“Right, and I'm the Queen,” Reed deadpans. “Mate, you walked in here looking like someone shit in your cornflakes. Andyou've been scowling at that whisky like it personally offended you.”
“Maybe I just don't enjoy your company.”
“Lies,” Jace declares. “You love us. You just hate admitting it because it might require you to crack a smile, and we all know your face might shatter if you tried anything remotely resembling humour.”
“When's the last time you even went on a date?” Reed asks, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin. “Or did anything that wasn't work or sitting at home alphabetising your book collection?”
“My books aren't alphabetised.”
“Give it a month, mate,” Reed murmurs to Jace. “He'll get there.”
“They're organised by genre, like a normal person.”
Both men howl with laughter, and I can practically feel my chest loosen as the stress of the day begins to leave my body.
“Oh, 'like anormalperson,'“ Jace mimics in a posh voice. “Nothing says normal like being thirty-one and having the social life of a monk.”
“A very grumpy monk,” Reed adds. “The kind who hit people with rulers.”
“I'm going to hityouin a minute, dickhead.”
“Ooh, threats of violence,” Jace’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “That's the most emotion we've gotten out of you in months. Make a note, Reed. Adams still has feelings. Mostly rage, but it's something.”
I drain my whisky and level them both with my flattest stare. “You two can kindly get fucked.”
“There he is!” Reed says brightly, raising his glass. “A whole sentenceandprofanity. It's like Christmas came early.”
“Speaking of,” Jace adds, barely suppressing his laughter, “bet you've already wrapped all your presents, haven't you? Colour-coordinated ribbons and everything.”
Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch. “They may or may not be wrapped.”
“Called it!” Jace crows, slapping the table. “Unbelievable. You're like someone's disapproving grandfather.”
I snort and raise a hand when I catch Tom’s eye over Jace’s shoulder, indicating a refill. “At least I'm not a child.”
“Better a child than whatever midlife crisis you're having at thirty-one,” Reed shoots back with a grin.
The insult should annoy me, but instead I find myself fighting a reluctant smile. These bastards know exactly how to needle me, and the worst part is, it's working.
“Ha! Was that almost a smile?” Jace squints at me, leaning forward. “Someone alert the press. Nicolas Adams nearly smiled. It's a Christmas miracle.”
“Piss off.”
But there's no heat behind it, and from the way they're both grinning at me—Reed looking far too pleased with himself, and Jace barely containing his laughter—they know it. Reed picks up his phone again, still smirking, already moving on to whatever ridiculous thing he's about to show us next.
I chuckle when Jace begins to hum the festive notes of “It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas” as he swirls his tumbler, clearly pleased with himself for getting under my skin. Suddenly, Reed freezes, his eyes bulging at whatever he's seen on the screen before him. “Have you seen this evening's papers?”
Jace shrugs nonchalantly. “Nah. I don't check the news anymore. They only paint me as the bad boy of the Premier League. Can't be fucking arsed—”
Reed spins the phone around so it's facing both of us. It takes half a heartbeat to read the enormous headline.
ENGLAND'S WORLD CUP RUN IN JEOPARDY AS STRIKER JASON BAILEY BOOTED FROM INTERNATIONAL TEAM AMID SCANDAL
“Scandal?” Jace questions in what would be a laughably high-pitched tone, if not for the severity of the situation. “What fucking scandal are the wankers talking about now?”
He stares at the screen, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, before he swiftly rises. His face resembles a thundercloud as he marches from the Mirror Bar without another word, nearly knocking over a small Christmas tree by the door.
Reed breaks the silence that's hovering between us with a murmur. “Safe to say, the Same Shit, Different Day Club just added a new member.”
