CHAPTER THIRTY
Lucas
Suits should be illegal.
That’s my first thought as I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall near the bar. Tailored black, crisp white shirt, no tie. Clean. Polished. The version of myself teams like to parade out for donors and photo ops.
I adjust my cufflinks and prepare for the next question, because while the glitz and glam of the Lone Star’s Charity Gala to benefit disadvantaged youth in the area for the public starts upstairs, for the players it starts down here.
Under harsh lights and with microphones shoved too close to our faces, we have handlers whispering cues to us like we’re about to walk some fancy red carpet than just walk up the stairs to where the next part is happening.
Cole drops into the chair beside me as I finish my third interview. He does that slouchy lean back thing kids do that has no business being done in a tux. He angles his head my way. “Why the hell do you get more press than I do?” he mutters, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt.
I don’t look away from the reporter across from us packing up her things. “Because I’m charming.”
She laughs. Cole scowls.
“That’s bullshit,” he says.
“Is it?” I shrug. “You sell flash. Cars. Clothes. Swagger. Arrogance.” I finally glance at him. “I sell longevity. Stories. Relationships. Sure things. Fans like knowing who they’re rooting for.”
By the startle of Cole’s head, I’ve clearly offended him. “You saying I don’t have fans?”
“No. I’m saying you haven’t built relationships with them yet. You’ve rented their attention. Now you need to prove you deserve it.”
My handler taps my shoulder. “Last interviewer is ready for you over here.”
“Great,” I say as I glance over and smile at Cole. His arms are crossed and jaw is tight.
Feathers are now ruffled. Perfect. He needs to start thinking about shit like this. And that’s why they’ve partnered the two of you, Hale.
I recognize the benefit for both him and the team of me being that mentor for him. The things I learned from a lot of trial and error, he has someone to guide him through.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t want to take him down a peg or two in the process.
The interview is short and within minutes I’m upstairs where the money is being spent.
It’s a cush request—to give them our time and attention.
All teams do something like this in one way or another.
And it’s exactly what you’d expect a gala to be like.
Soft lighting. String music. Champagne flowing like water.
Attendees dressed to impress and be seen.
Sponsors hoping this philanthropy will put them in good standing with someone.
And the women? They’re everywhere.
Some are on their husbands’ arms. Others have come separately and by the way they come in waves, it’s clear some of them have one objective tonight—land an athlete.
Again, not unusual for an event like this.
And they’re easy to spot. It’s in the lingering touches on my arm. In the praise lavished over our last practice, season, or game that I’m sure they didn’t watch. In the questions they ask that aren’t really questions.
I play the game though and turn on the charm.
Two of them approach Cole and me where we’re standing near the bar. They’re tall, confident, and judging by their plunging necklines, definitely dressed to be noticed.
Cole straightens, smile already locked in. He’s ready to play this game. I am not.
“Hi,” one of them says.
“Hi,” Cole replies smoothly.
The woman turns to face me. “We were hoping to meet you, Lucas.”
Cole’s jaw falls lax.
I bite back a grin. “Hello,” I say and shake both of their hands as they make introductions. Cole just stands there and blinks. He recovers, but not fast enough because I see the flicker of irritation in his eyes as they turn their attention to me.
I’m polite, engaged, ask questions when needed and laugh when appropriate. You never know who’s connected to whom in this room, so you have to treat all attendees like they’re the event’s biggest donor.
At least that’s what years of experience has taught me.
I’m mid-sentence, asking if they plan to come to any games this year when I lose my train of thought.
Because Emery walks in.
And everything else disappears.
She steps into the room like she belongs in this world—even though I know she’d argue that point to death. The dress is dark and slinky and fits her like it was made for her body. Her hair is down, soft waves brushing her shoulders. Minimal jewelry. Barely any makeup.
Jesus.
My chest tightens. My hand tightens around my glass.
This.
This is what people mean when they say breathtaking. Not flashy. Not trying. Just . . . mesmerizing.
She doesn’t see me at first.
I watch as a few heads turn and conversations stall for half a beat as she makes her way toward the bar with a quiet confidence, completely unaware of the distraction she’s caused.
I exhale slowly.
She scans the room, expression calm, composed . . . until her gaze lands on me.
On the women in front of me.
On the way one of them touches my arm with a casual familiarity she’s clearly selling.
Something flashes in her eyes before she tempers it. Jealousy. Sharp and real and so very satisfying to see from my perspective.
The woman beside me leans in, her cleavage on full display as she does. “We’re rooting for you.”
“Thanks,” I say absently.
But my eyes never leave Emery.
She laughs at something the bartender says, and even from across the room, the sound hits me low and deep. I take a drink I don’t need and force myself to move—circling, drifting, letting the crowd carry me closer to her.
When I finally reach her, I don’t announce myself. Rather, I step in just behind her shoulder and murmur, so only she can hear, “See?”
I love hearing her breath hitch. “See what?” she asks.
“You’re jealous. Does it make you want me more?”
Her head turns slowly, and when her eyes meet mine—wide, startled, undeniably affected—something sharp and satisfying twists in my gut.
She recovers quickly. Of course, she does.
“I told you, jealousy is a wasted emotion.” She flicks her eyes at me and then back out to the people around us.
“And yet you are.” I love that she won’t admit it but that everything about her expression says otherwise.
“You’re delusional,” she says, lifting her glass, but she doesn’t move away.
“Maybe I am.” I let my gaze drop, deliberately, appreciatively. “Because that dress you’re wearing is making me think some pretty crazy thoughts.” Her lips part for just a second. I lower my voice so only she can hear me. “You look incredible, Doc.”
She clears her throat. Our eyes meet for a beat. “Thank you.” And then a slow smile paints her lips. “You look like trouble.”
“Always have been. Why change now?”
She chuckles but the way her eyes roam over my tuxedo say exactly what I’m feeling. I want you.
“Is this your first one of these?” I ask, nodding toward the crowd milling about. “A charity gala for people who pretend they enjoy small talk but really come for the open bar?”
“Yes. Not my scene to be honest, but the people watching is amazing.”
I bark out a laugh. “I’ll give you that one. There are plenty of unique things to see.”
“Unique being the subjective word.”
I nod. “How is your proposal coming along? I overheard Grant talking to you about it when I passed by your office the other day.”
“It’s coming. Not having been part of this program for very long, who knows if the things I’ll suggest to improve the flow and efficiency haven’t already been done, you know? It’s the end cap on my probationary period, so I need it to be incredible.”
“I think everything you touch turns out that way.” I hold my arms out. “Living proof right here.”
She emits the laugh I was trying for and rolls her eyes. “No shortage of confidence there.” She says the words but there’s a softness to her eyes, to her smile, that begs me to reach out and play with that curl that’s falling over her shoulder.
I grip my glass harder instead.
“You’re breaking your rule again?” she asks and lifts her chin toward the glass in my hand.
“I’ve decided that rules aren’t all they’re cracked up to be this time around.”
“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her wine as she stares at me over the rim of her glass. “May I ask what you may have meant about orange slices and Gatorade?”
“What?” I laugh out.
“You said it the other night just before you fell asleep. You said, ‘This is better than orange slices and Gatorade.’”
Did I really say that?
“When you’re a kid playing sports, the best thing in the world is the snacks after. They’re the whole reason you make it through practice so that you get that brown paper bag someone’s mom brought that has warm orange slices that have been sitting out during the whole practice and a Gatorade.”
“Seriously?” She laughs.
“Dead serious. It’s the best.”
“Then I guess I’ll take it as a compliment,” she murmurs.
What was the context in which I told her that?
“Definitely a compliment.”
We stand there, close but not touching, and surrounded by people, yet somehow alone in the noise.
Someone calls my name. A donor wants a photo.
Duty calls.
Before I step away, I lean in once more. “Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For taking care of me the other night.”
Her expression softens, which guts me.
“I didn’t do anything,” she says.
“You did,” I reply. “More than you realize.”
Later—much later—I spot her near the terrace doors. The crowd has thinned there, the music’s softer, and the night air’s cooler.
I can’t resist taking advantage of the moment.
She turns as I step outside, moonlight catching in her hair.
“Lucas,” she says, half warning, half looking around to see if anyone is watching.
“I know.” I stop a careful distance away. “I just wanted . . . needed one thing.”
Her brows lift.
I lean in—not close enough to be reckless, just close enough to be dangerous—and brush a kiss against her cheek. Brief. Chaste.
But loaded.
“Good night,” I murmur.
Her breath hitches.
I leave her there—heart pounding, restraint fraying—because if I stay another second, I won’t.
And when I glance back through the glass doors, I see her watching me leave.
Not leaving yet.
But thinking about it.
And that?
That’s enough to know the needle moved.