6. Miles
6
MILES
Y ou’ve never partied if you’ve never been out after a Vegas all-star game.
Dozens of clubs and bars on the Strip are ready to welcome fans and players, and we have an invite to the best of the best.
ICE nightclub, owned by Harrison King, is the place to be this year. His wife is one of the biggest producers and DJs in the world, but despite their public personas, they’ve managed to keep the story of how their relationship started mostly private.
Brooke, Clay, Nova, and I have barely gotten inside ICE when a woman cuts through the crowd to us. She’s about our age with strong features and dark hair. At first, I wonder if she’s a hostess—she’s definitely beautiful enough—but she’s too familiar and too relaxed for that. Nova holds her arms wide to the woman, who lets herself be drawn into a light hug.
“Didn’t see your name on the marquee,” Brooke calls over the music.
Raegan Madani, whom I recognize now that she’s up close, mouths something that looks as if it includes the word “vacation.” Her mouth curves, a tiny lift at one corner that barely registers in the darkness.
Brooke introduces me, and Raegan throws me a half nod. Her attention, even for a second, isn’t careless. Her gaze is the kind of intense that makes you feel as if she sees everything you’ve ever been or wanted to be.
“Well played, gentlemen.” The man who sweeps in wearing a dark suit has a British accent that’s obvious even over the pulsing beat. His hair is light. Everything else about him dark.
Clay and I shake Harrison’s hand in greeting. He’s giving Daniel Craig-era Bond even before he shifts an arm around Raegan’s shoulders, her fingers lacing casually through his. Brooke’s gaze flicks up and down him.
“You better be eyeing the suit,” I murmur in her ear.
She laughs, eyes warming with appreciation. “You worried?”
“Nah. I know exactly how to make you scream my name.”
Brooke looks next level tonight in a sparkly silver dress and heels. I like her hair every way, but tonight, she’s straightened it so that it falls down her back in a curtain.
I want to soak up every moment of this experience, but I also want to drag Brooke somewhere private and show her exactly how much it means to me that she’s here.
“Harry and Rae”—as Harrison insists we call them—show us to the best VIP booth in the place and inform us that each of the six booths by the dance floor have been reserved for players and guests. Ours is the most private, but each booth has black leather seats tall enough to shield all but the tallest VIPs.
Over the back of our booth, I spot other players from the game, including Hawkins in the next booth over with a couple other players and a few vaguely familiar faces—a couple of actors, I think, and a musician.
Our first round goes down fast. It’s a celebration, and after the long day of activity, I can feel the alcohol in my system.
Harry doesn’t linger, but Rae stays for a drink, chatting with Nova and Brooke.
“To your first of many games.” Clay holds up his glass.
The guy doesn’t drink alcohol during the season. For a moment, I imagine doing the same, but the next drink washes away any reluctance.
“Where did Jay and Chloe go?” Nova calls.
Brooke shrugs.
We’re distracted when Rookie and Atlas come by the booth for a round. One song blends into another. The vibe is practically giddy—we’re young and rich and have a week off, so what the fuck is there not to love?
I grab Brooke. “Dance with me.”
She tilts her head. “Are you any good?”
I grin. “I’m an all-star, baby.”
Brooke’s eyes roll, but she lets me tug her onto the floor.
I’ve got moves, but the second we’re out there, it’s all about her. She’s unselfconscious, moving to the music, both hands in the air. Her curvy hips sway, the shimmery fabric of the dress clinging to her body.
She lifts the phone in the air and snaps a sexy pic. Then changes the angle so it’s just our faces and texts both to me.
“What’s that one for?” I tease her.
“Grams! Figured she could do with less side boob and more of you.” She winks.
I love you .
I’ve never said that to a woman, but the words are there, not even waiting for me to come looking for them. They’re in the living room of my mind, in the foyer, busting out the front door and parading down the street with a ten-piece band.
I love Grams. I love basketball. I love Waffles because he loves me so much it’s impossible not to reciprocate. I love my friends, but in that collective way where if one of them drifted away, I’d find others and it would be cool.
Loving Brooke is another thing entirely.
Doing it from a distance was safer. I could care all I wanted when she was in school and I got drafted. Then later, when she was hanging out with someone else, or I was—when she was my best friend’s little sister and I was the guy who looked out for her because it was the right thing to do.
I can’t go back to loving her from across the room. I won’t be able to watch her in the stands or play laser tag against her or ask what she’s planning for Jay’s birthday party and not know she’s mine.
But when I pull back to open my mouth, she’s looking past my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” I ask over the music.
She smiles quickly. “Nothing.” But she can’t hide the fact that her head’s somewhere else.
It hurts a little.
“Garrett, man.” Another player cuts in to say hi. “The hell was that in the media?” he laughs.
“An apology.”
He exchanges a look with Brooke. “Didn’t look like one.”
He excuses himself to make conversation with another group of players.
“That what you think too?” I ask Brooke. After a couple of drinks, I’m not subtle.
“Honestly?”
“Always.”
“Your statement was possibly worse than saying nothing,” she decides. “It could piss off James and Harlan. Not like I don’t like to see them work for their money.”
I’m a chill guy, but all year I’ve been digging deep and find more of myself. More to give the team, the world. Feels as if I’ve been excavated with a metal shovel digging down through rock. You go that deep with a tool that sharp, you’re going to leave some rough edges.
“Another round,” I say when we get back to the booth. “Order for me and I’ll be right back?”
Brooke nods and settles in, but I head to the back hallway toward the bathrooms. Inside, I bump into Hawkins.
“Nice game tonight,” he says.
“Team effort, man. You played all right yourself.”
“Once in a lifetime. Enjoy it,” he says.
“First, you mean,” I correct.
“No, I don’t.” He grins and I wait him out. “You’re not Jordan or Kobe or Clay Wade. You’re a diversion. Once you’re done being amusing, they’ll be on to the next guy who pulls his head out of his ass to build a streak for a few games. So will your girl. I’ve definitely seen her around all-star weekend a time or two.”
He brushes past me before I can respond. My hands fist at my sides as I start to lurch after him, but I bump into the sink.
Trash talk is nothing new. I just didn’t expect it from the guy I won a game with a few hours ago.
I know better than to let him under my skin. It’s none of my fucking business what Brooke did or didn’t do, but that doesn’t mean it’s not turning like a screw in my brain right now.
The door swings open, and in walks a group of young guys.
“Hey, Garrett, right? You’re legendary.” The guy who brushed in the door last is nearly my height but probably a college player from his age.
“Appreciate it,” I manage. Even my mouth feels a step slow.
“Anytime. Your pranks are infamous. What you did with the rubber chicken a few years ago…” He cackles and continues past me, shaking his head.
What if Hawkins is right?
When I get back to the booth, I slide in next to Brooke. My arm brushes her bare shoulder as I reach for the bottle in the middle of the table.
Empty.
I order another round as our server clears the empty bottle.
Brooke tilts her head. “Are you okay?”
“Epic. Legendary,” I go on with relish.
“Just one for him,” Brooke calls to our server with a frown.
She leans her chin on a hand—a hand with brightly colored nails that blur. “If I knew I was going to carry you out of here, I’d have worn flats.”
“Not going to happen. I’ll carry you, Princess,” I correct over the music after the woman leaves, nudging Brooke’s leg with mine.
Over the back of the booth, I spot Hawkins with two women. One’s pressing herself to his front, the other to his back.
I’m remembering what he said about Brooke. I try not to think about her hooking up with other guys here.
“How does this all-star weekend stack up to the others?” I ask her before I can stop myself. “Because I know you used to come.”
Her gaze is searching. “This one’s pretty damn good. I’m here with you.”
She means it. On some level, I feel her earnestness.
But that level is buried beneath too much alcohol and a raging insecurity that somehow reared its head in the last hour.
Between the bodies pressed together on the dance floor and the ones in the booths, I can’t kick what Hawkins said.
“You were looking for something earlier,” I say.
“I thought I saw someone familiar.”
Someone she would’ve been with tonight if it wasn’t for me?
The waitress brings a fresh drink, and I tip it back.
“Don’t let me get in your way,” I say with a grin as I set the empty glass on the table. It sticks to the surface.
Brooke shifts to face me more fully. Her bare knees brush my thigh, the shiny dress shifting further up her toned legs.
My chest is on fire. My fingers are tingling, and my head feels like cotton.
The expression on her face is all wrong, but I can’t place it before she motions me closer with a finger. I lift a brow, or try—my face is going numb—and lean in until my nose bumps hers.
“Garrett,” Brooke says in my ear. “I’m here with you, okay? Don’t make me question it.”
I’m already buzzing, but I look over at Hawkins. He’s laughing at me.
The next second, I’m out of the booth. I grab the front of his shirt. Warnings from my friend drift into my fuzzy ears.
I want to hit him.
The floor hits me first.