I headed down the hallway, squeezing past bodies and clouds of weed smoke until voices started cutting through the noise near the back patio.
“…telling you right now, she hates you,” someone said.
A low laugh answered.
“She hates everyone.”
I knew that voice instantly.
Damn it.
I slowed near the kitchen doorway before I could stop myself.
Mason leaned against the counter holding a red cup, black compressionshirt clinging to his arms like the universe personally hated women.
His teammates crowded around him — Jace yelling about something, Niko already drunk out of his mind, Eli sitting on the counter looking exhausted by all of them.
Mason looked unfairly good under the kitchen lights.
Dark curls messy like he’d been dragging his hands through them all night. Sharp jaw. Small cut near his eyebrow from last game.
His head tipped back slightly when he laughed.
And fucking unfortunately, I noticed his hands first.
Big hands.
Silver rings.
Veins.
Basketball player hands.
Jesus Christ.
Like sensing it, Mason glanced toward the doorway.
Our eyes locked.
There it was immediately.
Recognition.
Then amusement.
Like the universe had just handed him entertainment.
“Well,” he drawled loudly enough for everyone to hear, “if it isn’t my favorite journalist.”
“I’d rather die.”
Jace nearly choked laughing.
Mason grinned slowly.
Still looking directly at me.
“You always this friendly?”
