CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FUN AND GAMES
Elise
The rest of the day passed without incident, but I’m still seething from Grant’s blowup this morning. Jordie appears at my bedroom door with that golden boy grin and those dimples sometime after three that afternoon.
“Mini golf. Ice cream. Terrible decisions.” He’s leaning against my doorframe like he owns it, wearing jeans and a henley that should be illegal. “You in?”
“I have studying to do.”
“You always have studying to do. Come on. You deserve a break after this morning’s bullshit.” His expression softens. “Let me make you forget about Captain Asshole for a few hours.”
The idea of forgetting about Grant—about his accusations, his jealousy, the way he looked at me like I was something dirty—sounds better than anything I can think of.
“Fine. But I’m terrible at mini golf.”
“Even better. I’m extremely good at it, and I enjoy winning.”
“Humble.” I chuckle.
“Confident. There’s a difference.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m in Jordie’s truck with Wyatt riding shotgun and me in the back, and I’m already questioning this decision because the way they keep looking at each other, then back at me, suggests this wasn’t a spontaneous invitation.
“You two planned this,” I say.
“So, what if we did?” Jordie adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see me better. “We discussed. Strategized. Coordinated our calendars.”
Wyatt turns in his seat to look at me, and there’s something different about him today. Lighter. The shadows under his eyes are still there, but they’re not as deep, and when he smiles—actually smiles—it transforms his entire face.
“Thanks for last night,” he says quietly. “I slept through the night. Haven’t done that since—” He stops. “In a long time.”
My chest does something complicated. “Anytime.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.”
The way he says it, low and serious with heat underneath, makes my stomach flip.
Jordie catches my eye in the mirror. “See? Big guy’s in a good mood. You’re a miracle worker, Hart.”
“Or maybe I’m just a decent human being who doesn’t like watching people suffer.”
“Potato, potahto.” He turns into the mini golf parking lot. “Either way, we’re celebrating. Wyatt slept. You survived Grant’s tantrum. And I get to spend the afternoon with two of my favorite people.”
The mini golf place is one of those overly themed ones with a pirate ship, a windmill, and obstacles that look like they were designed by someone on an acid trip. It’s perfect.
Jordie pays for all of us before I can argue, then hands me a purple putter with a flourish. “Your weapon, m’lady.”
“I’m going to spank you with this if you keep talking like that.”
“Promises, promises.”
Wyatt selects a black putter, testing its weight with the kind of focus he probably brings to everything. “What are we playing for?”
“Bragging rights,” Jordie says.
“Boring.” Wyatt looks at me. “Loser buys ice cream?”
“Deal.”
We start on hole one, which involves hitting the ball through a tunnel under a plastic alligator. Jordie goes first, naturally, and sinks it in two strokes with unnecessary flair.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.”
“Nobody’s impressed,” I tell him, lining up my shot.
“You’re a little impressed.”
“Not even a little.”
I hit the ball. It veers left, bounces off the alligator’s tail, and somehow ends up back where I started.
Jordie’s grin is enormous. “You weren’t kidding about being terrible.”
“Shut up.”
Wyatt goes next, all quiet concentration. His ball goes through the tunnel clean and stops two inches from the hole.
“Show off,” Jordie mutters.
“Just playing the game.”
By hole three, a pattern emerges. Jordie is aggressively competitive but terrible at hiding his strategy. Wyatt is quietly dominating with the same focus he brings to hockey. And I’m consistently coming in last but having way too much fun to care.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Jordie accuses at hole five when my ball somehow ends up in the water feature.
“Doing what?”
“Being adorable while you fail. It’s distracting.”
“I’m not trying to be adorable.”
“That’s what makes it worse.” He retrieves my ball and hands it to me with his fingers lingering on mine just a second too long. “Try aiming more to the right this time.”
“I was aiming right.”
“More right.”
“There’s a wall there.”
“Trust me.”
I do. My ball bounces off the wall, curves around the obstacle, and actually goes in.
“Oh my god.” I stare at the hole. “That worked.”
“I know things.” Jordie’s grin is smug. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
“Debatable,” Wyatt says, but he’s smiling.
Hole seven has a ramp that you’re supposed to hit the ball up to reach the elevated green. Jordie overshoots it. Wyatt makes it look easy. I hit it too softly, and it rolls back down.
“Here.” Wyatt moves behind me, his chest against my back, his hands coming around to adjust my grip on the putter. “You’re choking up too high. Lower. Like this.”
His hands are warm, calloused from hockey, and he smells like clean laundry and something woodsy. I can feel every breath he takes against my shoulder blades.
“Now pull back—not too far—and follow through.”
He guides the movement with me, our bodies moving together, and when the ball rolls up the ramp and onto the green, I’m not sure if I’m breathless from success or from the way he doesn’t immediately step back.
“Better,” he murmurs near my ear.
“Much better,” I manage.
When I turn my head slightly, his face is right there, close enough that I could kiss him if I wanted to. His eyes drop to my mouth, dark and intent, before he steps back and clears his throat.
Jordie is watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. Not jealous, exactly. More like… satisfied.
By hole twelve, they’re both openly flirting. Jordie with his constant commentary and ridiculous compliments. Wyatt with those heated looks and small touches—brushing my arm when he walks past, steadying me when I stumble on the uneven turf, his hand on my lower back guiding me to the next hole.
“You’re both being weird,” I say at hole fifteen.
“Weird how?” Jordie asks innocently.
“You know how.”
“We’re just enjoying your company,” Wyatt says, and the way he looks at me makes my skin heat.
“Uh-huh.”
“And maybe appreciating the view.” Jordie winks. “Sue us.”
“I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt.”
“And making them look really good.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Grant accused me of sleeping with them both, and here I am, on what definitely feels like a date with two guys who are very openly interested.
I should feel guilty. Conflicted. Something.
Instead, I just feel… happy. Light. Like I can breathe properly for the first time since Grant stormed out this morning.
Wyatt wins by three strokes. I come in last by a truly embarrassing margin.
“Ice cream’s on me,” I announce.
“Damn right it is,” Jordie says cheerfully.
The ice cream shop is attached to the mini golf place, one of those trendy spots with flavors like lavender honey and bourbon vanilla.
I get salted caramel. Jordie gets something called “birthday cake explosion” that looks like diabetes in a cone.
Wyatt gets plain chocolate and refuses to be peer-pressured into anything more adventurous.
We end up at a picnic table outside, the afternoon sun warm on my face, and for a few minutes, we just eat ice cream in comfortable silence.
Then Jordie breaks it. “So. We should talk about this morning.”
My stomach tightens. “Do we have to?”
“Grant was out of line,” Wyatt says quietly. “What he said to you—”
“Was true.” I lick ice cream off my thumb. “I did sleep in your bed last night. Hours after I was with Jordie at the party.”
“All we did was sleep,” Wyatt points out.
“Grant doesn’t know that. And honestly?” I look between them. “From the outside, it looks like exactly what he thinks it looks like.”
“Which is?” Jordie asks.
“That I’m sleeping with both of you.” I say it plainly, refusing to soften it. “Maybe not at the same time, but—”
“Would you want to?” Jordie interrupts.
I choke on my ice cream. “What?”
“Sleep with both of us. At the same time.” He’s looking at me with complete seriousness now, the playful mask dropped. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”
My face is on fire. “I—that’s not—we can’t—”
“That’s not a no,” Wyatt observes.
“That’s not a yes either.”
“But it’s not a no,” Jordie presses.
I’m staring at my ice cream like it holds answers. “I don’t know what this is. Any of this. I like you both. Obviously. But I don’t—I’m not the type of person who—”
“Who what?” Wyatt’s voice is gentle. “Wants more than one person?”
“It’s not normal.”
“Fuck normal.” Jordie leans forward. “Normal is boring. Normal is settling for less than what you actually want because you’re worried about what other people think.”
“Says the guy whose entire life is performing for other people.”
“Exactly.” His smile is sharp, self-aware. “I know what it’s like to pretend. To be what everyone expects instead of what you actually are. And I’m tired of it. Especially with you.”
Wyatt’s hand finds mine on the table. “No one’s asking you to define anything right now. We’re just… enjoying each other. Seeing where this goes.”
“Both of you?” I need to be clear. “You’re both okay with—whatever this is?”
They look at each other. Some silent communication passes between them.
“Yeah,” Jordie says. “We’re okay with it.”
“More than okay,” Wyatt adds.
“And Grant?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Jordie’s expression hardens. “What about him?”
“He’s your captain. Your teammate. Your friend.”
“He’s also an idiot who had two years to get his shit together and didn’t.” Jordie’s voice is firm. “I’m not putting my life on hold because Grant can’t figure out what he wants.”
“He wants you,” Wyatt says quietly. “That’s pretty obvious.”
“Then he can use his words and tell me that.” I’m surprised by the anger in my voice. “Instead of kissing me, calling it a mistake, and then slut-shaming me when I move on.”
“Fair.” Wyatt squeezes my hand. “But I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to be honest.”
My heart starts pounding. “Okay.”
“Do you want him? Grant. Do you want him the way you want us?”
The question sits there. Heavy. Impossible.
Because the answer is yes. Of course it’s yes.
I wanted Grant before I wanted either of them. Wanted him for years before that kiss at the bonfire. And even now, after everything, part of me still does.
But I’m tired of wanting someone who pushes me away.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” I say finally. “Grant made his choice. Multiple times.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look at Wyatt, at his patient dark eyes waiting for the truth. Then at Jordie, who’s watching me with something that looks like understanding.
“Yes,” I admit quietly. “I want him. But wanting someone who doesn’t want you back? That’s just called torture. And I’m done torturing myself.”
Jordie nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” He leans back, that smile returning. “Grant can figure out his shit or not. Either way, we’re not waiting around for him to make up his mind.”
“So what does that mean?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“It means—” Wyatt’s thumb traces patterns on my hand “—we take you on more dates. We make you forget about Captain Asshole. We show you what it’s like to be with guys who actually appreciate what they have.”
“And if you decide you want both of us?” Jordie’s grin turns wicked. “We’ll figure that out too.”
My ice cream is melting, forgotten. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Jordie reaches across the table, cups my face with one hand. “I like you, Elise. Really like you. And I’m not going to let Grant’s baggage ruin something good before it even starts.”
“Me neither,” Wyatt says.
I’m looking between them, these two beautiful, broken, complicated men who are offering me something I didn’t even know I could want.
“This is insane,” I say.
“Probably,” Jordie agrees.
“People are going to talk.”
“Let them.”
“Grant’s going to lose his mind.”
“He already has,” Wyatt points out.
They’re both watching me, waiting, and I realize they’re giving me a choice. Really giving it to me. No pressure. No expectations. Just possibility.
I could say no. I could walk away from whatever this is before it gets more complicated.
Or I could say yes to the insanity. Yes to wanting more than one person. Yes to figuring it out as we go.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
Wyatt’s hand tightens on mine. Jordie leans across the table and kisses me, quick and sweet, tasting like birthday cake and promise.
When he pulls back, Wyatt is watching us with heat in his eyes that makes my stomach flip.
“My turn,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine, slower, deeper, full of all the things he doesn’t say out loud.
When we break apart, I’m dizzy and breathless and aware that we’re in public at an ice cream shop on a Tuesday afternoon.
“People are staring,” I manage.
“Let them stare,” Jordie says. “You’re ours now. They can deal with it.”
Ours.
The word should terrify me. Instead, it just feels right.
We finish our ice cream. Drive back to the townhouse. I’m wedged between them in the truck now, Jordie’s hand on my thigh, Wyatt’s arm around my shoulders, and it should feel crowded, but it doesn’t.
It feels like belonging.
Grant’s car isn’t in the driveway when we pull up. Still at the rink, probably. Working off his anger on the ice.
Part of me wants to text him. Wants to explain. Wants to make him understand.
But I’m tired of making excuses for wanting what I want.
If Grant can’t handle this, that’s his problem.
Not mine.