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I eye the door, wonder at my chances of escaping this fucking conversation.
“I’m old but have an explosive start,” Mack says quietly. “You won’t make it outside.”
Reading my mind. And not bullshitting me—one look, and I know he won’t hesitate to take me down.
Which is evenmoreannoying.
“So?” John presses, just as much of a nosy fuck as the rest of them.
I throw in a few more chips, draw another card. “My mom called”—they still, all knowing me well enough to understand that my mother is a pain in the fucking ass—“Nova was there for the conversation…which didn’t go well.”
“What did Nova do?” Jer asked.
I glare down at my cards. “She tried to comfort me.”
Silence again—albeit this time it’s tinged with confusion.
Then Jer tosses down his cards, folding. “Tell me you’re notthatmuch of an idiot.”
I inhale, fold myself. “I barely know her, man, and she’s trying to interject herself into my life.”
Which is bullshit I don’t believe, even as it’s coming off my tongue.
She’s had one foot out the door the entire time she’s been staying at my house.
“By comforting you after a tough conversation,” he says dryly.
I take a swig of my beer in answer.
Mack curses.
Jer turns to me.
And…I snap. This day has been fucking ridiculous—Knox and his remorseless bullshit, the hard-ass workout in the gym, Coach and the practice from hell, my mom cock-blocking me and pulling her usual drama, the…
Look in Nova’s eyes.
Christ, I can’t fucking think about that.
I set my bottle on the table with aplunk, foam bubbling up and spilling down the sides. “Look,” I growl. “I’m happy to walk the fuck out that door and leave you interfering assholes to your game.You”—I glare at Mack—“brought me inside.You”—at Jer—“dealt me in. You two—”
Ronnie lifts his hands. “I’m just here for the poker, man.”
“Same,” John mutters, throwing another chip in the pot.
I sigh.
“You’re a fucking moron,” Jer says, shaking his head.
Done with this shit, I start to stand up.
Mack shoves me back down. “We’ll be done with this conversation after I say this.” His fingers tighten on my shoulder, voice going gruff with grief, and I still because—
Fuck.
Because Mack lost his wife last year.
“Mack—” I begin.
