The Rule Book: A Novel

“Okay,” Derek says, stepping back into the hotel suite after leaving ten minutes ago to find some food.

The heavy door falls shut behind him and if he thinks it’s uncomfortable that I’ve ventured to the bed while he was gone, he doesn’t show it.

I, however, pop up off the pillow like a guilty jack-in-the-box, because lying horizontal while he’s in the same vicinity as me feels wrong. Wrong in that it feels amazing, and I want to tug him down beside me and see if all the extra muscle he’s put on feels different while he’s lying on top of me or not.

Derek walks toward the bed and I sit up straight. Puritan posture.

“I thought you might be hungry, so I got you something too.” He raises two bowls in the air as he approaches the bed. The mattress dips almost obscenely when Derek settles onto it, tipping me toward him. I’m resisting the urge to shape-shift into a marble and roll onto him.

He pauses and looks around curiously. “What’s different in here?” He all but sniffs the air. “Ah—you moved the décor around and grouped it all by color.”

“It happened before I could stop it,” I say.

“As it usually does.”

I straighten in defense. “When I feel out of sorts, organizing helps me relax.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

A soft grin. “My apartment in college had never been so clean and organized than when we were dating. And yours is like that now, I noticed. But the color component is new.”

“What can I say, I’ve evolved.” I run my finger over a wrinkle in the bedding. “Is it…annoying that I do that?”

His eyes find mine and he tilts his head, searching for something in my face. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you insecure before.”

My cheeks flush. “I am a human.”

“Debatable. Who told you it was annoying?”

Okay, well, he wasn’t supposed to ask that. Or perceive that even. “Just a person.”

“Clearly a shitty person to try to tear down something unique about you.” He looks upset. “No. It’s not annoying. And…I struggle with organization so I thought the extra help was nice.”

I notice things I shouldn’t in this moment: His black joggers wrapping his muscled thighs like a second skin. How I can smell the mix of his deodorant and a hint of sweat from a long day of travel. The subtle brackets on either side of his mouth—evidence that he has been smiling since we broke up. And the sharp call of my body to crawl across the bed and press my nose to his neck and drag in his scent. Clearly, I need sleep.

“So what did you forage for us?” Subject change, initiated. “I would like to lie and tell you I’m perfectly capable of skipping one dinner, but the truth is, I was two minutes away from eating this pillow.”

He grins. “I figured.”

Derek hands me the bowl and I’m momentarily incapable of words. I blink down at the late-night snack like it’s an offering of jewels. I suddenly feel uncomfortably misty. “You…got me ice cream and cereal?” Two scoops of vanilla ice cream and something similar to Cinnamon Toast Crunch to top it off.

“Do you still like it?”

I nod. “It’s my favorite. I guess I just…didn’t expect you to remember.”

Soft amusement unfurls on his mouth, making my stomach somersault. “Nora, you ate this at least four times a week in college. There’s no way I could forget that.”

“It’s always represented the majority of my food pyramid,” I say before taking a huge bite just so I don’t blubber about how much this means to me. The truth is, I forgot what it’s like to have someone around who knows me. Or I guess…who knows me and doesn’t think my oddities are over-the-top. Sometimes I get so exhausted from putting in all the effort to know someone only for them to decide I’m not worth it and ditch me. Other than my mom, work is my BFF for a reason.

I clear the knots from my throat. “Did you get ice cream too?”

He answers by lifting a celery stick dipped in peanut butter to his mouth, making a huge crunch between his pretty white teeth. “This close to the season I really try to watch what I eat. Especially when it seems I’m going to need all the help I can get coming back from this damn injury.”

“Did you not eat like this before the injury?”

He shrugs lightly. “I did. Not as rigorously, though. I’d still go out and party and drink. But I’ve cut that out completely now.”

I pull the spoon from my mouth. “That’s sadder than a wet Pomeranian puppy.”

“It’s not so bad.” His grin is a fragile thing. “Well…I do miss the ice cream, but oddly don’t miss the partying.” He pauses, forehead creasing. “That’s been the strangest part. I thought I’d really miss that side of things when I stepped out of the limelight and focused all of my attention on rehabbing my ankle. But it turns out it was a pretty natural transition. Nice even.”

“Oh no. Did Peter Pan leave Neverland for good?”

“I’ve started drinking chamomile tea at night, Nora. And I like it.” He says this like a confession of murder. “It’s been a weird couple of months for me.”

I take another bite of my comfort food. “I can imagine.”

“Actually…I’ve been wondering something.” He studies me. “You said you’ve been at the agency two years…what did you do before that?”

A mental image of the rules we made together unrolls in my head, and then tears down the middle. Not only are we currently sharing the same bed (bye-bye, rule number ten) but he’s also prying into my past (see ya never, rule number two).

“As it turns out, the rumors are true. The sports industry really is full of chauvinistic, narrow-minded dudes who don’t think a woman could ever understand sports as well as someone with danglies between their legs. Apparently, that’s where all the world’s knowledge is kept.”

“Why do you think we guard them so preciously?”

I pretend to kick him, and he laughs—like really laughs. It swirls around in my chest and sweeps out all the cobwebs. “Really they’re where we store all our unjustified ego. Hurts like hell getting hit down there.”

“Duly noted.”

“So what happened?” he asks. “You graduated and said you went on to grad school…and then what?”

“And then I stormed into the world with eternal optimism and a new power outfit, and spent the next year interning for an agency that made it clear I was never going to do anything for them beyond fetch coffee and push papers.” It’s honestly sad that Sports Representation Inc. looks like a walk in the park compared to that other agency.

“So I quit and went in search of a new position or internship,” I say. “Each interview was with a man named Robert or Michael or Richard who would address me as ‘sweetheart’ or ‘young lady’ when they were telling me they needed someone with more experience.” I roll my eyes. “Interns don’t need experience. Apparently, they just need—”

“Danglies,” Derek says, making me laugh. “So then what?”

I polish off my bowl of cereal ice cream and set it aside. “Then I gave up.”

“Bullshit,” he says with emphasis and completely unsarcastic.

“I did!”

“I don’t believe you. I’ve never known you to give up on anything.” But as soon as he says the words, we both register them the same way. There is one thing we both know I gave up on. Derek doesn’t mention it, though, and neither do I, but his smile dims a little.

I shuffle my legs against the soft comforter. “My favorite coffee shop was hiring, and I really needed money—so I took that job and licked my wounds for a long time, until one day, Nicole and her fabulous five-inch stilettos waltzed into my coffee shop.” I can still hear the sharp clicks of her heels echoing off the floor. “I knew her from my research while sending out applications, and she was one of the people I never heard back from. I introduced myself with a clever coffee pun and then asked her if she would look at my application.”

“Did she say yes?” He takes another bite of nature’s homemade dental floss.

I laugh a little too loud. “No. She hated me instantly. She said I was too friendly and cute for this business and to stick to slinging coffees.”

“Ouch.” I love his grin.

“No, I appreciated it. Because for once, I was turned down for a concrete reason. The reason was her own internalized misogyny that she was completely unaware of—but it was a reason I could battle against too.” Those weeks when I was trying to win Nicole over were some of the best in my entire life.

“Nicole came into the coffee shop like clockwork every day. I memorized her order and made sure it was ready for her when she needed it. And then I started jotting down all the reasons she should hire me on the sides of the cups—as well as stats from college athletes I thought she should take note of.”

“And?” Derek asks with glinting eyes, knowing me too well. “What else was on the cup, rookie?”

I smile. “A knock-knock joke.”

“Figured. Did it work?”

“The jokes worked against me—but in the end, I wore her down. She came in one day, took the coffee, and on her way out the door called over her shoulder, Be in my office Monday morning at eight. And that was that.” I shrug a single shoulder, remembering that moment like it was filmed and stored in my brain among my happiest memories. I like to replay it when I’m feeling low or beat down and it reminds me to keep going. Keep fighting for what I want even when everyone else tells me it’ll never work.

I don’t realize until a few moments go by that Derek is staring at me with gentle eyes. “I’m happy for you, Nora. You’re good at what you do. And I’m glad you didn’t give up on your dream.” A fuzzy little creature curls up in my stomach at his words.

“Same goes for you. I screamed so loud when they called your name in the first round of the draft.” My smile fades when Derek’s eyes sharpen on me. I realize my mistake instantly.

“You watched for me in the draft?”

His blue gaze pins me down. I want to hide from it so he doesn’t get a chance to see the truth. That I have followed every inch of his career. That I have watched him achieve every milestone, career goal, and success. That I have regretted losing him more times than I can count. And that while he forgot me so easily, I’ve always been hung up on him. That I’ve learned to live with that fact.

Instead, I nudge his knee playfully with my foot. “Come on—don’t make this weird. Of course, I watched the draft. I’ve watched every draft since I was six, and my dad let me have chocolate cake if I watched it with him.”

But I wasn’t watching it that year for my dad’s attention…

“Right,” he says, attempting a smile that doesn’t make it to his eyes and then sets his empty bowl aside.

The silence is so thick I can’t even swallow. Our friendly moment has vanished into something heavy. Surely Derek isn’t disappointed thinking I didn’t watch the draft for him? He’s over me. Literally said he doesn’t want to be friends.

So then why does he look like that?

The tension is too much, so I pop off the side of the bed. “It’s getting late.” I pull my toiletry bag and a change of clothes from my suitcase. “I better brush my teeth before I fall asleep and forget. Because you know what they say about teeth…?”

Derek shakes his head, already regretting that he’s indulging me. “What do they say?”

“Clean teeth are godly teeth.”

“That is absolutely not how the phrase goes.”

I scrunch one eye shut. “Respectfully—I think you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.” He gets up from the bed and follows me with his own toiletry bag. My saucer-eyed reflection says a wild bear is joining me in the bathroom rather than a man.

“Oh. You’re going to brush your teeth too?” I look at him over my shoulder as he reaches around me, his chest so very close to my back. He places his brown leather toiletry bag right next to my rainbow-printed one.

He lifts a brow. “Is that okay?”

“Sure! Absolutely. I’m very excited for you to have godly teeth too.”

It’s terrible beyond reason. Because as I brush my teeth, Derek stands just behind me, also brushing his, and I have to try with my whole heart not to stare at him in the mirror. And once we’re both tending to our dental hygiene like two domestic and completely platonic nonfriend/people/exes, my gaze drops away from his intense eyes just to get a break from them. A little breather, you know? A girl can only look into the gorgeous blue irises of a muscular, scruffy, six-foot-four male for so long.

And that’s when I really take in the tattoos on his arms for the first time. In the bright light of the bathroom, I can finally see what they are. A vicious shark shooting through the white caps of waves, baring its teeth. Cute. That one’s obviously for his team. A skull with a bird perched on the top. Scary but cool. A dragonfly. Clouds with a sun peeking out. Vines with little flowers that wrap up his arm and…wait, what’s that tiny little black one on his inner bicep? It’s like a letter or…

Derek pointedly clamps his arm against his side.

My eyes slingshot to his in the mirror and he doesn’t make an excuse or even bother looking guilty for blatantly hiding my view of that tattoo. Instead, he leans around me to spit out his toothpaste—his chest brushing against my outer arm as he does. He rinses his toothbrush and sets it meticulously beside the sink exactly where he used to put it at my apartment after I told him how my overly neat brain liked for our toothbrushes to line up.

Without a second glance, he leaves me blissfully alone in the bathroom. I barely refrain from sagging dramatically against the door once I close it behind him. The thirty seconds it should take me to change my clothes takes five full minutes because of the silent mirror pep talk I give myself to not lose my heart to my ex-boyfriend again. He doesn’t want you. And even if he did, it would be too messy. Too unpredictable. I finish it off by telling myself to go out there and get my butt under the covers without turning this one-bed situation into a big deal.

I crack the door open. “I’m, uh, coming to bed now. Don’t look.”

“Okay.”

“Are your eyes closed?”

“No.”

“Derek!”

He laughs. “Come on, don’t make this weird,” he says, using the same tone I used earlier when saying those exact words. “You literally stood in front of me in your underwear the other morning without batting an eye.”

“That’s because I was loony, and sleep deprived!”

“You’re always loony, Nora.” But there’s unmistakable affection in his voice that warms me up like a cup of sweet hot chocolate.

“Fine. I’m coming out—but just prepare yourself because I didn’t anticipate sleeping in the same room as you this week and I wore my sexiest pajam…” My words trail off as I step out of the bathroom and find Derek sitting up against the headboard, hands clasped behind his head, crisp white sheets pooling at his tapered waist…shirtless. My bathroom pep talk takes a hike.

Why does he have to be so muscular? And sexy. And tattooed. And…mouthwateringly tan.

I want to jump his bones. I need to jump them.

“Those are your sexy pajamas?” he asks, drawing my eyes away from his nakedness to his face, where my gaze should have been the whole time.

I inch toward the bed. “I tried to warn you. They’re very seductive.”

“I’ve never seen Mr. Rogers’s face quite so large before.”

“I know…it’s really something.” I hesitate before lifting the comforter to crawl underneath the covers. To get in the bed. With Derek.

I’m wearing an XL T-shirt with my dear ole pal Mr. Rogers taking up the majority of the front. The text rainbowing across the top reads I like you just the way you are. I have zero illusions that this thing is actually sexy. But…I’m not wearing pants under it. And unless I’m mistaken, Derek used to think I was pretty cute pantsless.

Derek doesn’t bother looking away the entire time I climb under the covers. He watches unabashedly and then once we are both situated and the light is clicked off he has the audacity to say, “I noticed you still wear your days-of-the-week panties.”

I choke on my own spit. “Oh my gosh—don’t say the word panties while we’re in bed together.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, but the grin in his voice tells me he’s not sorry at all. It’s a quick peek at the old Derek. The shameless flirt. The one who always knew exactly what he was saying and how it would affect me. I love it. And for one jolting, radical second, I wish he wanted to be with me again.

“Just go to sleep, troublemaker.” I aggressively punch my pillow into comfort as I rotate to my side. But then I make eye contact with Derek’s feet. ‘ “Umm. Derek? You don’t still run in your sleep, do you?”

“Sometimes,” he says, and then realizes why I’m suddenly worried about it. He sits up and so do I. “This is ridiculous, right? You should move up here. We can sleep in the same bed without anything being weird.”

“Right. You’re totally right. So right, you don’t even have a left.” I’m already shifting around so my head and pillow are on the same level as his. “This is no big deal.”

“None.” He lies back down. “First one to fall asleep wins.”

I appreciate his attempt at levity. But when I feel his body heat creeping through the covers. When I shift my legs and my knee brushes his thigh. When I blink my eyes open and find him watching me, just an arm’s length away, it all feels like a very big deal.

And when I wake up at two in the morning and realize I’m completely tangled up with him—leg draped over his, stomach against his side and face pressed into the crook of his shoulder with his hand spread over my hip, it feels like an alarmingly big deal.

More alarming is I can’t bring myself to move away.