Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
Tristan
Everything in me is screaming out to kiss Michelle. I almost did, possessive to my bones, wanting to claim her as mine in front of everyone.
For a second, I thought she wanted to kiss me, too.
She sidles close, color high on her cheeks, whether from the performance or our almost kiss, I don’t know.
As loud as the music and my teammates’ scream-singing is, it’s easy to tune it all out and focus on her. Shit, it’s all I ever want to do.
“You did really good,” I tell her. Condensation drips from the ice-cold pint of beer in my hands, and I motion to the pitcher. “Thirsty?”
“Yeah,” she says, tilting her chin slightly. The light from the disco ball dances across her skin, making her look even more ethereal and otherworldly. “You could say I’m thirsty.”
She doesn’t so much as glance at the pitcher, and it’s then that I notice she’s holding the drink she ordered earlier.
I swallow hard, wishing like all hell I hadn’t made this a group date. What I wouldn’t do to have her alone in a room right now. What I would do if I did.
I try to say something, but that one look’s taken down all my carefully cultivated smoothness.
She flips her hair over her shoulder, the corners of her mouth sketching up into a sultry grin that promises a good time. Hell, it promises everything.
“What are you thirsty for?” I raise an eyebrow in challenge, looking meaningfully from the drink in her hand to her mouth. “You don’t look like you need a beer.”
Her lips part as her tongue darts out, wetting them, and I move closer, not wanting anyone to get to see her like this but me.
Carefully, I cup her jaw, resting my thumb lightly along her cheek. A soft sigh leaves her mouth, and I feel it against my throat more than I hear it above the noise behind us.
“Michelle, I can’t dance around what I want from you anymore,” I tell her.
The words are desperate, but so am I. “I don’t want to push you, but I need to be honest with you.
I want you more than I’ve wanted anything my entire life.
I can’t sleep because I constantly dream of you.
I can’t think straight when I’m around you, because I’m so afraid I’m going to scare you away, because you deserve so much more than me. ”
She shakes her head a little at that, wide-eyed, but I continue on.
“Let me finish—I want to be more than friends, but I want that, too, okay?”
“I—”
“Gold!” Logan booms out, the mic squawking as my name ricochets from the speakers.
I laugh, because of fucking course they’re going to interrupt me now that I’ve finally gotten up the courage to tell Michelle she’s the one that I want. All I want.
I look down at her wide brown eyes and those perfect lips, and I brush the tip of my nose against hers. “Later,” I promise her. “We’re finishing this conversation later.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, her voice husky enough that it makes every inch of me sit up and take notice. “Well, I mean,” she continues in a more normal voice, “I will be going home after this.”
“Oxford,” I say in a serious tone, with the most solemn look I can muster, “are you asking me to come home with you?”
“Tristan Gold, captain of our team and our hearts, get your ass onstage!”
We wince at the sheer volume of Logan’s demand, then I shake my head and finally turn to the stage as she laughs.
“Finally, sheesh. Monopolizing our Michelle like that,” he says as I climb the stairs.
I grit my teeth. Not theirs. Mine. My Michelle.
“As many of you know,” Logan continues, “Tristan has been guiding us on how to work better together as a team—”
“One team!” someone bellows, and I hold a hand up to my eyebrows, trying to block the stage lights and see who it is.
“One goal!” everyone responds at once, and that makes me laugh. My eyes finally adjust to the bright lights, and I immediately focus on Michelle’s smile in the back of the room.
She’s the only one I can see.
“As such, he had the right to delegate. And…he delegated that I bring up some preseason team awards.” Logan reaches down, making a gimme gesture, and Djimon hands him a thick stack of papers.
I’d forgotten. I’d been so caught up in Michelle that I completely spaced I’d planned this moment. Wincing, I step closer to Logan, feeling like an asshole for not remembering I’d double-booked tonight as Michelle and team time. A good time, sure, as always…but selfish as always, too.
Smile, I think to myself, and a grin tightens the seam of my mouth as I take the proffered mic from Logan.
There’s a beat of pregnant silence, and the speakers squeak with awkward feedback.
“Aces, Logan’s right—tonight’s about all of you and how hard you’ve been working…and how much ass we’re going to kick this season!” I thrust my fist in the air, and the guys whoop and holler.
My grin turns real as I ease into the moment, because damn, it feels nice to tell them how much I appreciate them.
“I know I can be an asshole—”
“Pain in my assholes!” someone, probably Wyatt, screams out, and everyone groans.
“I can feel your eyes rolling, and I’m glad it’s at Wyatt and not me.”
They laugh at that.
“I’m proud to be your captain, because you all are a team to be proud of. You bring your A game every day. You work hard, you work together, and I’ve got a damn good feeling about this season!”
Another cheer goes up, and the light glints off Michelle’s glass as she raises it, beaming at me. God, I could bottle up that smile and live on it for the rest of my life.
I blink, doing my best to shake off my momentary Michelle Oxford brain freeze.
“The first award of the night goes to…”
The sound of dozens of men drumming on their thighs cuts through the air, and I bark out a laugh, pulling the first award off the stack. “Logan Steel, Most Likely to Have a Yap Attack.”
Logan throws back his head, laughing, and takes the award from me as the room laughs and applauds.
“Then we have Best New Center Forward, Connor Ford.”
“I’m the only new center forward,” he yells, but he’s grinning when he cuts through the crowd to the front and reaches up for his certificate.
“Djimon Ford, I’m honored to present you with the Ace’s Voice of Reason award, for being the only one who agrees with me ninety percent of the time.”
“More like sixty,” Djimon yells back.
I shrug, holding the mic close to my lips like I’m telling a secret. “No one ever accused me of being good at math.” I toss the award at him, and he catches it easily, laughing.
“And Coach of the Year, West Garrett,” I continue. I lean sideways, scanning for him in the crowd. Coach, looking dazed, finally makes his way to the stage and takes the certificate while everyone chants: “Coach, Coach, Coach, Coach.”
And on and on it goes, until every single player has an award and my voice is hoarse from telling them all how much I appreciate them.
When I get off the stage, I’m high on adrenaline and good vibes, and Luke’s right there to hand me a fresh drink, this one sparkling water.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Wolfe. Team isn’t the same without you bullying everyone on the field.”
Luke rolls his eyes, but I swear I see his lips twitch, which is pretty much the Luke Wolfe equivalent of anyone else slapping their knee and laughing hysterically. I grin at him.
“Heard you’re driving,” he finally manages to say.
I eye the fancy bottle he gave me. Apparently, Abigail has turned him into a straight-up conversationalist.
“You heard right,” I tell him, coming down from my performance high at the thought that Luke thinks I’d be stupid enough to drive drunk. “I wasn’t going to drink any more tonight anyway,” I tell him. “I might be a good-time guy, but I—”
“I know that,” he interrupts, skewering me with his patented shut-the-fuck-up grimace. How someone as bubbly as Abigail has matched up with him, I’ll never really understand. It’s the same way I know that Michelle is way too good for me.
“You’re a good captain,” he says, clinking his sparkling water against my bottle.
I blink, lowering the bottle in surprise. “What?”
“You’re a good captain.” He waves his sparkling water toward the guys, who are serenading each other onstage. “They’re all here, having a good time, and they loved the awards. I never would have thought of any of this. You’re a good leader.”
I take a drink of the fizzing water just to give myself something to do, and then I nod at him, at a total loss for words.
“Michelle would be lucky to have you,” he adds, and that makes me nearly choke on my beverage.
I make a mental note not to drink sparkling water ever again, because bubbles up the back of the nose is not an experience I care to repeat.
“She’s out of my league, Wolfe.”
Luke gives me a long, lingering look, the kind that says he sees straight through all my bullshit. Bullshit I didn’t even know I had.
“Abigail’s taught me self-talk is important.”
“What?” I’m going to get whiplash from this conversation.
He grunts, and I crack a smile at the so-very-Luke reply.
“The way you think about yourself matters. You think you’re not in her league. You are. You just need to tell yourself that, too.” With that, he tips his chin at me and heads over to where Abigail’s chatting, her hand outstretched to him.
Act like I know I’m good enough for Michelle? I want to scoff, but when I catch sight of her dark brown hair glistening in the garish light, I don’t just want to act like it.
She’s having fun, chatting and bopping along to the music, so beautiful and carefree that it makes my heart stop. I’m proud of her. She really is trying to loosen up.
I want to try to be good enough for her, too. I want to be good for her.
I want it to be true.