When he says things like that, like I’m something to be cherished, something hevalues,my heart can’t take it. I lift my head to look up at him, my heart beating up into my throat.
His broad chest rises and falls with a deep breath, and around my fingers, his hand flexes. “Jordan, I?—”
Another knock at the door, more urgent, like a fist pounding.
Tate swears under his breath and breaks away, heading to the door.
Jordan, I—what? What was he going to say?
Tate unlocks the door and opens it to Rory standing on the other side on his crutches, grinning ear to ear. Alexei, Jamie, Hayden, Luca, and Carey are all behind him. All grinning. A total one-eighty from the somber, depressing atmosphere of the bar half an hour ago.
“Got some news for you,” Rory says.
He glances past us at the dim bar, taking in the low music playing, and something knowing sharpens in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. Thank god.
“What’s going on?” I ask, fidgeting behind Tate, tucking my hands into my sleeves.
“Florida lost the game.”
I pull back like I’ve been slapped. Tate looks at me with surprise.
Rory’s nodding, eyes sparkling. “L.A. scored four goals in the last six minutes of the game and another in overtime.”
A strange expression washes over Tate’s features, like he isn’t sure whether this is real, or if he’s dreaming.
“They lost,” Tate repeats, staring at Rory.
I’m not breathing but my heart’s still beating, I can hear it and feel the heavy thumps in my chest.
“They lost,” Rory confirms. “You know what this means, right?”
The guys all watch with their own smiles—even Alexei doesn’t look quite so serious and surly, with the corner of his mouth pulling up a fraction of an inch—and I’m filled with affection and appreciation for them, that they knew how important this was to not just Tate but me. That they wanted to be here to see our reactions.
“We got the last wild card spot,” I whisper, relief crashing through me.
A brilliant smile grows on Tate’s handsome face, his eyes sparkling, and I can feel my own smile right back at him.
We’re not finished. It’s not over yet. We still have a chance.
Tate holds my eyes. “We’re going to playoffs.”
Later, at home, I knock gently on Tate’s bedroom door as he lies against the pillows, watching replays of the Florida-L.A. game.
His eyes cut to me, surprise and what I hope is relief flashing in them.
I nudge my chin at the TV. “Can’t sleep?”
He gives me a wry smile, and I head over to the bed. A question rises in his eyes.
I haven’t been avoiding him, these past few weeks, but I haven’t been going out of my way to fool around with him. Every time we do, it seems like I fall a little deeper.
But tonight, he needs me.
“You need to sleep.” I give him a small smile as I slide into his bed, uninvited, a tiny part of me worried he’ll ask me to leave. “Tomorrow’s a big day. We need to figure out a plan.”
He turns the TV off, wraps a big arm around me, and pulls me against his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispers, before he falls into a deep sleep.
