Page 117 of What About Us

“Ava’s perfect, just the way she is,” Zack says. “And if you don’t see that, if you want to change her and mold her into your perfect little Stepford wife that fits in with the other politicians and is so goddamn boring that it makes me want to scream, then she’s not the woman for you.”

“Are you seriously asking me to break up with your sister?”

“No,” Tucker replies. “We’re asking you to be a man who deserves her. She already wants you, but you need to earn her. Do better. Make her feel special.”

“She’s nothing but amazing, and you’ve made her feel like you’re doing her a fucking favor, and for that alone, you don’t deserve one minute of her time,” Easton says.

Chad blows out a breath and pinches his nose. “If you’re done, you can see yourself out. I have an afternoon meeting.”

“Great talk,” I say as I stand. “Just stop being an asshole, Chad. Give Ava what she wants.”

“Go away,” Chad says, as if he’s bored.

Without another word, we file out. The receptionist is still gone.

And when we hit the sidewalk, we all shove our hands in our pockets and shake our heads.

“What the fuck does she see in him?” Zack asks.

“That’s the million-dollar question,” I reply grimly.

CHAPTER THIRTY

XANDER

“Come on, boys!” Ivy claps her hands and then shoves some popcorn in her mouth, sitting on the edge of her seat.

Fuck me, she’s adorable.

We’re in the media room, dressed in my team jerseys, watching tonight’s game. It’s just the two of us, but my brothers have been texting me all night.

We’re squarely in the middle of the third period, and as of now, the game is tied.

I check my phone when it pings.

Tucker: Is Cooper playing injured?

I frown and reply.

Me: Not that I know of. He hasn’t said anything.

“Oh my God,” Ivy gasps and covers her mouth with her hands, staring wide-eyed at the screen. I glance over and see that Dumas is lying on the ice and the game has come to a stop.

Shit.

“He got hit hard,” Ivy murmurs as she folds her hands and braces them under her chin nervously.

“It happens.”

She bites her lower lip. “Oh, he’s getting up.”

But I watch as Dumas shakes his head and skates to the bench.

“Looks like he hit his head,” Ivy murmurs.

“It happens,” I say again.

“You wear helmets,” she replies and looks over at me.