Marlow tilts her head up, kisses him, her eyes shining. “Sí, Señor Agassi.”
His brows lift, his grin spreading wide. “Look at you, already sounding like a true Italian bride.”
She grins. “I’ve been practicing on an app. Figured I should learn Italian.”
Across the tent, Grant laughs at something Xavier says, then catches my eye and makes his way over to me. The look we trade says it all—we survived today, and somehow made it beautiful. I open my mouth to tell him how handsome he looks, but Xavier and Will call him back with that polite, no-nonsense tone that meansnow.
He groans under his breath. “They want to finalize things,” he mutters. “Handing everything over to Marlow, for good.”
“The control freak is finally giving up control, huh?”
His grin is easy, boyish. “Trading one addiction for another,” he quips, then dips in, pressing a quick, certain kiss to my mouth.
Tatum clutches her chest dramatically, whispering, “Lord, have mercy,” and I can’t stop my smile from spilling wide.
“Well, yes, sir,” Tatum says in mock approval, fanning herself as Grant squeezes my hand before heading back toward his friends.
I step away from the crowd, letting the music and laughter fade into a low hum. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement—Coach Jones, headed straight for me with that determined stride.
Tatum clears her throat at my side. “Heads up. Jones incoming.”
I groan under my breath. Thanksgiving flashes through my mind, the mess I left behind. Since then, I’ve done everything possible to avoid him—took vacation days, worked from home, even camped out in Marlow’s office when she wasn’t around. Anything to keep distance.
And maybe he knows, because he brings the one thing I can’t resist.
“Hey, Coach Rocky!” I yell, dropping down in my burgundy gown to greet our furry menace, grateful he’s actually behaved today.
“Coach Saunders,” Darren says, voice even.
I rise from petting Rocky to meet his gaze. “Darren,” I reply, forcing myself to give him the name he’s always begged me to. “How are you?”
“I’m well. You?”
I sigh, refusing to pretend. “Darren, you don’t have to do this.”
He tilts his head. “Do what?”
“Pretend like I don’t owe you an apology. Like I didn’t act like the biggest ass alive, leading you on like I did.”
He grins, but it’s softer than I expect. Gracious, even. “If we’re honest,” he says, that South African lilt giving the words more weight, “I played myself. Led myself on.”
My brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
His eyes flick briefly across the room. Toward Grant.
“I knew—”
“You knew it was him?” I whisper, finishing for him.
“I knew it wasn’t me,” Darren says simply.
“Wow.” My voice comes out low, heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry, Darren. I really—”
He lifts a hand, cutting me off before I can finish. “No hard feelings, Coach Saunders. Happiness looks good on you.”
I smile, but both of us glance back toward the tent where the other players are gathered and tension is obviously building.
Coach exhales a long, weary sigh. “I need to go separate Luca and Croix again before they end up killing each other.”
