I don’t know why she’s gotten so far under my skin. She’s beautiful, sure—but that’s not it. I’ve met plenty of beautiful women, and none of them affect me the way Ivy does.
Maybe it’s the unpredictability. I never know how she’s going to respond to me.
Yeah. That must be it, I tell myself.
Once I figure out the mystery that is Ivy Chandler, this restlessness will finally stop.
"Drinks?" Marcus says, standing near my elbow. He grins. "We earned it."
"Yeah. Sure."
We end up at Riley's, a sports bar two blocks from the arena that's become the team's unofficial hangout. The place is packed with celebrating fans, but we snag a corner booth.
Marcus orders whiskey. I get the same.
"Hell of a game," he says, raising his glass.
"You played well, too."
"Not as well as you." He sips from his drink. "What's gotten into you lately? You've been playing like you're possessed."
"I've been focused."
"Focused." One eyebrow lifts. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What else should we call it?"
"I don't know. Maybe you're trying to impress someone?"
My heart beats faster. "Who would I want to impress?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." He leans back, his casual posture belying the sharpness in his eyes. "You've been different. Distracted but laser-focused. Happy but stressed. It's weird."
I smile but say nothing. We drink in comfortable silence for a while, the bar noise filling the gaps. I relax, taking my drink slowly.
"Ivy's involved with someone."
I nearly choke on my whiskey. "What?"
"Some guy named King. They text constantly. Late-night messages, inside jokes, the whole thing."
My blood turns to ice.
“How do you know?” The question comes out sharper than I intend.
“I saw her phone and confronted her about it.” His hands curl into fists on the table. “She got defensive—said it’s none of my business. Dec, this guy knows everything about her. Her schedule. Her favorite food…”
He exhales hard.
Guilt crashes through me.
I don’t tell him that he knows because I’m him.
"Maybe they're in a relationship," I manage.
"That's what worries me. She hasn't met him. They've only texted, and she doesn't even know what he looks like." He grits his teeth. "What kind of guy does that? A stalker."
"What are you going to do?" I ask even though I don't want to know the answer.
