Page 77 of Echoes of the Banshee

“No promises,” I joke. “Actually my friend dragged me here.”

“The one who just scored?” he asks casually. “I’ve noticed he walks you home every night.”

My eyebrows shoot up. He shrugs. “You seem like trouble.”

I laugh at that.

“I’m not trouble! Look at me here to observe the sporting event”

That makes him snort.

“He your guy?” he asks.

“No. Just friends,” I tell him. I need to change the subject. “So when the ball goes into the hoop, it’s a point?”

He stares at me like I’ve offended his ancestors. “Gringas,” he mutters.

I let him explain to me all the intricacies of the sport until he tells me he has to get to work. Never mind that I already knew them.

“Get home safe, alright?”

“And make your night easy? Never.”

I turn to the field just in time to catch Zair weaving past a defender, every movement sharp and practiced. And just like that, the ache returns.

A whistle blows and the crowd erupts around me. I guess that means we won. I follow the line of fans until I’m yanked out by a very sweaty dog. And by ‘dog,’ I mean Dylan, who apparently doesn’t understand personal space, post-game hygiene, or the very real threat of having a witch in his arms. Before I can even react, he throws me effortlessly over his shoulder, and I squeak in surprise.

“Eww! Dylan!” I complain as he jogs to the sidelines with me slung across his back like a sack of potatoes.

“Look who I caught trying to escape,” he jokes.

And then, as though this wasn’t embarrassing enough, he literally throws me into a shirtless Zair’s arms.

Oh god.

My heart leaps into my throat. His skin is hot and damp against mine, and I can’t avoid the sharp, overwhelming reality of how damn good he smells.

“You made it!” Benson says, completely ignoring the fact that I’m now pressed up against Zair, my face probably a shade of red that doesn’t exist in nature.

“Thanks for coming,” Zair says before gently putting me down. “Though you could’ve cheered.”

“What makes you think I wasn’t?” I shoot back.

“He spent more time watching you than the game., Dylan jokes and Zair hits him.

“Honestly,” Benson says, slinging an arm around my shoulders, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring a book.”

“I was watching,” I insist. “You all played exceedingly well.”

“But no cheering,” Zair teases. “Next game, I expect full commitment.”

“Be careful what you ask for,” I warn, already plotting.

“It’s the only way we know people care,” Benson says solemnly.

“Exactly,” Dylan adds. “And if you really want to motivate me, scream my name every time I kick the ball. Super subtle. Totally works.”

“I’ll probably do it at the wrong time,” I joke. “I had to ask a security guard which goal you were shooting on.”