Sophie: Hmmm, not sure I agree. Might be better if they were honest with each other rather than playing games.
Mia: I think the games are the best part.
An image of a phone number written larger than life in red lipstick across the arena plexiglass pops into the text thread. When I first met Mia and asked how she and Ethan met, she showed me the picture—one Ethan took and has kept ever since—telling me the entire story of their movie-worthy meet-cute at the arena and how she wrote her phone number, backward no less, after practice.
Mia: My favorite game of all.
Seriously impressive, but she’s as bold and daring as they come, despite her insistence that she’s a boring school teacher. As if. I think she uses her profession to hide the wild child she really is.
Bree: I’m not good at games.
Mia: Girlfriend, you totally disproved that theory tonight.
Bree: That was a real game. Not flirting.
Sophie: You forgot we had a front-row seat to the whole thing. And you, my friend, were flirt-challenging him as much as he was you.
Lowering my phone, I take a moment to reflect on the evening.
I did. I flirted with Wade and loved it. Too much, maybe.
Bree: Okay, I need moves, ladies.
Sophie: Opening the spreadsheet now.
Mia: Did we forget to add Harper to our chat? Or is she asleep already?
Bree: I’ll fill her in. Again.
Which I do when we cross paths in the hallway, along with a promise to add her to the chat group. I think Harper needed friends as much as I did. And do.
Especially if things don’t work out with Wade, and I lose my best friend for good.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
WADE
Ethan: Wade. Wade! (Mic tap) Anybody out there? Where are you, dude?
Matéo: Maybe he’s asleep already.
Luke: Hey, man, you know you can talk to us, right?
Elias: Yeah, come on. Talk to us, buddy.
Ethan: Buddy? Since when do you call him that?
Elias: Just trying something new.
Ethan: Try again.
Deciding to ignore those idiots, I toss my cell onto the couch. Leaving the bar like I did—probably not a great idea. Because now I have to explain myself.
My phone chimes again. But this time, I know it’s Bree because I assigned a unique sound for her texts and phone calls.
Bree: Are you okay?
Am I okay? Not really. The temptation to jump in my car, drive to Texas, and pound Chase into the ground so he won’t bother Bree ever again overwhelms me to distraction. I have to keep reminding myself I can’t let my team down. Regardless of the likelihood of winding up suspended or worse, incarcerated, for tearing that bastard limb from limb, we leave tomorrow for a six-game stretch lasting close to two weeks.
