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“She’s Chandler’s girl.”

“Who is Chandler?”

“The team dick head,” Hart answered promptly.

I hid a smile. “Well, I guess, he and Chelsi are the perfect match.”

“They’re horrible for each other but are prime entertainment when they get drunk and air out each other’s dirty laundry.”

“Tragic.”

“No. What’s tragic is that Chandler is hosting a Thanksgiving team potluck at his place, and you were invited so that everyone could meet you.” I started backing toward the bathroom and was relieved when Hart received a call. “Hey, Flip. I need to run something by you.” He put the phone down and covered the mic. “But also, fuck her for calling y’all ghetto trash.”

I smirked, closed the bathroom door, and went about my morning routine—finally emerging fresh-faced, with breath that didn’t smell like the bottom shelf of a liquor store. Hart moved past me with his phone to his ear. He paused, doubled back, and pressed a kiss to my forehead before resuming his call.

I left the room, slippers slapping against the hardwood floor, and made the main living space hangover accessible. The curtains were immediately drawn, blocking out any sunlight. I turned the thermostat down to 66 and made the strongest pot of coffee known to man.

The guest room door swung open.

“Good morning,” Christiansen greeted me with more cheer than should be legally allowed before 8:00 in the morning. I blinked repeatedly, still hungover and unable to function while holding the carafe. He reached into the cabinet for a mug and eased the pot out of my hand.

Marlon walked out of the spare bedroom with his shirt in his hand, closing the door behind him. “I need one of those,” he said, nodding at the mug Christiansen held.

“I got ya, Cap,” Christiansen said, setting the cup on the island and reaching for another one.

“Morning, Vera. I’m surprised to see you functioning,” Marlon commented, sitting at the island.

Christiansen chuckled deeply. “I don’t know, Cap. It looks like the lights are on but nobody’s home,” he joked.

Hart entered the kitchen fully dressed for practice and accepted coffee from Christiansen. He kissed me and moved to the refrigerator to fill his cup with creamer. “I’m gonna be unreachable most of the day, Sugar,” Hart said, snapping me out of it.

“Unreachable? Why?”

“Practice, physical therapy, meetings, and Andre’s.”

“Physical therapy?” The concern in my voice was noticeable, and I detested how Marlon and Christiansen smirked behind their mugs.

“Your man’s fine. We get therapy even when we’re not injured; it’s like taking your car in for a tune-up,” he explained.

“I need a fucking ice bath after last night,” Marlon complained with a grunt.

“Sugar—”

“I’m sorry. Can I just interject?” Christiansen interrupted. “I just love the pet names. Oh, my God. So cute,” he said with a sigh.

I let out a raspy laugh when Hart’s upper lip curled. “My guest bedroom better not be destroyed,” Hart said, tipping his chin toward the spare bedroom where Monica may or may not be alive.

“On that note. We gotta get moving,” Marlon said, slipping me a folded piece of paper with Monica’s name written on it.

“Make sure she gets that,” Christiansen demanded. Hart rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath.

“Cash is in the safe if you need it,” Hart mentioned, tightening the lid on his travel mug. “Be at Andre’s at 8:00.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, saluting him with my mug.

I followed him to the foyer to ask him a very important question.

“Sweet Hart?”