red mark on my cheek, which is maybe from the pillow, or maybe from the girl who bit me during that shot game. I look like trouble, which, let’s be honest, is the point.
I flash myself a grin. It makes my mustache twitch.
Taking a quick shower, I brush my teeth under thespray, then step out and chug water like it owes me something. Dehydration gnaws behind my eyes, and my head feels like it was used as a drum in a nightclub.
When I’m done, I stand in front of the mirror again and trace the bite mark with one finger. “T’es ridicule,” I mutter to my reflection, but I smile anyway because ridiculous works.
I run a hand through my still-damp hair, flattening the worst of it, then turn and head back into the room.
Toulouse stirs when I drop a protein bar onto the nightstand with a crinkle.
“You coming?” I ask him, tugging on shorts and a fresh hoodie, black with a pink stripe down the side, my signature.
I reach out to him, and he blinks up at me, slow and judgmental, then stretches with a tiny yawn, tongue flicking out. A moment later, he hops onto my sleeve and easily scampers up until he disappears into the hood.
Good man.
I grab my phone from the bed, and the screen lights up with chaos. Group chats blowing up, DMs stacked in the triple digits, and half a dozen notifications from girls I don’t remember meeting last night.
But tucked in the middle of it all, lost between the noise, is the only one that matters, because she’s the only one who really cares.
Maman
Bonjour, mon soleil. Track walk today, right? I’m proud of you. Call me if you have time. Je t’aime.
A lump lodges in my throat before I can swallow it, and I text my mom back quickly.
Je t’aime aussi, Maman. Have a great day. I’ll call you tonight. Promise.
I stare at the screen longingly, missing her more than I’ll ever say out loud. Maybe I will actually call her tonight, then maybe I won’t need to go out to chase extra noise again.
Maybe it’ll keep the silence from eating at me.
The hallway smells like cleaning spray and tired athletes. Otis leans against the opposite wall, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up when I approach.
“There he is. Was starting to think you died.”
“I did,” I say with a smirk, sliding my sunglasses onto my face. “Came back hotter.”
He snorts, shaking his head. Otis is one of the newer additions to our squad. He’s tall, dark skinned with a bald head, light brown eyes, and a big smile. He is always unnervingly put together for someone in our line of sport. There’s something about him that’s too neat, too polite, but he’s quick, and he doesn’t flinch when I needle him, which earns him points.
Otis still watches me like he hasn’t decided whether I’m the devil or just French. I like that in a teammate.
We head down together. Half the team is already gathered by the hotel entrance, and our manager, Paul, who’s in his mid-fifties and built like a brick wall, waves me over. “Glad you made it, Delacroix.”
“Couldn’t bear the thought of missing all this exciting dirt.”
A few of the juniors snort, but Paul doesn’t.
“Last week, I let you skip track walk because I assumed you were doing sponsor content. And yesterday, I let you skip the team meeting because I assumed you’d get sometraining in. Now I’m assuming you’re about one hangover away from making me regret all of it.”
He’s not wrong.
“You worry too much, bossman.” I flash him a smile. “I’ll be golden on race day.”
