Eight hours of caffeine-fueled highway miles, snack wrappers, and nervously singing to myself just to keep the anxiety from swallowing me whole.
Now, finally horizontal, in a room that smells vaguely like lemon cleaner and hope, I let my limbs go slack.
I close my eyes. “Just for a few minutes.”
turner
. . .
Iam dead on my feet and want to crawl into bed.
Turning my neck from side to side, it feels permanently cricked from trying to sleep in a plane seat designed by a sadist, only reclining one inch. We took a red-eye home, and the entire team looks like we’ve been spit out of a blender as we shuffled through the airport this morning like zombies.
We won our game.
Best one of the season so far, no question. Tight, physical, aggressive in all the right ways. I played like a man possessed—two assists, one goal, and a beauty of a block in the third that brought a tear to coach’s eye.
Kidding.
That man is stone-cold and smiles for no one.
This was the kind of win that keeps you going. The kind that makes the bruises worth it. The early flights. The cold tubs. The entire lifestyle of broken sleep and banged-up knuckles.
If I could just crawl into bed and die there for a few hours, I’d be money.
As I pull into the driveway, shoulders tight and still wired from the game and too much caffeine, the first thing I notice is movement coming from the kitchen window.
The house is dark except for a faint glow from the kitchen window.
I blink, rub my eyes, and lean a little closer to the windshield. For a second, I assume it’s just someone forgot to turn off a light. Then I see it again—movement. A shadow of a human walking past the island, pausing in front of the fridge.
Definitely not a ghost.
I park in front of the closed garage door, and kill the engine, adrenaline buzzing low in my veins.
Nova?
But why would she be here so early? And doesn’t the cleaning crew typically handle that shit?
I step out of the car and lean inside to retrieve my carry-on bag from the passenger seat. The street is quiet. The house is still. Nugget, Cash’s furry travel companion, isn’t barking, which is weird because Nugget barks at clouds and leaves and his own reflection.
No dog. No Cash.
He’s out of town for another week.
New roommate doesn’t arrive until this afternoon.
As far as I know,no one should be here.
Suddenly, I’m on edge.
The kind of tension that creeps into your neck and makes your pulse tap against your throat like it’s checking for an exit.
I slowly walk up the front steps, trying not to jump to conclusions—like maybe we’ve been robbed. Or this is a home invasion.
Still… I’m cautious as hell. I shift the bag on my shoulder, punch in the door code, and push it open.
No barking. No TV.
