“Clearly,” Owen nods. “You still play?”
I open my mouth with the same answer I’d been using for weeks—I’m taking a break—but the words die on my tongue.
But something about the way Sophie looked so deflated—like the fact that she was a little uncertain, suddenly changed her value—made me want to tell the truth.
“Actually, I was just cut,” I say, and Sophie’s breath catches. “My agent says there’s still a shot I could get picked up mid-season if a roster spot opens up. But I’m thirty-one, I’ve got a nagging knee injury, and I’m too much of a risk for teams to take seriously anymore.”
I shrug and take a long sip of my beer. Out of my periphery, Sophie’s hand opens and closes, almost as if she wants to reach for me. An uncomfortable silence settles over the table. I didn't mean to drag down the mood, just to tell Sophie that whatever she was going through was okay.
“What about you, Andy?” I say, trying to change the subject. “Any siblings getting in your business?”
“Probably,” she says, popping the pineapple chunk from her very pink beverage into her mouth.
“Probably?” Sophie asks, eyebrow lifted.
“Andy had a less-than-traditional upbringing,” Liv explains, smiling.
“My parents are part of a traveling performance troupe,” Andy says. “I grew up on the road, and I can still walk on stilts.”
“What?” Sophie asks, laughing. “What kind of traveling performance troupe?”
“Count Voltaire’s Cirque des Merveilles.” Andy drags her hands through the air like she’s illuminating the marquee.
“Like a traveling circus?” I ask, and Andy nods.
“But how does growing up in a circus relate to siblings?” Owen asks, and I admit, we are all hanging on her explanation.
“I think this conversation is going to require another round of drinks.” Liv chuckles. “I’ll grab refills.”
Sophie stands to let Liv out, and I can’t help but notice her gaze flick to the sliver of space next to me, like she’d like to move to my side of the booth. And, damn, I want her to. I want to feel her body next to mine, to tuck her close. But she changes her mind and sits back down.
“My parents think their partnership was created on a higher plane,” Andy begins. “They’re deeply in love but also consensually non-monogamous. They believe sex and love are separate experiences. My mom had other partners in the troupe—like Marv the illusionist. If I couldn’t find her in our RV, she was in his. My dad, though, liked the townies. He’d go out with the other musicians on our last night in each town and disappear until sunrise, stumbling back just as the caravan pulled out. A few times, my mom had to pull over and scoop him up from the roadside. They’d kiss hello, and we’d roll on to the next town. So while I don’t know of any siblings, I’m pretty sure there’s a mini Edward Vale in Albuquerque or Des Moines or somewhere.”
Liv returns to the table, expertly balancing five shot glasses between her fingers. She sets them down on the table and holds one up. Everyone else grabs a glass.
“To siblings!”
Chapter 8
Sophie
“I think this is the first time I haven’t gotten kicked out of that bar,” Liam says as we step onto the sidewalk in front of Bar None just after midnight.
“I feel like you have some stories to share,” I say with a little hiccup. The night had been delightful. I was out of the house and actually talking to Liam, and I don't think I realized how much I was craving both. When Liv, Andy, and Owen said goodnight, I wasn’t ready to head back to Cal’s. So I suggested we stay for another drink. Honestly, I have no idea what my nightly total was, but it was way more than I was used to.
“Let’s just say I didn’t handle myself very responsibly when Cal first left,” Liam explains.
“Why didn’t you tell me you got cut?”
Liam drags his hand through his hair. “I don’t know, maybe I haven’t come to terms with it myself. That the career I’ve wanted since I was twelve is over, and I have nothing to show for it and no fucking clue what comes next.”
“Welcome to the club,” I say, stealing a glance at Liam’s profile as we pass under a streetlight. The sharp angle of his jaw, the rise of his cheekbones, but also the sadness in his eyes. “But you said your agent still thinks there’s a chance of getting picked up by another team.”
“Yeah, but Soph,” Liam shoves his hand into his jeans pocket, making his bicep bulge. “It’s July. The chances of someone picking up a thirty-one-year-old with a bum knee this late in the season? Pretty damn low.”
“Pretty damn low is not none,” I tell him.
“And what do you mean by ‘welcome to the club?’ I’m pretty sure you just got a commissioned art piece out of tonight. Senator Langford? That’s a huge deal, Soph.”
