Carter’s voice cuts through my spiral. I glance over, and he jerks his head toward the kitchen like he’s calling me out back for a talk.
I follow because I’ve always followed Carter when he looks like that—half amused, half serious, like he’s about to punch you in the chest with truth.
The kitchen is quieter. Still loud enough to hear the TV muffled through the wall, the crowd cheering each pick.
Carter leans against the counter, arms crossed. His eyes scan my face like he’s reading a stat line.
“You look like shit,” he says.
I huff. “Good to see you too.”
He smirks. “I’m serious. You look…distracted.”
“Been a weird month,” I say lightly, like an understatement is safer.
He watches me for a beat. Then he says, “I know a call is coming your way.”
My stomach drops.
I keep my face blank because it’s muscle memory at this point. “What call?”
Carter’s smile turns sharp. “Don’t play dumb. We talked about this.”
My throat goes dry. “You’re sure?”
He shrugs. “I’m not their GM, obviously. But I’ve heard things and told them that if I throw you a ball, you’ll catch it.”
I stare at the counter like it might steady me.
Chicago.
A door cracked open when I’d been bracing for it to slam shut.
Carter’s voice drops a little. “You should be excited.”
“I am.”
“Bullshit.” He tilts his head. “What’s got you all twisted up?”
I can lie.
I’m good at lying.
But Carter’s always been the kind of guy who sees through bullshit the way he sees through coverages.
So I exhale and let the truth out, quiet and dangerous. “There’s…a girl.”
Carter’s brows lift. “No shit.”
I glare. “Not like that.”
He straightens a little. “Who?”
I hesitate for a second before answering. “Sloane.”
Carter’s eyes widen just slightly. He lets out a low whistle. “Oh, that’s…messy.”
“Tell me about it.”
