Chapter 9 Brendan
NINE
Brendan
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks as we stop outside the door of Scotty’s Sports Bar. “Because once the team sees you here, they’ll never let you escape this social obligation again.”
I glance through the glass doors at the big screens and crowded tables.
The hotel is only walking distance away, and I don’t plan on staying long.
But what Rafael told me about community presence and being a coach people can root for seems more important now that I’m trying to rebuild my image.
Showing up here tonight checks those boxes—a nice girl on my arm and teammates who see me as more than the owner’s nephew.
“I’ve agreed to come once. I’m their coach, not their drinking buddy.”
This is why I stopped going out with the guys after games. That coach-player relationship becomes infinitely trickier when your players are also your friends.
“I thought they were your buddies?” She tilts her head, and the moonlight catches her cheekbones.
“Technically, yes, but it’s different now that I’m their coach.”
I’m trying to keep them at arm’s length, just like the other coaches do.
She shoves her hands in her pockets. “Then how serious are we playing this tonight? Some of your friends know the truth. But most don’t.” Her mouth quirks. “Asking for a friend.”
“A friend, huh?” I lift a skeptical eyebrow.
“A very close friend.” She nods solemnly like she means it, but her eyes are playful.
I should keep my distance. That would be the smart thing to do. I know how she affects me, and I can’t let it become anything more.
But tonight I have to sell it to the entire team. Only six guys know the truth. The other eighteen don’t. And if they don’t buy it, then word gets back to my uncle and our entire plan falls apart.
“Tell your friend”—I cross my arms, letting my gaze lock with hers—“that we need to make it obvious that we’re into each other for the players who don’t know.”
Her eyes widen. “Wow. You sure you can handle that level of performance?”
“I can handle anything you throw at me, Rossi.”
Her throat bobs. “That almost sounds like a challenge.”
“It is.”
She studies me for a second, then puts her hand out. “You said you wanted to make it clear we’re into each other, right?”
That’s when I realize how serious we’re playing this. “Exactly what I said.”
I take her hand and pretend this doesn’t affect me. I can be totally unaffected by Scarlett Rossi. Those are the rules I have to live by tonight.
But as her fingers interlace with mine, energy pulses through my arm like a current.
Her hand squeezes mine before we make our entrance. “We’ve got this, Coach Marco.”
The sports bar is noisy and crowded—all the things I hate about generic establishments that cater to everyone and nobody at the same time.
The area near the bar is crammed with mismatched tables and chairs, while the opposite corner has been claimed by a dance floor overflowing with bodies and loud music.
A narrow hallway in the back leads to an arcade with a dozen video games and an air-hockey table, all fighting for attention.
The overstimulation is enough to make me want to escape right now. Then Scarlett glances back and grins, and I know I’m staying, overstimulated or not.
Lauren spots us approaching, her eyes immediately dropping to our joined hands. “Look who’s here!”
Gabriella, who is next to Miles, waves us over. “You two are so cute together.”
I’m not sure who’s more excited—the two women who are clearly loving this display of affection, or the guys who can’t believe I actually showed up.
“I must be seeing things,” Rourke teases. “Because that looks like Coach.”
We slide into seats next to Lauren and Tate, where most of the inner circle has already claimed their spots.
“Wait, did hell freeze over?” Jaxon calls from the far end. “Coach doesn’t hang out after games.”
I place an arm on the back of Scarlett’s chair, my fingers accidentally brushing her shoulder.
She’s wearing her Crushers sweatshirt from the game, while I’m suddenly feeling overdressed in a game-day suit.
The waitress brings waters, then comes around to take our orders.
While everyone else orders dinner, Scarlett only gets a plate of fries.
I frown. “Are you sure you don’t want something else?”
“I love fries.”
Something tells me she’s ordering the cheapest thing because she’s worried about money. There was food available in the staff box, but I didn’t see her eating the entire game.
I order a burger and fries, then at the last second, add two large, chocolate milkshakes.
During summer break in high school, Scarlett, Eli, and I used to get milkshakes after their shift at the cafe. Scarlett ordered chocolate so predictably that I teased her about it. “Why don’t you try something different?”
And she’d respond, “Why would I try something different, when I know what I like?”
I didn’t understand what she meant until later. There’s something valuable about knowing what you like. Whenever my mother would ask me why I wasn’t dating more, I would always think back to Scarlett’s words: Why would I try something different, when I know what I like?
And what I liked was Scarlett Rossi.
Scarlett lays her menu on the table, then picks up her water. “Two milkshakes? You must be hungry.” She takes a sip.
“They’re not both for me.”
Her brow furrows. “You got me a milkshake? How do you know I still like chocolate?”
“Why would you try something different, when you know what you like?” I turn to her with a knowing smirk. “And you like chocolate milkshakes.”
Her mouth pulls into a wild smile against her cup. “You remembered?”
I shrug like it’s not a big deal. “I remember everything about you, Scarlett.”
She sets her cup down so hard, the ice jumps. “Brendan Marco, I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I murmur.
She leans into me, so close that my pulse rockets. “Thank you for remembering,” she whispers as her breath brushes my cheek.
My gaze drops to her lips. She’s so close, her mouth tipped toward me, that I can easily imagine what it would be like to kiss her again. I’d only need to lean in a few inches more and angle my mouth slightly.
Then Lauren holds up her phone and snaps a shot before we can put more space between us. When she shows us the screen, I’m struck by how I’m looking at Scarlett—not like a friend at all.
Scarlett studies the picture for a long moment without saying anything. Which somehow makes it worse than if she’d made a joke about it.
“She was just thanking me,” I say.
Rourke barks out a laugh. “Sure. Thanking you.” He picks up his drink and mutters, “With that look on your face.”
“What look?” I ask flatly.
That’s when I notice the same six guys—Leo, Brax, Tate, Rourke, Jaxon, and Miles—all grinning like fools. The ones who know this whole thing is fake, even if my feelings are not.
Leo catches my eye across the table and mouths you’re so gone with a smirk that tells me he’s enjoying every second of my suffering.
At least Scarlett is too busy staring at Lauren’s picture to notice.
Thankfully, our food arrives, just as Scarlett’s phone buzzes on the table. As she reads her message, her brow knits with worry.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
She places her phone face-down on the table and stares at the plate of fries. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
She doesn’t look fine. I’ve always been able to read Scarlett’s eyes. I started noticing it in high school, when she’d be worried about Eli or upset with a friend. The key to Scarlett Rossi has always been her eyes.
Worry balloons in my chest. “Is everything okay with your dad?”
She stirs the ice in her cup. “Dad’s fine.” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Mom just got some bad news, that’s all. The insurance company is denying the claims for my dad’s treatments.” She stirs her ice so hard, droplets splatter the table. “For the third time.”
I take in that news quietly.
“The same treatments that are saving his life. They won’t cover it because they’re too new.” She blinks back tears, and before I think about it, I place my hand over hers—not for show, but because I don’t know what else to do. I hate that she’s hurting and I can’t fix it.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlett.”
She doesn’t look at me, but I notice she doesn’t pull her hand away. “Me too.”
“Do you want to leave? We don’t have to stay here if you want to go back.”
Her eyes meet mine and there’s something different there. “I don’t want to leave, Bren.” She shakes her head. “Screw the insurance company. I need this.” She gestures toward her fries.
“You need fries?” I ask, confused.
“No, I mean all of it.” She waves her hands in the air. “I need the people. The noise. The fun.” There’s a fire in her eyes now. Then she tucks her phone in her pocket and gives me a look that says she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Tonight she needs to forget.
The pinging from the video games echoes in the background. “Well, if we’re staying, do you want to destroy me in air hockey?” I ask.
“That sounds like exactly what I need.” She pushes back her chair in one fluid movement, but doesn’t get up. “Let’s see if I still have my magic touch.”
She looks far too proud of her air-hockey skills for me to resist pushing back. “I seriously question whether there is any magic involved. Now, luck—maybe.”
Her brow furrows. “It was never luck.”
“That sounds like a serious overstatement,” I shoot back with just enough arrogance to make her scoff, but there’s no heat behind it.
She never figured out that I let her win. And it was totally worth losing to see her smile.
“And for your information, I played a lot when I was in the Marines,” I warn her.
She turns to face me so that her knees press against my legs. She seems completely unaware of the contact, but I’m having trouble focusing on anything but the exact point where we’re touching.
“Is that a threat, Marco?” And there it is: the lilt in her voice, the smirky challenge in her eyes. The Scarlett I remember from high school is finally back.
I rise from my seat, all six foot, three inches of me, then fold my arms across my chest. “Only if you’re okay losing.”
Her eyes follow me up, up up, before tracking over my suit. There’s no intimidation on her face as I tower over her. Instead, she stands as well and rises to her tiptoes. “Okay, Mr. Cocky AC. You’re on.”
I lean in, our faces only inches apart, and point at her. “That’s Mr. Cocky Ass Coach to you.”
She howls with laughter and the sound is an instant dopamine hit.
I want to bottle that sound and keep it forever, in case I need proof of what pure joy sounds like.
If calling myself a ridiculous nickname makes her laugh, I’ll do it without hesitation—anything to get her mind off the bad news and life’s cosmic unfairness.
She tilts her head, studying me with a puzzled smile. “Hey, it looks like you’re having fun, Brendan Marco. How’s that possible?”
I smirk, because she’s so impossibly dazzling, and the very reason I’m enjoying myself. I just won’t be the one to admit it.
I put my hands up in surrender as I back toward the arcade. “Don’t jump to conclusions yet, Rossi.”