I’ve caught him off guard, that much is certain. And I think he liked it.
"You didn’t want to have Orlando and Josieleakit to the press?" he asks, raising a brow, but I shake my head before taking a sip of my water.
"If we’re going to do this, and they want me to befunabout it, then I’ll do it my own way. I’m sure they won’t mind." I smile, threading my fingers through his and resting our hands together on his lap.
I feel my phone vibrate at the same time he pulls his out from his pocket.
It’s a group text with Josie, Avery, and a number I don’t recognize, but assume is Orlando. "Did you get the text, too?" he asks, confirming my suspicions, and I nod.
I watch and wait for him to read it, but he doesn’t. His expression almost looks as though he's afraid of what the message might say.
"Do you want me to read it?" I ask, and he nods once. "It says, ‘good move, guys. Maybe you have this more under control than we thought." He sinks back into his seat, letting out a shaky breath, and I rub my thumb over the back of his hand. "See? Nothing to worry about." I smile, and he shakes his head.
Definitelynota bad boy.
"Have you told Josie that we plan to elope next month?" he questions, meeting my gaze with a shit eating grin on that stupidly handsome face.
"No." I cross my arms over my chest. "My method with this whole thing is to not ask for permission, but beg for forgiveness if I need to. If they want me to do something, I’m going to do it how I want to. If they don’t like it, then they shouldn’t have asked me to do something so ridiculous."
"Cheers to that!" Noelle raises her cup of water and crashes it into mine, right as Romeo scores the winning goal.
Goal?
Point?
Puck?
I have no idea. Whatever he did, though, it caused them to win their first game in years.
"Tell Romeo I’m his lucky charm." Noelle wiggles her brows at her brother, who shakes his head in an attempt at ignoring his sister, while cheering on his friend in the process.
Sports, man.
Chapter twenty-four
Olive
Neverinmylifedid I think I would be turned on by a man in a baggy singlet and shorts, cradling a basketball while his shoes squeaked against the floor.
I guess I don’t know myself as well as I thought. Because if I stood up right now, there’d be no hiding the fact that I’m ridiculously turned on. And in a room full of cameras, that’s a problem.
Not exactly how I imagined the start of my career, but Avery Jones just does it for me.
I haven’t moved an inch since the whistle blew.
Terri, on one side of me, hasn’t stopped ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ since the game started. She even winces every time someone gets bumped. Noelle’s on my other side and is thankfully quiet.
I know very little about basketball. But from what I understand, it isn’t meant to be a full-contact sport.
Apparently, contact is only allowed if your name’s Avery Jones and you wear number 28. No matter how hard he tries to focus, his teammates and opponents treat him like a punching bag.
It’s not dramatic.
No slammed fists or tantrums. Just small moments, but enough to show his heart breaking, piece by piece.
"Is it always this rough?" I ask Terri, not looking away as number three on the Bulldogs slows the game to a crawl, dribbling near half-court.
The Bulldogs are in black and red. Avery’s team wears blue and white.
