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I shrug, turning to Nash. “Cab service done, out.”
“That’s not very nice, Beatrice,” he scolds, wagging his finger in my face before he unclips his belt and opens his door. “PS You still drive like an old lady.”
“I do not,” I grumble, glaring at him through the window as he saunters around, propping himself outside my door.
“Yes, you do, and just for that . . .” He leans over, grabbing my keys from the ignition before pulling away. “You now have to come hang with us.”
“Nash, come on. I’m not playing, give me my keys.”
He walks away backward, swinging the keyring around his finger and giving me a come-and-get-themlook before he spins on his heel and disappears down a path that must lead to the back of the house.
“That motherfucker,” I groan, dropping my head against the wheel.
Maisie chuckles beside me, shrugging when I turn to her. “I mean, you can’t really fault him for his efforts. Like I said, effective.”
“Can you go get them for me?”
“No can do, friend.” She pushes her door open, wandering around and pulling mine open. “Come on. You’ve got to be stronger than this, Bea, or they’re just going to push you around.” The moment she says the words, she winces, as though knowing it’s the wrong choice of phrase. “Shit, I did—”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, unclipping my belt and sliding from my seat. “You’re right. Big girl panties on and all that jazz. Anyway, it doesn’t look like anyone is here, so super quick, in and out, right?”
“Right,” she echoes, though the guilt in her eyes doesn’t lessen.
“Honestly, Mais, it’s all right.” I slam my door shut, linking my arm through hers before following the direction Nash went. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Come on, let’s go find Nashville, get my keys and then we can gorge ourselves on popcorn and all the cheesy Christmas films.”
“Perfection,” she says, leaning in close. “By the way, why do you call him Nashville?”
A laugh bubbles past my lips at her question. “Because for the first two years of our friendship, Maverick convinced me that was his name. Told me his parents named him after the place. It wasn’t until I made him a cake for his eleventh birthday that he finally told me his name was just Nash. But it was too late for me, and the name stuck.”
“You really do have a lot of history with them, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I answer softly, stalling for a second at the gate. “They’re in almost all my good memories from being eight years old.”
Maverick
Nash saunters into the yard, a smug smirk on his face as he drops down into the seat beside me. Harlow leans past me, an uncapped Bud Light in her hand that she passes over to Nash. Acoustic music plays softly from the speaker, moving with the light breeze that passes over the garden. This has become a tradition after our games.
Where most people expect us to head out to one of the many parties that always rage on the weekend, we prefer to chill out in Marcus’s—our wide receiver’s—garden, passing around beers and a couple joints as the high of our win wears off.
“What’s got you so chirpy?” Harlow asks Nash, who just chuckles and mumbles to himself.“Is he being weird right now?”
“He’s always weird,” I answer, tipping my beer to my lips. But she’s right. He’s super fucking happy, and as his eyes linger on me, mischief flickering through them, I know whatever’s got him chortling like a schoolboy will only piss me off.
I’m proven right moments later when the gate pushes open and two small bodies wander into the yard.
Maisie spots Nash instantly, shaking her head at him as she saunters over. Behind her, Beatrice is slower to find her footing, her eyes darting over the grass as she brings her thumb to her lips, refusing to glance up as she chews at the skin there.
Something settles in my stomach at her obvious discomfort, but I push it away, snatching the joint from Harlow’s fingers and pulling in a heavy drag.
At one time, Beatrice could command a room with her easy charm and zest for life, and those around her couldn’t help falling into her web . . . but now, she’s different.
Instead of finding a rhythm, she shuffles to Nash, holding her palm out while Maisie drops down into the seat next to Gray, slipping into his conversation with Beck.
“Keys. Now!” she demands, bringing all the attention to her.
Nash only leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. She glares at him, but it does nothing to discourage the laughter that bubbles past his lips. Finally, she turns to me, something swimming in her eyes I can’t read. “Can you please tell him to give me my keys since he’s always listened to you.”
Tilting my head, I bring my thumb up to my lip, a show of thought just for her. “You really should hand them over,” I say to Nash without taking my eyes from her face. “Beatrice really shouldn’t be around people, what’s to say she won’t fuck up your life next?”
