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By the time I’m suiting up, I think I’ve got my shit together. But then Nichols strolls in, and the words are out of my mouth before I even realize they’re coming.
“The fuck, man,” I grit out, my body tensed for a fight.
He chuckles, grinning like his life isn’t in danger. “You said she’s not your girl. But she might bemyfuture sister-in-law. So, she wears my number.”
“Isaidwe had history.” Jesus, I’m a hairbreadth from laying this guy out and making it clear that she’smywife and Misty’s already my sister-in-law even if she doesn’t know it. And if that gives anyone the right to put his number on them… it’s fucking me.
Nichols’s hand comes up from where he’s buttoning his shirt, his finger wagging between us.
“And you said you ‘worked it out’ this weekend and weren’t seeing her again… Which roughly translates to: Not. Your. Girl.”
I’m a reasonable guy. Always.
Controlled. To a fault.
So why are my fists balling at my sides?
I don’t even know how to back the hell out of this confrontation with the one guy I get on with okay from the team.
Nichols flicks a look at my fists and clucks his tongue. “Seems like if you want her wearing your number, you ought toinvite her to a game.”
Yeah, right after I tell her I got a lawyer this morning.
I pull my suit jacket from my locker and turn back to Nichols. Who’s a good guy, even if he gave Stormy a jersey with his name on it.
“She seem okay after I left Saturday?”
His brows pull up. “Stormy? Yeah, she seemed good, I guess. Smiled and hugged everyone when the Ps arrived. She’s quieter than my girl, but— Hell, man, you want to check up on her, she’s at the Five Hole right now.”
The Five Hole? The fans are nuts after a win. I swallow.
“They go with some of the WAGs?” A bunch of the players have wives and girlfriends that meet them over there after games sometimes. I didn’t notice if any of those girls were here, and I’ve been tuning out locker-room chatter so long, the team could be planning a bank heist and I wouldn’t know.
“Nah, didn’t get a chance to introduce them yet. But Boomer and Bowie headed over already. Static too. Asked ’em to look out for Misty and her sis while I wrapped up with Coach.” He does a sort of double take. “Diesel, man, is your eye twitching?”
7
Liam
Ten minutes later, I’m shouldering my way through a sea of handsy dudes in Slayers jerseys, grunting out thanks on repeat to a litany of congrats as strangers invade my space like it’s their own.
I find them seated in the back room. Stormy’s laughing at something Boomer said. He’s got one arm thrown over the back of her chair, leaning in so close that his chest is meeting her shoulder.
Bowie and Static see me and offer a jut of their chins in greeting, clearly expecting me to keep walking by the way they instantly return to their conversation. But when I step up to the table and take the open seat across from Boomer and Stormy, all conversation comes to a stop.
“Oh, shit— uuuh, yeah, man. Sit down.” Bowie runs a hand over his neat beard, then leans over and claps my shoulder like the rest of the strangers in the bar. “Don’t see you out here too often.”
Boomer exchanges a look with his buddy and then turns to me and points his longneck toward the bar. “Yeah, grab a beer.”
Not here for the beer. “How’d you like the game, girls?”
Boomer’s eyes narrow as they shift between me and Stormy, who’s watching me with a strained smile.
Because she’d rather I hadn’t interrupted? Because I keep telling her goodbye, that we’re done, but then crash back into her life anyway?
She opens her mouth, but Boomer cuts her off.
“Oh, sorry, man. Yeah, Diesel, this is Stormy and that’s her sister, Misty. Misty’s Nichols’s girl. Babe”— he pulls my wife’s chair an inch closer to his, like he thinks he’s staking a fucking claim or something —“this is Diesel.”
