Page 47 of Scoring Eden

“Was it good?”

“I mean, look at her.” I shrug. “Can’t say it was a hardship.”

Understatement.

The woman must have taken some kind of class for how good of a kisser she was. The little mewling sound she made when our tongues touched. The cherry taste of her. The way she’d run her fingers through my hair.

Damn, I wanna do it again.

Roman hums a sound that pisses me off, so I pick up the ball and throw it at him.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“What did that noise mean?”

He has the audacity to act oblivious. “What noise?”

My eyes narrow. “You know what noise.”

Roman has never been the type to stay quiet when he has something to say. He’s always the first to call someone out or share his opinion. It’s obnoxious, actually, but at least he’s reliable that way.

This, though? The weird humming and knowing looks and secretive smirks is new territory for him. I don’t like it. Not one bit.

“Spit it the fuck out.”

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his training kit, his breath misting the cold February air. “It’s just weird seeing you in a relationship, that’s all.”

“It’s fake, remember?” I cover my mouth with my hand, just in case Coach has the ability to lip-read, even from this distance.

“Even so. It kind of suits you.”

I mean, he’s only seen us together once, and for barely five minutes at that. “Lying and deception?”

“No.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “You suck at that. You sweat every time Coach looks at you. It’s giving you away.”

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and scowl when it comes away damp. “It’s hot.”

“It’s forty degrees.”

“Well, I’ve been working hard today. It’s the first game of the season tomorrow, and I’m under a lot of pressure. I’m sure Jacqueline would jump to drop me from the team if I didn’t bring my A game. You know that.”

“Sure.” His lips twist into a shit-eating smirk that, the longer I look at it, the more I want to throw another ball at his face.

I was too soft on him the first time.

Coach blows the whistle, signaling the end of practice. Thank fucking Jesus. If I have to stand here for a moment longer, trying to decipher whatever the fuck Roman is hinting at, I’ll have an aneurysm.

“Thanks for the chat, Ro.” I slap him on the back as I pass him. “It was entirely unhelpful.”

“Anytime, bro. You know where I am if you need me.”

I flick him my middle finger and pretend not to see Coach waving me over from the sidelines as I make my way across the turf to the locker room. I can’t deal with him right now. I don’t want to hear how proud he is of me again or what a beautiful couple Eden and I make.

It’s been less than a week, and the guilt is already eating away at me.

Roman was right. I do suck at this. Not the lying itself, but the living with it. And lying to Coach feels like lying to my dad.

This is the man who has championed me from the beginning of my career, the one who scouted me from the youth academy I trained with as a teenager, and the one who made me captain.