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Smoothing my palm down the tie that perfectly matches my dress—silk and an eggplant shade of purple that I kinda wanna rip off because he looks too damn good wearing it—I tug on it gently. “Too old?”
The slap he bestows on my ass compliments his smirk, contrasts the soft glow in dark eyes. “Got other things now.”
Pressing my lips together, I cock my head as I wind my arms around his neck. “Things, huh?”
Strong hands squeeze. “Yup.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know,” Cass hums. “Select team practices. Ultrasounds. Reading journals.”
“Sounds awfully boring.”
“I don’t know about that.” His head dips, his nose brushing mine. “Wanna talk to you about something later.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It’s a good thing. Promise.”
* * *
Within minutes of arriving, Cass is whisked away.
The star of the show, he’s inundated with compliments and questions and introductions, and honestly, keeping up is too tiring. I’d much rather park myself at the bar, sipping on various elaborate mocktails—because this hotel is the type of place that has various elaborate mocktails—and watch the chaos from afar.
Watchhim, mostly, loud pride humming beneath my skin, despicably soppy love beating in my chest.
“You must be Sunday.”
Half-turning, I smile politely at the man settling beside me, familiar if only because Cass made me memorize Sal Rodés face and promise to run in the opposite direction if I ever came across it. Alas, swollen feet and a tight dress do not allow for a speedy escape, so grinning and bearing it is my only option. “Sal, right?”
With a dramatic sigh, Sal sags against the bar, both elbows propped up on the dark wood as his head drops backwards, shaking for a moment before rolling to face me. “Your man’s already turned you against me, huh?”
“My man has a busted shoulder because of you, I hear.”
Sal groans. He shifts to face me, palms on his knees as he leans forward, huffing and puffing a whole lot of liquor-scented air. “He’s still mad about that?” Before I can answer, he kisses his teeth. “That was years ago. I was a baby.”
Six years ago, to be exact—I might’ve Googled it after Cass’ outraged reaction to me wearing his jersey, something which I decide not to mention right now. I’m not sure I’d label twenty-four asbabybut when you’re brand new to the league, maybe that’s how it is.
“It’s not like I did it on purpose, okay? And it’s not my fault he can’t take a hit.” Pouting like the baby he claims he was, Sal sighs again. “He’s gotta get over it. Especially now.”
“Especially now?”
Ignoring me, he slaps his knees and straightens, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear the liquor—whiskey, if I had to guess—fog. “You need anything, sweetheart, I’m your guy. We’re family now.” He pumps a fist in the air, a half-assed show of excitement. “Team Devils.”
“One game makes us family, huh?” That's surprisingly sweet. And possibly a heap of shit.
Startlingly bright green eyes squint at me. “Oh, c’mon. Have some faith in your man.”
I squint back. “What’re you talking about?”
With a bitter laugh, Sal slumps in his seat. “They’re not drafting him mid-season so he can look pretty on the bench.”
They’re not drafting him mid-season so he can look pretty on the bench.
Three times, I repeat those words in my head. Three whole times before they really, truly sink in, and my heart sinks along with them.
Around the same time I realize what he just said, Sal realizes his mistake. Whatever expression is on my face must give it away, makes something uncomfortable twist his. “Ah, fuck.” He clears his throat as he stands, knocking over his stool as he backs up a step. “I gotta go.”
