I turned away from the eyes that were burning a hole in my skull. “I’m not sure whosheis—”
“Don’t play dumb. You know who we’re talking about.” He paused, waiting until I turned back to him before adding, “Nessa.”
Fuck, I was down bad for this woman, and clearly everybody knew it. The only person I wanted to hear voicing her name was me. Preferably in a breathy tone while her lips were wrapped around my dick.
“Be careful there.”
“How do you mean?”
He cocked a brow. “It’s no secret you’re into her, but . . . you might want to slow down.”
Fuck, had Nessa said something? Had I made her feel uncomfortable in some—
“And you can wipe that worried look off your face.” He lowered his voice. “You haven’t said or done anything to scare her off. If you had, we’d be having a very different conversation.”
Well, that was a relief.
It also hadn’t escaped my notice that my teammate—my friend—was willing to take up arms to protect my girl—she’s not yours, fucker—even if it meant protecting herfromme. Even if we weren’t together. And that was an altogether different sense of relief.
“Just hear me out,” he said, softening his tone. “If you’re genuinely interested, and I think you are, give her time. None of this love bombing or swooping in to save the girl shit.”
“How did you—”
“Women talk, bro.”
“I don’t know what Clarke Bar told you, but I only stepped in when the guy wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“You swooped.”
“I did not—” I lowered my voice. “I did not swoop.”
“The first step is admitting you have a problem.” Soren smiled. At least one of us was thoroughly enjoying my humiliation. “Admit it. Admit that you’re a swooper.”
I scrubbed a hand across my chin. My usual five o’clock shadow had thickened to nine o’clock sometime in the last few days.
Soren was right; Iwasa swooper.
There was no use denying it. And it wasn’t because of some archaic patriarchal notion about men being women’s “protectors” because whether men believed it or not, that was a crock of shit. The patriarchy harmed men almost as much as it did women. It just took some of us longer to realize it. Not me.I’d learned that the first time my dad had grabbed my mother’s wrist.
The bruises had lasted for six days, the scars a lifetime.
I was an equal opportunity swooper, though, one who saw red when people mistreated their pets or made fun of somebody with a disability or laid their hands on someone who clearly wasn’t interested. They didn’t have to be women, let alone women inmylife. They were still people.
Basic human decency was a dime a dozen.
“Okay,” I grumbled. “I might be . . . a swooper.”
“Welcome to the club,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “From one swooper to another, take my advice. Let her set the pace, okay?”
I nodded begrudgingly. I could do that. I wasn’t afraid of playing the long game—in fact, I welcomed the challenge—especially if it meant winning a shot with Nessa Gibbs. No matter how long it took.
I was ready for the marathon.
I’d been training for it my entire career.
Nessa
“Ifeel kind of bad loafing around like this.”
