“Decent enough. Are you?”
Rather than answer, she slides her warm hand into mine and tugs me toward the pool tables. The green felt is worn smooth from years of bad shots and spilled beers, and it’s scattered with striped and solid balls. Jake and Tyler are locked in an intense game where the rookie appears to be whooping my friend’s ass.
“I’m playing winner,” Kennedy announces. “Which will most likely be…” She leans closer to the rookie. “Sorry, what’s your name?”
He looks up from the table and flushes. Hand held out, he replaces the look of surprise with a dimpled smile. “Tyler.”
“Our new right-winger,” Jake adds, eyes never leaving the table.
“Nice to meet you, Tyler,” she says. “It looks like you’re winning, so I’ll play you next.”
I don’t know much about the rookie other than that his sister has a successful sports podcast and is engaged to a Formula 1 driver, and that Jake has taken him under his wing. But there’s no way in hell he’s playing Kennedy in a one-on-one game while I stand here like a cuckold and watch.
I place a heavy hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “We’ll play two-on-two.”
Jake shrugs. “Cool. How about Kennedy and me against you and Tyler?”
How about absolutely the fuck not?
Before I can shut his dumb idea down, before I can tamp down the flare of possessiveness that came out of nowhere, Kennedy takes a step forward.
“Sorry, bud, but Cameron already shot-gunned me. I promised to be his partner for any double games. He knows how talented I am with sticks and balls. Right, Cam?”
She tosses me a saucy wink that has me standing stock still, muscles frozen.
With a roguish smile, Jake brings his beer to his lips. By nature, he’s a flirt. He doesn’t do it consciously; it’s just who he is. But with this ridiculous jealousy issue I seem to be experiencing, I’m concerned I might end up breaking my friend’s nose if he keeps it up.
While we watch the game unfold, Kennedy provides commentary like she’s a sideline reporter.
“I don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head in mock confusion. “You’re a professional hockey player, Jake. You understand rebounds, angles, and precision…” She gestures at the pool table. “But put a stick in your hand without skates on your feet, and suddenly you’re a giraffe using chopsticks.”
“Pool cues are different,” he argues as he lines up to take a shot.
“They’re sticks, Reid,” Tyler says. “We literally play a sport that requires equipment called ‘hockey sticks.’”
Kennedy takes a sip of her drink, still shaking her head. “It’s okay to admit that you can handle a puck and not balls, ya know?”
Jake shoots, but the shot he had lined up goes astray, crashing into two solids with a clunk. He narrows his eyes at Kennedy. “Inter-fucking-ference. You can’t say shit like that to throw me off.”
“It’s not Kennedy’s fault your mind’s in the gutter,” I comment.
“Probably right next to his razor,” she adds, face perfectly neutral.
Tyler walks around him and retrieves the ball he just pocketed.
Jake cocks a brow and strokes his mustache like an evil villain pets his cat. Unless that cat is Zo, who would probably try to claw his arm off. “Girls love a ’stache.”
She grimaces. “Maybe on Tom Selleck in the ’80s.”
Tyler nudges him before he can reply. “You’re up, man.”
“Not a fan of the porn ’stache?” I ask as Jake takes his shot.
The cue ball hits a yellow solid, which bounces off the edge and does nothing. He’s usually decent at pool, but tonight he’s playing like he’s wearing a blindfold.
She gives Jake a slow once-over, her attention dragging from his sneakers to his gray henley, and shrugs. “I actually like it. Few men can pull off a mustache without looking like a creepy magician, but it suits him.”
Discomfort grows in my chest as her eyes linger on Jake for half a second too long. Of course she thinks he looks good. Everyone does. Jake’s got that all-American boy next door look. He’s tall, with an athletic build and that easy confidence that comes from never having to work for attention.
