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I open my mouth to tell her the rest, tempted for the first time in over a year to share the worst of it. The part that keeps me up nights, but at the last second, I stop. She doesn’t need my baggage… and hell, I don’t need anyone knowing it but me. Too much risk.
So, I give her the easy stuff instead. It’s the truth, just not all of it.
“Jess is my dad’s fifth wife. My mom was number two for him, and she’s on number four herself. Marriage— the real kind —isn’t something I’m interested in. I’ve seen the blissed-out infatuation, the heartfelt vows that this time it’s going to be different, the honeymoon phase when you almost wonder if maybe it will be. And then the cheating. The accusations. The lawyers and mediators and judges and—” I break off, shaking my head. “And fuck that.”
She nods. “Yeah, fuck that.” Then, “Okay, now Vegas makes more sense.”
I raise my glass to hers, and after that, we change the subject.
She’s got a million questions about the game, about the bruise on my jaw and the scar beneath my chin. Boomer and Bowie swing back around, and they’re chatty as fuck, completely recovered from getting shut down.
And then it’s not just them. It feels like half the team and their girls come over.
I can’t even feel sour about them cutting into what feels like stolen time with this woman because there is literally nothing better than her laugh when these guys tell her one ridiculous story after another.
Eventually, Nichols and Misty come back.
“Diesel, man.” He grabs hold of my suit but doesn’t actually take his eyes off the girl tucked into his side. And Jesus, the eye-fucking happening in front of me makes me feel like I need a condom.
“Nichols, what do you need?”
His head turns my way, slightly, but again his eyes stay on his girl.
Stormy and I exchange a bemused look.
“Nichols,” I snap again, and he nods.
“Right. Yeah, you make sure Stormy gets back to her car okay? We’re taking off.”
Misty somehow disengages from the tractor beam of my teammate’s eyes. “You mind?”
Stormy waves her off with a laugh. “Have fun, and I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
Nichols cocks his head. “No promises.” Then, “Wait. Scratch that. Yes, promises. We’ll be by to pick up some things.”
Stormy blinks, and I feel a wary protectiveness over her little sister. “Nichols.”
But if I was expecting to have a word with the guy, the ensuing lip-lock happening in front of me says it’s going to have to wait for the locker room.
I cover Stormy’s eyes. “Don’t look into the light.”
She laughs, pulling my hand down, and pushes her sister and Nichols away with instructions to wait until they get home.
“That escalated quickly,” she says, pointing after them with her beer bottle. “Is he moving her in?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
She bites the soft swell of her lip, watching as they disappear into the crowd. “No. I don’t want to interfere. Whatever they’re doing, Misty wants it.”
* * *
Stormy
We stay a little while longer,but this already feels like borrowed time, and I’ve got a long drive home. After a round of goodbyes, we start for the exit.
His hand moves to my lower back as we pick our way through the still-crowded bar. It’s the same as in Vegas and last week, his touch comforting and our conversation easy. Like we’ve known each other forever when our circumstances should make it exactly the opposite. We should be awkward together, suffering through stilted conversation and strained silence.
Every bumped elbow or brushed knee should have us edging apart with an apology. But from the word go, that’s not how it’s been.
