“Drew.”
“No,” he repeated, lower. “I’m worried. That’s different.”
That should not have done anything to me.
It did.
Before I could answer, someone bellowed from near the player buses.
“BONFIRE! BEACH! BUS LEAVES IN TEN! OR UBER, IF YOU’RE RICH AND BORING!”
Jace, obviously.
Another player shouted, “Travers! You coming or you playing husband all night?”
Drew did not look away from me.
“Beach party,” he said. “After home wins, the team does a bonfire thing.”
“Of course you do.”
“You game?”
I lifted a brow. “I have an injured hamstring and am wearing your jersey like a public relations casualty.”
“So yes?”
“I’m not cleared to play yet,” I said, pretending to consider it. “Might as well watch other people make bad choices.”
His grin came back, slow and dangerous. “That’s my girl.”
Fake, I reminded myself.
My fake girl.
Fake.
The word was starting to sound less like a boundary and more like a prayer.
The beach was already half chaos by the time we got there.
Bonfires burned in wide iron rings dug into the sand. Coolers sat open near driftwood tables. Someone had strung lights between two lifeguard posts, and music thumped low and bass-heavy beneath the crash of waves. The football team had claimed the biggest fire, because apparently large men in matching sweats needed territorial seating.
Drew kept me close as we crossed the sand.
Not suffocating close.
Just close enough that his hand found the small of my back whenever the ground shifted under my bad leg. Close enough that he slowed without making it obvious. Close enough that when some girl yelled his name from near the coolers, he lifted two fingers in acknowledgment but did not move away from me.
I hated how much I noticed that.
I hated how much I liked it more.
By the time we reached the fire, half the team had already started in.
“Jersey girl!”
“Texas!”
