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Coach finally ends his speech, clapping me on the shoulder once more before shooing us away. Nash rushes off, gesturing for me to follow as he bypasses the team entrance and heads straight to the parking lot.Motherfucker.
Grabbing my helmet, I shove it under my arm with a grumble before following my oldest—and soon to be dead—friend. He knows something happened between Beatrice and me last night, having watched me drag her from that club, but I’ve dodged every one of his questions. So I don’t have to think too hard as to why he’s interrupting the nice family reunion today.
By the time I reach them, Nash has firmly inserted himself into their conversation, slipping in as if no time has passed since the last time he saw Lucas Fletcher. My reservations settle in my stomach, heavy like lead, as I try to swallow past the uncomfortable lump growing in my throat when Lucas turns to me.
His face splits into a grin, and he lets go of his kid, pulling me into his chest. I pat his back awkwardly, though his welcoming hug is familiar. For a man who plays guitar in a metal band, he’s always been so open with his affections.
Unlike my dad who wouldn’t know what a hug was if it slapped him in the face. Not that he doesn’t love me, he just doesn’t know how to express it in ways beyond saying the words.
“Maverick,” he says, pushing me back and running his eyes over me. His eyes glimmer with pride when he takes in my jersey and the helmet sitting under my arm. He slaps me on the shoulder, shaking his head. “God, I bet your pops is so proud.”
Nodding, I bite down on my tongue against the onslaught of emotions at the mention of my grandad. Lucas notices, his brows furrowing.
As the silence drags on, becoming more awkward, I chew the inside of my lip, closing my eyes for a second.
“He passed away last year,” I explain. A harsh intake of breath, followed by a choked sob comes from beside me, and my eyes flick to Beatrice, who holds a hand against her mouth, her eyes watering at the news. “Lung cancer.”
A tear rolls over her cheeks, and she pulls in a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. The sight of her crying has my chest aching, and the urge to protect her, to shield her from that hurt is overwhelming. “But, hey, he got to see me get into college, so that’s something.”
She nods, her lips trembling as she pulls the bottom one between her teeth, turning away. Maisie shields her, her voice low as she whispers in Beatrice’s ear, and the only thing I want in that moment is to swap her arms for mine, but I can’t.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lucas says, pulling my attention back to him. “He was a really good man.”
“Yeah, he was.”
Awkward tension suffocates us. Beatrice’s dad looks as though he wants to say more, his mouth opening, but thankfully, Nash comes to my rescue, steering the conversation in another direction.
Maybe the dude can live for a little bit longer.
Later in the day, after saying goodbye to Lucas, the guys and I are in the apartment with Harlow and Maisie. Beatrice went out for dinner with her dad, so the girls figured they’d crash our night.
“So I have a question to ask you guys,” Maisie says, her gaze flicking over my three friends and roommates. She avoids my direction, which only makes me curious. “If I wanted to set a friend up on a date—hypothetically—are there any guys you would recommend?”
“Hypothetically . . .” Nash tilts his head, mischief flicking over his expression. “Is this a friend we know?”
Maisie nods, and Harlow chuckles. My eyes narrow, my fingers digging into my thighs. The sweats I’m wearing do little to stop the pinch of my nails. I have no doubts who thisfriendis. And I don’t fucking like the line of questioning either.
My mouth opens, but Nash beats me to it, slamming his hand against my lips. “Actually, I have some people in mind,hypothetically,of course.” I clamp my teeth over his palm, and he winces, glaring at me when he pulls his hand away. But it isn’t enough to stop him playing whatever game he’s decided to play. “We can set something up.”
Chapter Twenty
Beatrice
Maverickavoidsmeoverthe next week, literally going out of his way to escape any room we may find ourselves together in. Just today, he slipped out of the cafeteria the minute I walked in, leaving a half-eaten sandwich on his tray.
I grab my bag, pulling out my vibrating phone as my professor rambles on about Emmanuel Sieyes, a French writer who rediscovered and defined sociology, but my mind is elsewhere.
Unlocking the screen, I click on the group message—set up by Nash—and scroll through the many messages that keep distracting me from the lesson. Names keep flashing up on the screen, vetoed by either Harlow and Beck, while Gray and Nash explain whyIshould go on a date with these guys.
Not that I asked for this. I said I’d think about dating again when Maisie questioned me in my dorm after my dad had gone home. She rushed over, thankfully letting me avoid the topic of Maverick while she nailed me with question after question, offering to set up a dating profile for me.
We agreed—I thought—to start simple. Talk to a few guys, hang out in some group settings. But I’m thinking Maisie is trying to play at something, and dragging everyone in only makes me more suspicious.
Beatrice: You know I’m in this group right?? And I never asked any of you to set me up on a date!
Maisie: Hush Bea, let the adults get to work.
Beatrice: I’m a year older than you . . .
