Keeping my head down so my goalie can’t see how much Billie means to me, I quickly type out an acceptance text to Scott before tossing the phone back into my bag.
“Thanks, man.”
Archer takes a seat at the bench, sliding one foot and then the other into his sneakers. “Anytime. And remember”—he circles his stoic expression—“practice that poker face.”
Of all the potential troubles I’m facing, an ability to hide mytrue feelings is not something my teammate should be concerned about. I just proved that during this conversation.
It’s how the fuck I’m going to deal with my growing obsession and not sacrifice my sanity in the process.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BILLIE
Every year for her birthday, Mom organizes a full dinner party and invites her close colleagues and friends.
When I was younger, I used to chalk up these massive, elaborate dinners to her love of food—she’d spend hours in the kitchen, trying out new recipes.
Tonight, I’ve concluded that while she loves to cook, she also loves to plan; every detail has been considered—from matching napkins to place cards written in calligraphy.
It’s the perfect night, for sure.
The only thing that could make it better? If Emmett would look at me. We’ve been sitting directly opposite each other all dinner, and for the entire three-course meal, he’s concentrated on talking with our neighbor, Terry, and Dad about hockey and classic cars.
It feels like I don’t exist to him anymore, and I know it’s because he’s trying to avoid me.
It would be a lie to claim that I haven’t missed our check-in chats via text, but I also get why he’s backing away and putting distance between us.
Things have shifted since I returned from Austin. The air feels thick whenever we’re in the same room. And while there’s a delicious kind of tension simmering between us, one that reached an all-time high in my apartment a few days ago, that atmosphere also doubled as a warning. We’re treading a fine line through very murky waters. One false move, and we could easily tumble right over the edge—or even into bed together.
When Emmett confessed his attraction, I battled to inflate my lungs, let alone admit to feeling the same way. The young-girl crush I had on my dad’s best friend has morphed into something much more. Something I never felt for Tucker or any other guy before him. Emmett commands a room, but doesn’t demand its attention because he already has it—every pair of female eyes, to be exact. And as I gaze around the table with at least seven other women, that fact has never been as obvious as it is tonight.
My eyes land on Maria. With long, sleek black hair that falls just past her shoulders, she’s undoubtedly one of the most glamorous women I’ve ever seen. Tonight, she’s wearing a fitted red velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline that cuts just above her bust. On her wedding finger, she wears a different ring from the engagement rock Emmett gifted her just after they graduated from college—something Mom would frequently talk about and fawn over.
Like she can sense my eyes on her, she tears her attention away from Emmett and sets her focus on me. I offer her a warm smile, which she tries—and fails—to return. If I didn’t know better, I’d interpret her stoicism as hostile, convinced she has my apartment rigged with surveillance equipment.
Maria holds my gaze, forcing me to be the one to look away.
I stare into my half-finished glass of red wine, the first alcoholic drink I’ve had since giving birth to Blake.
“Has everyone finished with their dessert?” My question is automatic and definitely an excuse for me to stand and grab Blake’s baby monitor. “I can clear the dishes if you are.”
“No, no, sweetheart.” Mom flaps her hand at me, her voice slurred, actions clumsy. “We can deal with those later.”
“It’s fine. I got it,” I say, rounding the table and beginning to collect dishes.
When I reach Maria’s bowl, she holds up a finger, asking me to wait. “I’m not done with mine just yet.”
“Do you plan on licking it clean, Maria?” Mom chuckles.
Reaching into the center of the table, I’m aiming for the small jug of cream but completely misjudge it, knocking what’s left all over Mom’s pristine black tablecloth.
“Shit! I’m sorry,” I groan, grabbing the jug on my second attempt and heading straight for the peace and quiet of the kitchen.
“Is Billie doing okay?” I hear Maria ask under her breath just as I cross the threshold. “She looks really stressed out tonight.”
It takes me all of a minute to pack the first load of dishes into the dishwasher, clattering them together as I go.
Determined to keep my brain busy and away from unhelpful thoughts, I move to the silverware next.
