“Don’t,” he growls, voice low and sharp, more threat than warning. “Don’t start.”
Carter raises both hands in mock surrender, like he’s backing away from a skittish dog. “Hey, man. Just making an observation.”
“Keep it to yourself.” Garrett’s voice is ice, but his chest is burning. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Carter tilts his head, amused. “Don’t I?” He strolls toward his own stall, unhurried, completely unbothered by the fury radiating off Garrett like the heat of a wildfire. “We’ve been teammates for what—seven months now? I think I know you pretty well.”
He slings his duffel onto the bench and tosses Garrett a look over his shoulder. “I know you don’t like me. Probably because I’m better looking. And funnier.”
Garrett stares him down, jaw tight.
It’s true. He strenuously dislikes Carter. But it’s not because of the constant chirping, or that Carter never seems to take anything seriously.
It’s because nothing ever rattles him.
Because he floats through the world like it’s rigged in his favor, while Garrett has to fight for every second of calm.
“I know you hate it when I call you Stretch,” Carter adds, pulling off his hoodie and shoving it into his bag. “But I keep saying it to remind you the media doesn’t get to decide who you are.”
Garrett blinks.
Fuck him. No one ever brings that up. Not to his face.
“And I know you like Red,” Carter says, gaze slicing right through him. “No one gets under your skin like she does. Not even me.”
Garrett looks away, jaw tight, fingers twitching on the shaft of the stick.
“She’s a distraction,” he mutters, eyes locked on the ink burned into the blade like a brand. “That’s all.”
There’s a beat. A quiet shift in the air.
Then Carter laughs—low, disbelieving, like he can’t believe what just came out of Garrett’s mouth.
“You’ve always been an uptight prick,” he says casually, zipping up his bag. “But you’re less of a prick when she’s around.”
Garrett stiffens.
“And you still keep winning,” Carter adds, glancing over his shoulder. “So maybe stop pretending it’s abouther, when it’s really aboutyou.”
The words slam into Garrett with brutal accuracy—so fast and precise they don’t leave a mark until they’re already under his skin.
He looks down at the stick in his hand, at the ink smudged slightly at the edge of her neat handwriting. His throat clenches again. His pulse won’t slow.
But Carter’s not finished.
“Look, man. You’re so obsessed with staying focused, with blocking out what happened, that it’sruiningyou.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door.
“To keep the noise out, you’ve gotta be above it—not pretend it doesn’t exist. Blocking it out just makes it build until something cracks.”
He taps his knuckles against the doorframe. “Jesse and I are taking Red to Huck’s to get a bite.”
Garrett stares at him, white-hot wrath surging through his veins.
Carter pauses, clocking the look on his face, and shakes his head. “Not because we want to bang her, you absolute dipshit. Jesse saw her leaving in tears and refused to let her eat alone. She’s fun. She works her ass off. She’s good for the team.”
He shrugs. “But you and I both know Jesse and I aren’t the ones she wants to spend her evening with.”
