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“What do you need, Tristan?”How can I help?
There’s a pause, as if she doesn’t understand my words. She stands in my Italian marble foyer, under a chandelier someone probably spent a gazillion dollars on, and outshines all of it, her chest heaving as she sucks in air. I’d give her just about anything in my power. All she has to do is ask.
“What brings you to my humble home?”
The snort is a good sign. At least my words are getting through. This home is ostentatious as hell and very in-your-face about it. Maybe after this season I’ll put it on the market. Having my mother live with me is a great idea when our away schedule is so intense that I’m barely home enough to understand how to work my full entertainment system, but the team also has people for that. Pet sitters, house sitters, plant sitters. They hooked me up with my chef and housekeeper and landscapers. I could downsize to a two-bedroom apartment that I could put together the wayIwant.
“I had a last-minute meeting with Bob Seever,” she says and the heat pours out of me so fast it’s hard to breathe. Last-minute meetings are reserved for emergencies. For players packing their bags, being sent to the minors, being benched. The videos are doing well. Everyone thinks so. Does Bob not agree? Does he blame her? Is she in trouble? Are we done? I’m spiraling.
“I can talk to him,” I say, the words coming out with little conscious thought. “I’ll set the record straight.”
Bob has always liked me, and I know he likes the points I put up for the Arctic night after night. There’s a reason I have a C on my jersey. It isn’t just because I play well. The guys look up to me. Management respects me. I can fix this, whatever it is.
“You’ve done enough.” There’s venom in her voice and I frown, lost.
I have done everything she and Chris have asked of me. I’ve filmed, posted, and interacted. I’ve made myself friendly and available to fans. Approachable. Isn’t that the brief? What could have gone so wrong that she had a meeting with the big cheese? So wrong that she stormed the gates at my front door? Because as much as I didn’twantto plaster myself all over social media, I’d be lying if I said I wanted out. That has significantly more to do with Tristan than anything else. If I thought I could extend our time together beyond the videos, then maybe I’d be fine with calling it quits, but I know she won’t give me the time of day otherwise.
“Everyone thinks we’re fucking,” she hisses the words and I barely hold in my laugh. That’s the problem? That’s nothing. “You’ve been helping that little rumor along quite nicely.”
This time I freeze. I have? I think back to the videos. To the first one where I walked fans through our pads and dressing for a game. How I couldn’t help but preen at the rich flush that bled across her pale skin. To watching her cheeks hollow as she sucked on the same glass I’d rolled over my tongue as we made smoothies at Magic Mangoes. To the memory of her cradling a soft yellow puppy as her pink lips drew my gaze like a magnet. To the erection that is still clinging to life as she stares daggers at me in my foyer.
If she’s mad that my attraction has been obvious, she’s a little late to the game. It’s been there in each meeting. My teammates know she’s the quickest way to get a rise out of me. My family, Quinn, and Jen have all made comments about our chemistry. The comment section on each of our videos just assumes we’re together. This cannot have been news to anyone with even half of a functioning brain. And Tristan Grant is dangerously smart.
“You basically told them we are.”
I shake my head because no; I haven’t. I wouldneverdo that to her. To any woman. To anyperson. There’s nothing wrong with a healthy sex life, but I would never lie about my conquests. I don’t need to, despite going almost a year between sexual partners. In fact, I’ve done the opposite and vehemently shut down the rumors among my teammates.
“I haven’t,” I say and it’s Tristan closing the space between us this time, and of course my cock sits up to say hello. Dumb fucker. “I wouldn’t!”
“You’ve liked every single comment that assumes we’re together!” The huddling whisper is gone, her volume rising to fill the vaulted ceilings. “Everyone and their cat knows what that means.”
Did I? Do they? I shake my head again.
“You told me to interact with the comments to boost the post. So that more people see it. To build a sense of community with the team’s followers.”
Long fingers press into the skin across her forehead. She’s rubbing just above her eyebrows, hard enough to turn the tips of her fingers milk white. Okay, maybe I can see what she’s saying, but I swear I was only following directions. I thought some part of her knew she was playing up our chemistry when she left herself in our most recent video.
“I told the guys we aren’t dating and aren’t sleeping together,” I offer, but she’s not upset about that. I sent a message I didn’t mean to send, but I still did it. “I’m sorry Tristan. I never meant for it to be misunderstood.”
The fight seems to deflate out of her as her shoulders drop and her chin hits her chest.
“I told Bob there’s nothing there, and I think he took my word for it. I’ll draft a statement for you and we can think about putting it out just so everyone is clear. I think that’s the best option. It might even have the effect of bringing in other followers who want to see for themselves. This could work.”
She isn’t talking to me anymore, running through her own options. Her eyes meet mine and she offers me a small smile. “You can remind the guys that there’s nothing between us, too. That’ll help. Or we can set you up on a date with someone.”
“No,” I say, stomach turning at the idea of a blind date set up for me by the woman who has captured my interest. No thank you.
Tristan waves her hand as if my opinion here doesn’t matter. “Right, you don’t really date during the season. Okay. A statement about our utter lack of anything should be sufficient.”
For a moment, I’m caught on the idea that she’s noticed that I don’t date. That maybe she keeps track of my female friends. I’m conveniently ignoring the part where she was going to set me up with someone.
“I’ll put out a statement that we aren’t fucking.”
“That we aren’tanything,” she stresses.
“That we aren’t dating.”
Her blue eyes narrow, cutting through me like shards of glass, and I stare resolutely back. I can’t put out a statement that isn’t true. There’ssomethingbetween us. Chemistry, attraction, magnetic pull. Whether or not we act on it, it’s still there, growing between us like a little weed. Taking every resource to grow bigger and stronger.
