“Nothing. It’s just interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“The way you look at him. Like you want to either fight him or fuck him. But you aren’t…” He furrows his brow. “You know.”
“Of course I’m not.” Shit, shit, shit. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about or what you think you’re seeing, but it’s nothing,” I say.
“Whatever you say, bro.” Masterson grins, and I realize I’ve just made a huge mistake. Masterson is a lot of things - good defenseman, a better friend, and an absolute nightmare when he gets hold of gossip. “You don’t like him.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get too excited. I still need him to help me get my position back.”
“Gotcha. So, what, are you trying to kill him with your mind or something? I mean, you really started to shit the bed when he rolled into town.”
Dammit. I need to get out of this conversation before he figures out there’s more to it than professional tension.
“I’m getting another beer,” I say, standing up.
“Good idea. Get me one too.”
I flip him off and head toward the bar, weaving through clusters of teammates and their girlfriends. The music is louder here, some country band is playing, and I have to lean in close to get the bartender’s attention.
“Another Stella,” I tell him, then make the mistake of looking toward my right.
Zane’s there, close enough to touch.
“Having fun?” he asks, not looking at me.
“A blast.”
“You could try pretending to enjoy yourself. For the team’s sake.”
“I am enjoying myself.”
“You’re sulking in a corner.”
“I’m not sulking.”
He turns to look at me then, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “What are you doing, Tate?”
“Getting a beer.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
The bartender slides my drink across the bar, and I wrap my fingers around the cold bottle. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re remembering what I taste like.”
The words go straight to my cock, and I have to shift my weight to hide my reaction. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms that Masterson has moved on to another group.
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” I lie.
“Bullshit.”
Before I can respond, someone slides up to the bar next to me. Close. Too close.
