Maya leans forward, mimicking Sophie’s posture. Her expression shifts from curiosity to alert concern. “Are you pregnant?”
“Maya.”
“What? It’s a valid question. You’ve got that weird nervous energy wafting off you.” She waves a hand vaguely. “You’re doing the thing where you fidget with your earring.”
I immediately drop my hand from my earlobe.Oops.
“Tell us.” Sophie bounces in her seat, a few pieces of hair springing from the clip she’s using to keep it pulled back.
With a sharp inhale, I lean forward and go for it. “Cameron called and we went out again. Oh, and the bank approved my loan.” The words tangle together in a single breath, like I’m afraid they’ll vanish if I don’t get them out all at once.
The arena tilts with the weight of my confession. Maya’s eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect O, and Sophie gasps, clutching her hands to her chest. “Oh my God. Cameron as inmy brother?”
“No, as in Cameron Diaz.” I shoot her a droll look. “Yes, Cameron as in your brother.”
“Your loan got approved? After they initially rejected it? How did that happen?” Maya asks, her voice climbing higher.
I nod, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Yes. The terms are different from what I originally wanted, but it’s workable.”
She shakes her head, still stunned. “I don’t know which part to freak out about first. Cameron, or the fact that you’re officially funded.”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “Same. My brain’s still short-circuiting.”
Sophie squeals loudly, making Maya wince. “We need details. All of them. Start with my brother, unless it involves anything below the belt. If that’s the case, give me warning and I’ll politely excuse myself to the bathroom. Then tell us about the loan.”
I give them an overview. The text Cameron sent when he asked me out again (the one I carefully crafted and had him send as “proof”) and the bank’s change of heart. Then I quickly focus on my business plans instead of the fabricated paperwork.
Their million follow-up questions don’t taper off until the start of the next period. When the puck drops, I breathe a sigh of relief. By the time the third period rolls around, the conversation has shifted to our book club’s next read.
The final buzzer sounds after an intense showdown between Cole and two of the Stallions’ defensemen, the Bobcats winning4-2. The players pile on top of each other in celebration. Everyone but Cameron, who’s still standing in his crease, looking almost surprised that it’s over. Several of his teammates rush him, giving him head taps and playful bumps. It’s a sweet and heartwarming tradition after they win and a vast contrast to the nonstop checks and chirping from the game.
Maya shrugs on her jacket and nudges me with her elbow. “Mind if we wait outside the locker room to say hi before heading to O’Leary’s?”
I shoot her a thumbs-up while wrestling myself into my own puffy jacket and earmuffs.
“Soph?” Maya asks, her brows lifted.
Sophie’s lips twist into a small frown. “I have yoga early tomorrow morning. I think I’m just going to head home.”
“Come say hi at least,” Maya pleads. “Don’t you want to congratulate your brother after an unreal game?”
“Or see Jake looking all sweaty and glistening and sexy and muscular?” I tease.
Sophie rolls her eyes. “I’d be fine never seeing Jake Reid again. He went to dinner with Cameron and me a couple of nights ago, and when the owners thought he was my boyfriend, he looked offended by the idea. It was mortifying.”
I stifle a laugh. We may tease Soph about Jake, but I’ve never had interest in the same man for anywhere close to a year, so I genuinely can’t fathom her unrequited crush.
We make our way down to the lower level, following the concrete hallways that wind through the arena’s underbelly. With a flash of our passes, we’re waved through security. As we enter the restricted area for family and friends, the buzz of the crowd fades and the rumble of postgame media happening on the other side of the locker room doors grows.
Within minutes, the doors swing open with a metallic groan, and we all turn to them.
Cameron’s ex, Gigi, strolls out, each sharp click-clack of her heeled boots announcing her presence like a warning bell. My stomach drops.
In her dark fitted trousers and turtleneck sweater that looks seductive yet doesn’t show an ounce of skin, she looks polished and put-together, but practical.Ugh.Her hair is cut in one of those stylish asymmetrical bobs that frames her sharp cheekbones perfectly. That same cut would transform me into Lord Farquaad fromShrek, complete with the pageboy helmet hair.
Meanwhile, I’m wearing faded jeans with a rip in the knee that wasn’t intentional, a Bobcats t-shirt that stretches a little too tightly across my boobs because I shrunk it in the wash, and white sneakers that have faded to a sad beige after years of loyal service. And since tomorrow’s hair-washing day, my hair is in a messy French braid that may or may not be giving off medieval milkmaid vibes.
Fuck me.
