I blink, feeling disoriented in this random conversation. “Oh. I’m not really into sports. Except hockey.”
Why did I say that? I’m not into hockey, either. Just because I watched the last couple games and found my eyes glued to the screen whenever Jamie was on the ice, doesn’t mean I’mintoit.
A cocky glimmer lights up in his eyes. “We’ll have to make you a fan, then. I’m sure I can get you tickets to the next home game. And a jersey, too. I bet you’d look real good with a star edge rusher’s name on your back.”
“She doesn’t need any man’s name on her back to look good.”
My stomach tilts. My heart patters in response to the familiar voice that just slid into the conversation.
Jamie steps between the football player and me. His green eyes flash with protectiveness.
“O’Donnell,” the football player nods.
“Harrisson,” Jamie nods back.
They’re both guarded and drawn up like two rams about to butt heads. It’s a bit ridiculous. But if I said that being right next to Jamie as he squares his shoulders and radiates possessive energy isn’t just a little bit hot, I’d be lying.
Harrisson nods toward me, his eyes still latched onto Jamie’s. “Your girl?”
Jamie glances at me for a beat. My stomach curls in anticipation of how he’s going to answer that question.
“First of all, she’s her own girl. Second of all, she’s definitely not yours.”
Harrisson sizes up Jamie, then smirks. “Not tonight, I guess.”
“Not ever.”
One of the football player’s eyebrows rises. “You sure about that?”
“Very.”
The tension simmering between the two men ratchets up for moment, before Harrisson shrugs and relaxes his posture. “Alright, O’Donnell. Have a good night with your girl.”
Jamie just told him that I’m nobody’s girl, but he doesn’t feel the need to correct Harrisson this time.
Worryingly, neither do I.
30
JAMIE
“Sheesh, how much did you have to drink?”
Carmen holds her hand in front of her face and sticks up fingers, squinting to see in the dim, faraway light of the orange streetlamp a block away as I help her up the stairs to her apartment.
“Ummmmm,” she draws out the pondering sound, then shoves her hand toward my face. “How many fingers are on this hand, again?”
I smirk, biting back a laugh. “Five.”
“Five? That’s all? Well, I had more drinks than that.”
I laugh now, shaking my head as we make it to the landing at the top of the stairs. “I take it you didn’t stay hydrated while you drank?”
Her forehead scrunches. “What do you mean? Drinking equals hydration.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile carves onto my face at the same time. Carmen always has a dry sense of humor, but she’s never this goofy. It’s a side of her I like. But she’s not going to like the aftermath if we don’t get her some necessary supplies to make tomorrow morning more bearable.
“Drinking water equals hydration,” I correct. “Drinking alcohol doesn’t.”
