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Chapter Twenty-One
Kris regretted her decision to attend Skylar’s game the second she stepped foot in the stadium Wednesday evening. The area buzzed with activity—the players warming up on the field, the friends and family laughing and shouting encouragement to their sisters and daughters and friends, the soccer camp employees huddled on the sidelines.
Despite the crowd, her eyes zeroed in on the glint of golden-brown hair in the bleachers. She didn’t have to look for him—her body was so attuned to his she could pinpoint his presence within seconds with missile accuracy.
Nate sat on the fifth row of bleachers on the far side of the stadium, devastating in a white T-shirt, olive green camouflage jacket, and jeans. His skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, and even at a distance, Kris spotted shadows beneath his eyes that indicated he hadn’t been sleeping well. His bronzed skin appeared wan beneath the field’s fluorescent lights.
Despite all that, he remained the most heartbreakingly beautiful man she’d ever seen.
One. Two. Three.Kris tracked the painful thuds slamming against her ribcage with curious detachment.
“You okay?” Teague asked. Being the good friend he was, he’d agreed to accompany her tonight even though he must have better things to do than attend a high school soccer game.
“Yes.” Kris straightened and squared her shoulders. She could do this. It was just a game. She didn’t have to speak to or look at Nate if she didn’t want to.
She had, however, come prepared for battle. Her blowout this morning left her hair a sleek, shining waterfall of multi-toned brown down her back, while her expertly applied makeup enhanced her huge dark eyes and full lips. She wore a loose pale blue silk blouse tucked into faded, hip-hugging jeans and unbuttoned enough to reveal the white lace bralette corset underneath. A pair of strappy neutral wedges completed the perfect, casual-but-sexy outfit.
The eyes of more than a few more interested males followed Kris as she and Teague edged their way toward one of the few empty spots in the bleachers. The seats also happened to be directly below and to the left of where Nate sat with his father.
Kris hadn’t realized the elder Reynolds was here—Nate’s body had blocked Michael from her earlier vantage point—but there was no mistaking the olive skin and strong jaw. He was the spitting image of his son, only older and more beaten down by life.
Interesting. He and Nate had come together. She wondered if they’d patched things up? Michael still looked like he was in withdrawal—the shakes were a dead giveaway—but his color had improved since Saturday.
It’s none of your business. You’re not Nate’s girlfriend anymore.
Kris purposefully avoided looking in father and son’s direction when she took her seat.
“I’m going to grab a hot dog before the game starts,” Teague said. “You want anything?”
Kris’s stomach growled at the promise of food. She’d been too anxious to eat anything except a small salad and smoothie all day.
“A hot dog and water would be great.”
“You got it.”
Teague left his jacket on his seat, and Kris had to place her hand on it to prevent it from sliding onto the floor after the person behind them kicked at the bleacher like he was trying out for a college soccer team himself.
She turned to give the baseball-cap-wearing frat boy a piece of her mind, but her gaze caught and locked onto Nate’s instead.
Nate’s green eyes bore into hers, dark and simmering with barely veiled fury. His handsome face appeared carved from granite.
What the hell did he have to be mad about? He was the one who broke up with her! Kris should be the pissed-off one.
Another crack split her insides open, but she lifted her chin and returned his glare, refusing to be cowed. Let him stare. Let him see what he’d lost.
All the while, she bled inside.
Thankfully, Teague returned before the stadium exploded from the intensity of Kris and Nate’s silent stare down.
When she tore her gaze away from her ex-boyfriend to focus on her friend, oxygen returned to her lungs, and it took all she had not to gulp in lungfuls of fresh air.
“If looks could kill, you’d both be eating dirt right now.” A faint glimmer of amusement threaded Teague’s words.
There was no need to clarify who he meant when he said “both.”
“Good thing they don’t. I imagine dirt tastes like shit.” Kris smiled when she saw Teague had dressed her hot dog just the way she liked it—ketchup, no mustard, and a sprinkling of relish. “You remembered.”
“I’ve been on the receiving end of too many drunk, hangry Kris tantrumsnotto remember.”
