Page 47 of Serving Bunt

“He moves like a newborn horse,” Matty suggested.

I slapped his shoulder. “Hence the name Colt.”

Matty huffed into his whiskey, shoulders shaking.

There it was again—that laugh. Fuck. I wanted to bottle it and save it for a rainy day. And there were plenty of those in Rose City.

“Two panty droppers,” the bartender announced, setting the aggressively pink drinks garnished with cherries down on the bar. They looked radioactive.

I took a quick sip of one through the cow-print straw.

Hmm, tastes radioactive, too.

“You know . . . ,” James said, already reaching for the second glass. “I’ll take this to Mila.”

“You sure?”

He shrugged, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Trust me, if I don’t dance with her, we won’t hear the end of it for the rest of the week. I have a movie coming out this year. I can’t risk getting canceled.”

He gave us both a quick, almost fatherly nod, the kind that said he’d seen more than he was letting on, before heading toward the dance floor.

And just like that, it was Matty and me.

I turned toward him, resting my elbow on the bar. “You having fun over here hiding with the old man?”

“Not hiding. Just . . . observing.” His eyes flicked down to my open shirt, then back up again. Not quick enough, tesoro. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself out there.”

“Jealous?” I asked.

“Of Mila grinding on you?” His attention shifted down toward the ice in his now empty glass. “Maybe a little.”

The admission sent a spark straight through me.

“Good.”

We fell into comfortable silence for a moment, the thump of the music and glittery chaos of the bar wrapping around us. Then, Matty cleared his throat.

“Soren texted earlier,” he said. “Pink’s starting in tomorrow’s game.”

I let out a low whistle. “About damn time. Maybe that’s what the team needs to finally break the curse.”

Matty snorted. “You and that damn curse.”

“Denying it doesn’t make it go away, tesoro.”

“It’s just a slump. Slumps happen.”

“Curses happen, too,” I countered.

Matty turned the empty glass in his hands. “We’re not cursed. We’ve just . . . only got one oar in the water.”

A smile ghosted across my lips. “Is that your professional diagnosis?”

“What I mean is everybody keeps trying to fix the wrong thing.”

I frowned. “Explain.”

“People see a losing streak and immediately start looking for one big reason. Bad luck, an unfortunate injury. A curse, apparently.”