Chapter 9
ROMAN
I don’t often take part in the team’s extracurriculars.
Even tonight, I had no plans on joining them at a rock concert put on by an artist that I don’t particularly enjoy.
Evie considers me a grandpa because I don’t listen to music unless I’m at the gym, but I simply find it distracting.
I can’t focus properly when I have fast beats and strings of lyrics in my ears.
If my darling niece hadn’t forbidden me from staying in my own home and shoved me out the door so she could use the pool for a photoshoot, I’d be spending the night in my office, watching game films.
There are other things I could have done instead of taking one of my own tickets to the Noah Hutton concert, but at least while I’m here, I can make sure none of my players act like fools in the public eye. Typically, I’d put that responsibility on an intern, but here I am.
I’m early enough that the only player I’ve had to make small talk with is Beckett Rourke. I’d have preferred almost anyone else.
“Is there a reason you weren’t gonna come?” he asks around the rim of his beer cup. “Do you not like rock or something?”
I fold my hands on the bar top and lean forward, adjusting my footing.
The suite reserved for us by the owner of the BC Pythons was a gift of appreciation for our long-standing friendship, but right now, it feels more like a punishment.
Looking out over the private rows of seating below the suite’s bar, I twirl the black ring on my thumb.
“Are you asking because you’re genuinely curious or because you want to learn something about me to share with the team?” I counter.
He chuckles beside me. “Both. You’ve been with the team for years now, and it still feels like we know jack shit about you.”
“You know plenty.”
“I know you’ve got a niece that you don’t let hang around us. That hurts my feelings, Rome.”
From the lighthearted tilt of his voice, I highly doubt that.
“Maybe if I didn’t think you were going to try and swoop in and run your lips flirting with her, I’d give her the option more.”
“Oof. Alright, I’ll take that. But I promise that I’ll be on my best behaviour whenever she’s around.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
He laughs harder, this time drawing my gaze. I lift a brow when he smirks and rolls his shoulders back. “Fair enough. You’ve been speaking to Wes, haven’t you?”
“Why would you come up in conversations with Wesley?”
“Wesley.” He snorts the name, like my use of it is as ridiculous as everyone seems to believe. “Because he’s always on my ass about Brielle. Apparently, when a guy asks his teammate’s sister out thrice, he gets crowned a player.”
Heat zips up my spine. “You didn’t stop after the first warning?”
“What’s the fun in that?”
“You enjoy being a menace, Beckett.”
He takes another sip of his beer before resting it on the bar and tapping a painted black fingernail against the glass. “I’ve heard that a time or two.”
“What time is everyone else arriving?”
“Why? Are you desperate for someone else to occupy you?”
“I’d appreciate if someone else were here to hold your attention, yes,” I admit.
I catch the slight curl of his lips before looking forward again. The arena is filling slowly, with only the opener set to come out in the next few minutes. My concert etiquette is slacking, considering how few of these I actually attend.
“Tough crowd.”
“Don’t pretend like you aren’t hoping for someone else to talk to. I know how close all of you are.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to chat with you. If you gave us the chance, I think you’d like getting to know us, too. We’re pretty great.”
“I can’t see how that would end well.”
“Why not? You’re not the guy signing our cheques or shipping us off when we’ve run out of value here.”
“Being traded doesn’t mean you don’t hold value,” I correct him, not liking the way that sounds.
“It may as well. We’re professionals, Rome. We all know there will come a time when this team doesn’t need us anymore. All we can do is hope that time is after a winning season.”
A tight sensation tugs at my ribs, forcing me to shift on my feet. I open my shoulders a bit to try and ease the discomfort. “Your value is still very high, Beckett. I can’t see any of you being moved for a while yet.”
“Don’t make promises,” he drawls before knocking my shoulder. “But thanks. I’m pretty crazy about this team and our city.”
I nod, contemplating grabbing a drink of my own. “They can tell.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I should be doing more for them.”
“Them? The team?”
“Well, yeah, but the fans, too. I’ve seen the stories online the last few months, and they’ve been doing a lot of battling on my behalf.”
“I assume we’re talking about the Sports Weekly segment?” I ask coolly.
“That’s the one.”
“I wouldn’t put too much thought into what they say. They haven’t been taken seriously for years now. If their viewership was still where it was before their Maddox Hutton smear campaign, they’d be reporting on actual news and not low-level gossip.”
“The clickbait title they used was still good enough to draw in too many eyes.”
Is Beckett Rourke’s Off-Field Lifestyle Finally Catching Up To Him?
I remember almost every word of that article, and not because I had the writer for the bogus mouthpiece reach out asking for an inside statement.
While they did, I remember it so clearly because the game they used as the baseline for his article was one that I watched him beat himself into a pulp for.
It wasn’t his worst game by a long shot, but when our closer gives up a home run in the last inning with the score tied, everyone notices.
He may as well have been the lone reason behind the loss, not the other pitchers who were stumbling on the mound or our top batters who went back-to-back-to-back with no hits.
The guy loves going out and celebrating his wins. It’s the losses that cut him deep. That’s how it always is in baseball. The highs are high, and the lows are so low you fight against them for weeks, unable to shake the disappointment.
“Nobody is taking it seriously, Beck. I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. I mean it.”
“Thanks.”
I jerk my head in a rough nod. “You’re welcome.”
An awkward silence creeps in as we stand side by side, neither of us knowing what else to say. From the corner of my vision, I can make out his heavy gulps of beer. His thirst seals my decision to find something of my own to drink.
Without another word, I turn from the bar and stare at the array of expensive champagne bottles waiting for the team.
Three-tiered silver trays of food rest between the ice-filled buckets and bottles of harder liquor.
I avoid it all and drop to a crouch in front of the mini-fridge built into the counter.
Beer usually turns my stomach with the reminder of late college nights spent on old bleachers, yet that’s what I reach for tonight.
The silver can is chilly against my palm when I stand and crack it open, not bothering to pour it into one of the crystal glasses.
Beneath the dim, yellow lights, I take a deep swig of the foamy liquid and fight a wince at the bitter taste.
“I swear to fuck, Wes, if you mention it one more time—”
“Ow! Christ!”
“I’m going to do worse than that if you don’t put a sock in it.”
I recognize the female voice first. It makes no sense, but the soft, feminine edge of it is what I focus on.
My spine goes as straight as a steel pipe as I whirl around and find myself drowning in a pair of impossibly vivid green eyes.
The bolt of electricity that shoots straight through my middle knocks the wind out of me.
Brielle’s as focused on my being in front of her as I am on her standing so close.
Her pouty pink lips are parted and glistening.
Clawed nails are pressed into the sparkling fabric at her hip, pinching it.
There’s no mistaking the interest that still lingers in her gaze as she gives me a bold once-over and taps her pointer finger against her skirt, drawing my attention lower.
The slight curve of it is wrapped in pink glitter.
All of her is. From the halter around her delicate throat, the tapered front piece that only reaches her pierced belly button, and the thin waistband wrapping like a second skin around her waist. I’m a weak bastard.
I let my eyes wander to the pale skin of her inner thighs and down to her muscled calves and the matching pink heels on her small feet instead of looking away.
My first instinct is to excuse myself from this suite before she can see just how attracted I am to her and encourage her to continue staring at me like she’s contemplating beckoning me forward with a crook of her finger.
My second . . . well, I think I’d move toward her before that finger lifted in the first place.
It’s not until I gather myself enough to meet her twinkling eyes that I close myself off, choosing option one.
“Hey, Rome. I didn’t know you were gonna be here,” Wesley announces, already crossing the suite to slap my arm.
I rock slightly at the impact. He moves on to Beck before I have a chance to reply. Though I had no plans of doing so. I don’t trust that I wouldn’t blurt out something completely unacceptable.
Brielle stretches one leg out in front of her and moves closer, smiling softly at me as she closes the gap between us that I should be extending. “Hello again.”
“Brielle,” I say tightly.
“Apparently, my brother was wrong about your distaste for rock music.”
“He wasn’t.”
A flawlessly filled-in eyebrow twitches but doesn’t jump up like I expect. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m not sure that’s your business.”
Fuck. I sound like a bastard.
“Either way, I can’t say that I’m disappointed you changed your mind,” she murmurs, bringing her hand from her hip up to brush her hair behind her shoulder.
The loose curls are hardly long enough to skim it, which tells me she’s doing it for another reason entirely.
“You’re here early, too. Most people don’t come to a concert until the opener’s already playing. ”
I run my tongue along my teeth. “By that rule, you’re early, too.”
“That would be because my brother wanted to take advantage of all the free booze.”
“Last time I checked, he made more than enough to afford his own.”
She winks brazenly. “Great minds, Roman. That’s exactly what I told my brother.”
I clear my throat when my lower stomach clenches, blood running south. Warning bells blare in my ears once again, reminding me that casual conversation with the same woman I’ve been watching on an online NSFW site is not what I’m meant to be doing right now.
“Well, enjoy your night, Brielle,” I say offhandedly, already turning away—
“The concert hasn’t even started yet. Don’t tell me you’re actually allergic to conversation. I assumed that was just a rumour,” she teases, having taken a step toward me.
I roll my jaw and adjust my shirt sleeve while looking at where Wesley and Beck are taking whiskey shots at the bar-top table.
With my voice just low enough that only she can pick it up, I turn back to her and say, “Whatever idea you have in your head about me, abandon it. I’m not interested in little girls, Brielle.
Especially not ones so closely related to players on my team.
I won’t be entertaining the fantasies you’re playing out in your mind.
Drop whatever this is before it becomes a problem. ”