Page 24

I need something stronger.

Rowan is feisty tonight. She’s wearing a jersey, the cheapest one we could find, which happens to be Greyson’s number and he’s retired.

Me?

I burned that fucking jersey that I owned, the one with Dax’s name, the younger brother. Owning anything with Myles Dax’s number would be a deadly sin.

He’s arrogant. The nerve he had to try to humiliate me by standing me up at the fanciest restaurant in New York City. Then, he proceeded to watch me from across the street at the coffee shop.

I’ll bet he was laughing at me falling for his dumb little game.

What a jerk!

And he thinks he’s hot stuff.

News flash, he isn’t even the best player on the team. His brother is a better player than him.

Myles is staring at me.

Fuck.

I glance away, praying that he doesn’t pay me a lick of attention.

Oh, shit.

He strides over with purpose. Because the man always has a fucking purpose. Doesn’t matter what it is, he looks good doing it.

Nope.

Those are not feelings.

Okay, I admit it. Maybe they are.

Strong feelings.

But they’re the kind where I want to murder Myles Dax.

Rowan nudges me with her arm. “Shots are here,” she says, stealing my attention back toward the bar.

With a heavy sigh, the air leaves my lungs, and I think I might actually get out of here unscathed.

Wrong again.

Myles is right behind me.

His shadow looms, and I can smell him.

That wafting scent of vanilla, almonds, and something musky. It tickles my nose and makes me want to inhale harder.

Nope.

If he witnesses that, I’m dead.

Might as well commit suicide because I can never face him, or anyone else, not even myself in the mirror.

Rowan and I grab the shots from the bar.

Straight tequila, and it’s not even the good, top shelf stuff. It burns, and I wince, trying to swallow it without making a scene.