“I’m not! I’m trying to look out for you. What was that other guy’s name? Rob?” Wes makes a gagging noise with his finger in his mouth. “He showed up atmyhouse and tried to get me to autograph a box of jerseys! I mean, I love you, Elle, but come on. You should be able to see the signs by now.”
“So, he was a fan. Sue me for not being able to realize quickly enough when I’m being used. You’d think I’d be a professional at it by now. My apologies, King Wes,” she hisses, and Aubrey pulls her into her body.
I stare at her while she glares at Wes. Before she has a chance to ream him out on behalf of her friend, someone else speaks.
“Food sounds like a great idea. Come help me make an order, Wesley.”
Everyone looks to where Roman’s now standing at the top of the stairs. His expression is calm, but I’m too good at readingpeople to miss the tension in his jaw. It ticks just once before he steadies himself and pushes each sleeve of his black dress shirt up to his elbows. The tattoos there are a mess of swirls and colours, all of which I’ve never thought to ask the meanings of. He may be our manager, but he isn’t an open book. Not to us on the team or anyone, with the exception of his niece.
Evie’s the only one who can get him talking about anything beyond baseball, and I assume that’s only because she’s been living with Roman since her mother passed a few years back. Despite her being twenty-one, he’s a stickler about her staying out of the clubhouse unless he’s there to be her shadow. Something about not trusting us not to fawn over her. It’s extreme, but that’s Roman. He could intimidate a mother bear with his protectiveness.
He keeps Wes beneath his probing gaze, and even I swallow with discomfort. Despite the alcohol, Wes straightens, blinking rapidly. The opening act comes to an end, and the arena lights lift, flooding the suite as clapping erupts.
“You got it,” Wes mutters before hopping off his stool.
Roman watches every step he takes in his direction. Wes pouts like a naughty kid being hauled to his room but doesn’t stumble or sway. There must not be that much alcohol in his system, then. Just enough to give his already loose tongue the confidence to share his sister’s private business.
Our manager waits until Wes is only a step away before looking around the suite, giving each of us a silent warning. I don’t need one, but telling him that wouldn’t be my smartest move.
“Don’t look at me like that. This was my brother’s fault. And you’re the one who chose to come. If it’s past your bedtime, maybe you should go home and sleep.”
Aubrey sucks in a breath and watches Brielle from the corners of her wide eyes. There’s a groan that fills the suite,flowing from Wes’ chest, and then silence. I shove a hand through my hair and switch my focus back to Roman.
“I’m looking at everyone the same. There are eyes on this team, regardless of where we are. Do you think there aren’t other attendees’ cameras pointed up at this very moment, all of whom are looking for something to post about later? If Wesley wants to drink himself silly tonight, then by all means. You can be the one to catch his vomit, Brielle.”
Nobody speaks for a long, heavy moment.
It’s tense, and one look at Aubrey is all it takes to recognize that she’s having an internal debate on if she should say something or not. I dig my eyes into her and wait until she feels my gaze before shaking my head once. Her nostrils flare while she presses her lips together firmly.
Brielle, on the other hand, doesn’t look like she’s prepared to let Roman get the last word. I’ve been on the opposing end of her attitude plenty of times over the last seven years, but the girl she was when I first started with the team is a far cry from who she is now. Aubrey could take her in an argument, but it wouldn’t be an easy win. And that’s a terrifying thought.
Beneath her pink skirts, sparkly makeup, and bright red hair, there’s a woman who could give lessons in how to stand up for yourself.
“Thanks for the tips,Dad. I’ve grown up with a professional athlete as a brother, so I’m well-versed in appearances. But?—”
Aubrey stops holding her tongue when Roman’s eyes start burning into Brielle, unsaid words shooting like lasers in her direction.
“Anyway!” she cuts Brielle off and grabs her hand. “Who wants to pop one of these bottles of champagne? And you mentioned food? I’m starving. The concert should be starting soon.”
I call her lie about starving but nod in agreement and cross the suite. “What about pizza?”
“Pizza sounds great. Here, let me pop this one,” Beck suggests while grabbing the first chilled bottle of champagne from the bucket on the island. Kellan joins him, keeping his lips zipped.
“Anyone know why Jett isn’t here tonight? No babysitter?” I ask.
Back aims the bottle toward the small bar sink before carefully uncorking it, avoiding spraying it all over the place. “Thanks to Aubrey, he fired the nanny he had.”
“That’s not my fault. She was terrible and not at all experienced enough with children to take care of Sara properly,” she argues.
I approach her, needing to touch her again. The moment she notices me, her annoyance eases and makes way for a warmth that tugs my lips up. She smells so good. I glide my arm behind her and haul her into me so I can bring my face to her throat and kiss the soft skin carrying the most of her perfume.
“Christ. You’re not even going to give us a warning before doing all that?” Beck asks.
Aubrey’s pulse flutters against my lips as I twirl her hair around my fingers and keep them buried in the thick strands. “Don’t be jealous, Beck,” she tells him.
“Of having Finn clinging to me? Nah, he’s all yours, Aubs.”
“Don’t be an ass,” Brielle mutters, clearing her throat. “Can I have a glass of that, please?”
