“Shut up and break,” Reid cuts in, nodding toward me to do it.
The break thunders, balls scatter, and one sinks into the faraway corner pocket. The jukebox coughs up a Springsteentrack because of course it does. It all feels like a well-needed exhale—until my head trips back to the porch.
The way Lulu’s laugh thinned out, the way that guy’s hand tightened when she said no, how casual he was about it. The shift in his face, from polite to pushy in a heartbeat. My body was already moving before my brain decided to.
My stomach knots, just as it did that night. Relief that I was there mixes with the sick thought of what if I wasn’t? The question digs in under my ribs.
“Ball in hand,” Ryan calls, but Eli’s voice cuts in low beside me.
“Lu get in okay last night? You see the guy?”
I stiffen, keeping my eyes on the table. “She was fine.”
Eli studies me. “You kept an eye out?” And after I nod my reply, he continues. “What’d he look like?”
“Not my business,” I say, lining up an easy shot and whiffing by a mile.
Chase barks a laugh. “What was that? Performance art?”
“Eat shit,” I mutter, chalking harder than necessary as Ryan takes his shot.
Reid gives me a look that isn’t teasing. He doesn’t ask, he sees. That’s worse.
I reset, cue trembling just enough that I tighten my grip. Doesn’t matter how loud the jukebox is, how much the guys chirp each other, how many extra baskets of wings Gary drops to our table—my head’s still back on that porch, fists itching, chest tight with the truth I’m fighting.
I care. Too fucking much.
Chase finally scratches on the eight, throwing his arms up in defeat. Ryan smirks, Hutchy fist bumps him, and Jake claims he called that outcome five shots ago. The game unravels into laughter and groans, and the cues are set back in their rack.
The boys peel off to the bar, and I linger by the leaner, rolling the cue ball in my palm. The noise fades to the background, but my thoughts don’t.
Season starts next week, which means I’ll be gone half the time. Back-to-backs, away trips, hotel rooms that all smell the same. And Lulu will be across the street from mine, answering the door for guys who act like “no” is a negotiation.
I’m not okay with it. Not the idea of her laughing with strangers, not the idea of her house, dark at night with no one there but her.
Eli slides up beside me, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Please tell me you've seen that goon try to moonwalk.”
I follow his nod toward Walton, who’s halfway into a terrible impression of Michael Jackson, one hand in the air, the other on his crotch as he thrusts.
“Christ,” I mutter. “This is why Gary tries to ban us.”
He chuckles and lifts his beer in salute. “Bastard couldn't if he tried.”
Our conversation is comfortable and easy, like it always is. For a second, I forget I’ve got secrets sitting heavy in my chest.
He takes another swig. “Thanks again, by the way. For keeping an eye.”
I nod once. “Of course.”
“She’s stubborn as hell,” he says. “Thinks I’m overprotective. Maybe I am, but that doesn’t mean she’s not walking around with a target on her back.”
I don’t look at him, just fix my gaze on the condensation sliding down the neck of my bottle.
“She deserves someone decent,” Eli goes on. “Not some dick from an app, because one of these days she’s gonna end up in a situation she can’t joke her way out of.”
That makes something coil tight in my gut. I take a slow sip, trying to keep my mouth shut.
He sighs. “I just don’t want her getting blindsided, but she thinks I'm paranoid."
