“Tee time in the morning,” Gideon answered. “Brigs is sitting out because of his shoulder. You golf?”
I nodded. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know the guys more.
“Want to tag along?” He sounded genuinely hopeful. “Low stress. Fiona’s best friend will be there too—super chill.”
“She hates professional athletes, though,” Fiona added dryly. “So no worries about her clinging to you.”
Gideon chuckled. “So, what do you say?”
They all watched me, and I recognized the unspoken invitation. They were a tight-knit group. If I could be part of that, this season would feel a whole lot better.
I nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”
“Thatta guy.” Gideon clapped my shoulder, then pointed toward the food. “I’m grabbing something before it’s gone.”
“We should talk less and eat more,” Fiona agreed, shooting me a knowing smile before following him.
That left me with Brigham, Tate, and Peter, who wasted no time diving into shop talk—management changes, team chemistry, the usual preseason chatter.
I listened, taking it all in. It was better to study the dynamic first, learn the personalities, get a feel for the team. So far, I hadn’t had issues with teammates anywhere I played, and I didn’t plan on starting now.
My brother, Logan, was the loud, attention-seeking one. He could command a room without trying. I wasn’t like that, despite the fame that came with my job. It still surprised people that I wasn’t the guy holding court at the center of every conversation.
Brigham studied me for a beat. “What do you think, Bummy? We got a shot this year?”
I considered. “Depends on rotation and injuries. We have the talent—we just gotta bring it.”
“Damn straight,” he said just as a knock sounded at the door. “I’ll get it.”
My stomach growled, and I veered toward the food table, loading up on carne asada tacos, chips, and salsa. The pastries from Ned’s had been good but not enough. I knew I should’ve snuck more.
Then, laughter cut through the room.
Sharp. Bright. Familiar.
I hadn’t heard that particular laugh in two years.
My grip on the plate tightened as I followed the sound, weaving through the crowd, my mind already recognizing who it belonged to.
And then, I found her.
Michelle.
The fan-fucking-tastic fling that had ended without a damn reason.
Heat crawled up my neck, anger simmering beneath my skin—an old wound ripped wide open. I barely heard the conversation she was having with Fiona before she slipped away toward the kitchen.
I followed.
She was bent over, rummaging through the fridge, completely unaware that the past had just walked in behind her. She stood, plate in hand, and I cleared my throat.
She froze like she could feel the energy in the room shift like I felt when I heard her laugh..
She set the plate down, slow and careful—like she’d just been caught red-handed.
Then her gaze landed on me, and every ounce of fake composure vanished.
Her lips parted. “Brooks?”
