Under the table, something brushes against my ankle, and I go rigid. Patterson’s expression doesn’t change as he responds to a question about the upcoming game, but his foot traces up my calf. The touch is light, almost casual, and it sends sparks shooting up my leg.
That’s when I decide to kick him. Hard. He’s walking the line in front of my father like this is a game. It’s not.
Patterson doesn’t flinch, but I see his jaw flex. When his eyes meet mine across the table, they’re dark with warning.
Two can play this game, his expression says.
Try me, I respond with an eyebrow raise.
“So, Patterson,” Mom says, oblivious to the silent argument happening across the dining table, “are you seeing anyone? A handsome young man like you must have women lining up.”
I choke on my wine.
“Mom,” I manage between coughs, “Patterson has a different woman every week. Leave him alone.”
She waves her hand at me dismissively.
Patterson’s smile is razor-edged when he glances at me. “No one serious at the moment. Dating and keeping my options open. But my real focus is on the season.”
“Smart,” Dad says approvingly. “Relationships are a distraction. I always tell my players to keep their heads in the game.”
“You know I play to win every game I commit to.” Patterson takes a slow sip of water, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. That sounds like a warning to me. “Relationships are no different. I’ve never met anyone worth committing to. Everyone has been casual,” he says, like he’s telling me I’m the same as every other woman he’s ever been with.
I don’t know why my heart sinks, but it weirdly does.
“What about you, sweetheart?” Mom turns her attention to me.
I close my eyes, wishing I could make the floor open up and swallow me whole.
“No. I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Not even Damien? The one who?—”
“No, Mom,” I cut her off before she can embarrass me further. “I’m focused on the commissions for the team. That’s it. I don’t have time to entertain men, so I’m not. I promised Addison I would try to have fun this year. New year, new me. It’s part of my resolutions. Do things that scare me.”
Direct hit back to him.
“You work too hard.” She sighs.
If she only knew.
Patterson’s foot slides higher, past my ankle to my calf, and I slam my knee into the underside of the table. The dishes rattle. Everyone looks at me like I’ve grown a third head.
“Sorry.” I force a tight smile. “Leg cramp.”
Dad frowns. “You should stretch more, sweetheart. You know how important mobility is.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of small talk and barely concealed hostility. Every time Patterson opens his mouth tocharm my parents, I want to scream. Every time his foot brushes against me under the table, I imagine wrapping my hands around his throat. For violence or something else, I’m not entirely sure anymore.
Mom serves apple pie for dessert, and Patterson accepts a slice with gratitude. I watch him eat, hating the way his lips close around the fork, hating that my body responds to every little detail like I’ve been programmed specifically for him.
“Incredible,” he tells my mother. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Hart.”
“Please, call me Diana.” She’s blushing like a schoolgirl. “And thank you. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
“Family recipes are the best kind.”
