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He’d settled that hope.
Or so he’d thought.
Because just as he’d began to really get back into the game, tying not to be jealous of his brother and what Tiffany was to him, Wyatt dropped a Melody-sized bomb.
Though it wasn’t obvious at first.
“So, Grumpy,” Wyatt said. “Would telling you that I have Gold tickets for Thursday’s game wipe that scowl off your face?”
No.
Because tickets wouldn’t change the fact that Teresa didn’t want him.
And tickets wouldn’t help Bianca get a fucking clue.
But he wasn’t going to complain. He loved watching hockey and he especially loved watching it live.
“Yes,” he muttered. “So long as the next thing you tell me is that I’m invited.”
Wyatt grinned. “Would I be so cruel as to tell youIhave tickets, but not have a ticket foryou?”
He lifted his brows, shot his brother a look.
Yeah, Wyatt would.
He fuckinglovedtorturing Jer.
Not that Jer minded pushing Wyatt’s buttons right back.
It was brotherly affection.
It was brotherly…torture.
“I have a ticket for you, if you want it,” Wyatt said, surprising him.
He didn’t delay. “I want it.” He hadn’t gone to a game in forever.
His brother scooped up a handful of crackers and cheese. “Okay.” He stuffed a cracker in his mouth. “It’s yours.”
Jer grabbed his own cheese and crackers (though he added a dash of fruit along with it), but as he shoved it into his mouth, the way that Wyatt had the ticket was his had Jer’s nape prickling. “Who else is coming?” he asked suspiciously once he’d chewed and swallowed, washing the snacks down with a swig of beer.
“Me. Tiff”—a tilt of his head toward the kitchen, toward the patio—“You.”
But there was an unspokenandin his words.
Jeremy felt that right in his gut.
“And Melody.”
He dropped his bottle on the table. “Wyatt.”
“It’s not a setup,” his twin said, leaning forward on the couch. “We have four tickets. Melody wants to hang with her sister. I want to hang with my brother, who conveniently likes hockey a lot.”
“Convenient,” he said dryly, scooping up the bottle.
“And if youhappento hit it off with Melody”—he shot Wyatt a glare, who lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, bottle clenched between thumb and pointer finger—“then who am I to stand in the way of true love?”
“Christ,” he muttered.
