“This car . . .” Hendrix begins once we’re on the road.
I grin. “It’s nice, right?”
“It’s worth more than my salary,” he deadpans. “Are you really the best person to be giving me financial advice?”
“This is a fourth-year-on-contract purchase. Don’t worry, we’ll keep it basic tomorrow,” I promise. “Now, tell me what all we need to shop for.”
It’s like pulling teeth to get to a root answer from Hendrix. After he tells me, again, that he needs a couch, I rip out an incisor to get him to admit he doesn’t have any other living room furniture either. His TV is on the floor, and he doesn’t have a coffee table. Coatrack? Forget about it. On the third wisdom tooth, it’s revealed that his mattress is nowhere near the ideal standard for a professional athlete. The fourth? Well—
“You’re still in a one-bedroom apartment?” I exclaim, staring at him in disbelief.
Hendrix gestures wildly at the windshield. “T! The road! Watch the road!”
I obey, but I don’t drop the subject. “Seriously?”
“Plenty of NFL players live in a one-bedroom apartment.”
“Name one.”
“Hmph.”
His signature noise pulls a laugh deep from my belly because instead of sounding as if he doesn’t care to answer, it sounds like he doesn’t have a valid response—which means I win, so this is really a victory laugh. When Hendrix “hmphs” again, I pause. “What?”
“Noth—” He breaks off, smacking his teeth because he knows I won’t let him get away with a nonanswer like that. “That laugh you just did . . . I don’t know. It sounded a little—what’s the word?—maniacal.”
Gasping dramatically, I clutch an invisible necklace of pearls. “Maniacal,” I repeat indignantly. “Excuse the fuck you, I have the laugh of an angel.” I raise my chin. “My momma told me so.”
Hendrix’s eyebrow raises a little higher than his usual twitch. “Is that . . . Tahegin, do you have an accent?”
“I’m from Texas. What do you expect?”
“Huh,” he grunts, and I’m surprised when he continues talking instead of leaving it at that. “I haven’t heard it until now.”
I shrug. “It comes and goes based on who I’m with and what we’re talking about. Wait ’til you see me with my parents. We all sound like we should be yeehawing and having spittin’ contests at the nearest saloon. I got a cowboy hat and boots, too. Wanna see ’em?” I increase the thickness of my Southern accent until it’s comical. Hendrix’s look of horror has me—maniacally—laughing again. “I’m just fucking with you, man. I’m from Austin. No saloons, and the only horse I’ve seen had a police officer on it in the Christmas parade.”
“That . . . yeah, that sounds about right.”
“I do love sweet tea, though,” I say in all seriousness. The club appears just ahead, and I pull into the crowded parking lot. Considering Gemini is the “club to the stars,” it’s no wonder the lot is full of expensive cars. I wonder which celebrities will be here tonight? We’ve run into quite a few famous Hollywood stars at ad campaigns, PR events, and post-game parties, so it’s anyone’s guess who will be at this club. “I practically bleed the stuff,” I admit as I back into a spot and pull up the pay-for-parking app on my phone.
“Hm.”
“It’s gotta be sweet tea, not sweetened tea,” I insist.
He gives me an odd look, and somehow, I know exactly what he is going to say. “There’s a difference?”
“There is a difference,” I state at the same time he asks.
“Are you going to tell me or just let me live in ignorance?”
I narrow my eyes at him because—okay, yeah, he has a point, but he doesn’t have to be such a grump about it. Except, there’s a quirk to his mouth and a glint in his eye that hints at him actually being interested in my next words and—could he be?—teasing to goad me into saying more. Okay, let’s do this.
Fully dedicated to the conversation, I turn in my seat to face him fully. My phone falls forgotten into the cup holder, and the rumbling growl of the engine covers any noise from the clubgoers lingering in the lot or passing by on their way to or from the building. Hendrix mimics my movement. It’s just us—sitting in a car, talking, outside the most lucrative club in Los Angeles.
He holds out his hands in a “Well? I’m waiting” gesture.
I take a deep breath, prepare my argument, and begin with, “Do you like soda?”
Wary, Hendrix nods.
“Imagine this. It’s a hot summer day. We’re out with friends. Maybe we’re at a park, playing tag football in the grassy field by the lake. Water is spraying from the fountain, misting us as we jog for the ball. Or maybe a Frisbee—do you like Frisbee? Anyway, we’re hot and sweaty and lightly misted with some teasingly cool water from the lake fountain. All the girlfriends are sitting on a large picnic blanket, unpacking a red cooler full of—”
“Why is it red?”
“Because we’re the Rubies. Now, shut up.” I grin to communicate I’m joking, and Hendrix purses his lips to keep from returning it. “The girls all have sandwiches—it’s a cheat day, so they’re stacked with all kinds of carbs. We join them on the blanket, fanning our shirts to fight off the sweltering heat, and grab the sandwiches from our respective girlfriends—”
“Or boyfriends,” he interjects. I narrow my eyes, and he raises his hands in surrender. “Just trying to be inclusive.”
I let it slide because I appreciate the thought. “So, we take a few bites of our sandwiches. They’re great—of course, because our partners are the best and know what we like—but halfway through, we’re thirsty. So thirsty because it’s hot and the bread is making our mouths dry. ‘No worries,’ say the girlfriends and boyfriends. ‘We have soda.’ They pour huge glasses of soda filled with ice, condensation immediately beading on the outside. It’s ice-cold and fizzy, and our mouths are literally watering at the sight. You take your glass, tip it to your mouth, feel the fizzy bubbles popping on your lips, take a sip, and . . . chew sand.”
Hendrix goes from entirely immersed in the story to scrunching his freckled nose up in repulsion. It’s adorable, and I take a mental snapshot before kicking myself for allowing my thoughts to stray. “The fuck?”
“That’s sweetened tea.”
“. . . What?”
Sighing, I explain. “Once the tea is brewed, it’s hot, so any sugar added to it dissolves. The liquid is smooth like a fresh soda. If you don’t put any sugar and let it cool, that’s unsweet tea. If you go back to the cold unsweet tea and add sugar, it won’t dissolve at all, and that’s sand—I mean, sweetened tea. It’s gross and disappointing.”
He scrutinizes me. “You feel very strongly about this.”