"Hi."
"Busy night?"
"You could say that." I narrowed my gaze. "You're here."
"I am."
"You didn't sign up or answer any of the emails or—"
He leaned across the counter. "Not to be a huge dick, but you're holding up my line."
I arched my brow. Evidently, Mr. Bossy Pants had stayed in for the evening; he'd sent Mr. Sassy Pants in his place.
"Fine, I'll have a—"
"Upside-down caramel macchiato," he finished, already writing out the ticket. "Are you sure I can't interest you in something slutty?"
My cheeks flamed. Was he really insinuating—
"One of our boozy options, I mean."
I swallowed. His eyes flicked down my throat before jumping back up to meet mine, this time full of amusement.
"No." I spoke slowly, overemphasizing every syllable. "Just the latte, please."
"And the name for your order?"
What was he playing at? The two of us had barely spoken since the season started and even then, all of our interactions had been nothing short of professional. But this—the longing glances, the obvious flirtation—was anything but.
If he wanted to torture me—torture us both—like that, well then . . . two could play at that game.
"Blondie," I told him. His eyes widened. I licked my lips for added measure. "The name is Blondie."
Checkmate, Sinclair.
Soren
Roasters 5-1
Today was our second game in Atlanta and I, for one, was not looking forward to it. These guys were good. How did I know they were good? Because I'd played with three of them, lived with two of them, and, for a brief time, reluctantly watched as my sister, Sadie, dated one of them. Thankfully, she wised up and married a sociology professor instead of my dumbass teammate.
The guy could barely lace his own cleats.
We'd barely pulled out a win yesterday, so I knew the other team was hungry. Nobody liked to lose on their own turf. Especially not to their ex-roommate.
On top of that, I had a lot to prove in Atlanta. This was where my pro career had began, and promptly ended three days later. The hackles on the back of my neck told me that every reporter, blogger, and analyst would be scrutinizing my every move. More so than usual.
"Sinclair."
"Coach?"
He waved me across the visitors’ locker room, a grim expression on his lips. Never before in the history of men in glasses had there ever been a more imposing man. You never knew what to expect from Coach Ward, and I thought he preferred it that way.
"I heard about the other night," he said as soon as we were away from the others. He didn't have to clarify which night. We both knew what he was talking about. "Is there anything I need to know?"
"No, coach. It's all taken care of."
"Pink?"
