She blinks. “What?”
“Like I said, I assumed wrong. I thought you left because you regretted what happened or because I’d—” I clench my teeth together.
Her expression gentles. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want, sweetheart.”
That hits me hard in the chest—the endearment, therelief.
Thank fuck.
“Still, I get it. I fucked up, Red.” I lightly trace the plump curves of her mouth. “I overreacted and I’m sorry.”
Her face goes soft. “Just like that?”
“Just like what?”
“An apology,” she says. “Without me having to tear it out of you?”
“Baby, I fucked up. Whenever have I doubled down on that?”
“The Berchard trade?” she says without delay, says so quickly that I can’t help but laugh.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I was probably wrong about letting him go, but it brought Storm to the team, so I think I win.”
Her lips press together, her eyes sliding away—which tells me enough.
I’ve won this round.
I drop my arms, reach over, and snag her backpack.
“Wh—”
“Pancake time, Red.”
“I—”
I turn the handle, flick my gaze over my shoulder at her, gaze trailing up and down that gorgeous body. “And after that…syrup.”
“Uh…Coach?”
We pause our discussion of lines for tonight and I turn back to see Storm standing in the hall.
I look from Storm to Joey, not missing the longing in the kid’s eyes.
I know how that feels.
But I can’t deny that I have to shove down the urge to make my claim clear and public.
Not the time.
Not the place.
So, I just step a few feet away and let them have their conversation.
Though, I do it wanting to murder the kid.
Or maybe arrange another trade.
Get him the fuck out of here and far, far away from my woman.
