The other girl, a tall brunette, hooks her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he lets her. Lets her pull him closer, allows her hands to roam up his broad chest.
It’s too dark to actually see his face, and yet I can sense him go rigid for a second. I’ve gone through enough of these choreographed dances with him to know how he recoils when strangers touch him unexpectedly. I also know how much alcohol he needs to start something, how his genuine laughter sounds, and who he’sreallywatching when he thinks no one is paying any attention.
This isn’t Seb, my best friend. This is Sebastian Davenport, legacy quarterback and first-round draft pick.
Seb’s gaze flicks up as if he could hear my thoughts, our gaze locking across the makeshift dance floor. The play of light and shadow distorts his face, his grin dropping for half a second, giving me a flicker of my best friend in desperate need of an out.
Then his features settle back in place, and he presses a kiss to the brunette's throat like he’s proving a point.
He’s beckoning me with two fingers, silently urging me to join in. No, not urging—beggingme. Begging me to come and start running our familiar playbook: take over, give this whole charade direction, build a story around it that will give him a way out.
An excuse or an opportunity to silently disappear while I lead the girls to a less crowded place, then take them back to my car.
We’ve done it for years, hundreds of times, the perfect team.
Seb attracts them. I entertain them.
The quarterback calls the play; the tight end scores.
But not tonight.
My stomach cramps up at the mere thought, every cell in my body revolting.
Linden is waiting for me back at the Nook, probably curled up under his blanket, the beat-up copy ofKeeping Noahcracked open while he scours the pages for something we haven’t tried yet.
My feet carry me over the short distance, but every step feels wrong, like I’m walking through quicksand. The girls notice me before I’ve reached them, the blonde’s eyes lighting up with excitement when her gaze flicks between Seb and me. The brunette’s grip on Seb tightens, long fingernails gliding from his chest to his biceps, as she examines me.
I almost laugh at the gesture—I’m not here to steal her prize. But of course she doesn’t know that;can’tknow that.
“There he is,” Seb says, his voice smooth and controlled, yet I hear the crack beneath it, thin like a hairline. “Ladies, meet my boy Micah. Best tight end in the Conference.”
“Hi.” The blonde’s eyes roam over me, inspecting every inch of my body. I think of Linden again, how he laughed and told me not to wear this shirt. For a split second, I wonder if this is my future. Kissing Linden goodbye behind closed doors, then walking out into the world with a beautiful woman on my arm.
A media-approved, beautiful woman.
You won’t have Linden, a tiny voice in my head reminds me.Linden will be with Colin. You’ll have football. A career. Money. Safety.
I can’t do this, I realize. Not tonight, and not with Mike and Mia either. Not for attention, not for a draft spot, not even for Seb.
“Bastian,” the brunette chimes in, and I raise a brow at the nickname. Seb gives a small shrug. “Was just telling us all about you.”
I bet he was.
I force myself to smile at her, my cheeks hurting from the fake gesture as I step in. Not close enough to join their dance, just so I can reach for Seb’s lower arm and pull him toward me.
“Sorry, ladies, I just need to borrow myboyfor a second,” I tell them without waiting for an answer.
“What are you doing?” Seb hisses at me through gritted teeth, his free hand hovering over my hip.
“I can’t,” I murmur into his ear, my voice so low it barely stays above the beat of the bass. I can still feel every thump going through my body. “Not tonight.”
“Micah—”
“I’m serious.” I lean back a little, my eyes searching for his, willing him to understand. “I can’t. And you shouldn’t, either. You told me you were done with this, remember? You said you were seeing someone.”
Something flickers over Seb’s face—guilt maybe, or fear. His jaw tightens, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat when he swallows. “Things changed,” he presses out, and I want to groan in frustration. Of course they did; they always do when Seb is about to take the smallest step back from his mother's reach.
“What changed?”
