“Stick, are you seriously crying?”
Cage loosened his hold on me, letting me slide to my feet.
“Miss me, Apollo?”
His smile faded. “How’s Shay?”
Cage furrowed his brow. I returned a tight grin.
“She’s fine.”
Flint, still perched against the wall, peeked up from his phone giving me a barely noticeable head shake.
“Was she sick?” Cage asked.
I looked at Everson.
“Yeah, but she’s fine now. Right?”
My response was delayed. I still couldn’t think about itwithout wanting to crawl into a corner and cry over what could have happened on my watch. “She’s great. Loved the game and can’t wait for you to get home.”
“I’ll call her. A few of us are going out for dinner. You guys in?”
My eyes shifted to Cage. “You can go… I don’t have to?—”
“Some other wives will be there too,” Everson added.
“She’s not his wife.” Flint felt it necessary to state the obvious.
“Fact.” Everson rested his hand on Cage’s shoulder. “But she’s vying for that coveted spot.” He smirked at me. “After the Twins game she said she was going to marry you.”
I died, like a brutal town-square slaying. I couldn’t believe he said that.
Cage squinted a bit as my eyes remained the size of silver dollars.
“No worries. I told her you were married to the game for now.”
“Fucking right,” Flint added. “Super bowl MVP, buddy. If you keep playing like you did today… if you stay focused…” I didn’t have to look at Flint to know he was glaring at me. “Then I think we’ll be dancing in confetti come February.”
Cage nodded, his gaze still glued to me as I shriveled beneath it. “I think we’re going home, Banks. But thanks… next time. Come on, Lake.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the doors.
“Later.” Everson smirked at me like a sibling who just pinned the broken vase incident on the younger child and watched them get hauled off for punishment.
By the time we made it to his truck, my heart was lodged in my throat. “It was a joke.” I bit my lip and grimaced before heshut my door. It was a half-truth. Of course I wanted to marry Cage, but I didn’t mean it like a goal, like my intention was to chase him and trap him.
“It’s fine, Lake.” He smiled and shut my door.
On instinct, my mind shifted into overdrive trying to analyze his smile, the tone of his voice, even his gait as he moved around the front of the truck. Was he mad? Scared? Confused? Disappointed?
“You mad?” I didn’t even finish before I regretted asking the most clichéd couple’s question ever. I was the youngest of five kids. I’d watched my parents and all my siblings and their spouses have the typical fights with the typical lines, and I swore I would never engage in that same behavior. Learning not to judge was a very humbling lesson.
“I’m not mad.”
Great. Cage knew the typical answer. “I’m not mad” could mean “I’m not mad” or it could mean “I’m pissed, just not ready to talk about it.”
I begged myself to just not speak, to dig deep and find control. Silence held an invisible power. If I could let it be—let us be—then maybe everything would be okay. Emotions needed time to find words.
When we got to his house, I eased out of his truck and followed him inside. He said nothing. I said nothing. He grabbed a sports drink from the refrigerator and guzzled it down with his back to me. Cage looked breathtakingly handsome in his suit. I wanted to tell him that. I wanted to tell him how much my hands ached to touch him. I wanted to tear open my soul and beg him to just love me as a friend, as a lover, as absolutely any person he wanted me to be, as long as that me was with him. That’s all that mattered.
