“And what exactly makes her your concern?”
I lean in.
The whole training room goes quieter.
Not silent.
Just the kind of half-hush people get when everybody wants to know whether they’re about to witness a fight and nobody wants to be the one who starts screaming first.
“What makes it my concern,” I say, “is watching you chase two girls like you think no one can see it.”
Something dark flashes through his face.
Dangerous.
Good.
Because I’m tired of the polished act.
He steps closer.
Now we’re chest to chest.
“What do you care what my love life looks like?” he asks.
There’s no heat in his voice.
That’s what makes it worse.
It’s all restraint.
All expensive contempt.
I can feel my fist clenching.
Can feel the tape tighten over my knuckles.
“Because she thinks you’re picking her… and you’re not.”
That gets him.
His own hand balls at his side.
His jaw goes hard enough to crack teeth.
For one second I think he might swing first.
Part of me hopes he does.
Then Kane appears out of nowhere like a six-foot-four warning label.
He gets an arm across Vale’s chest at the exact same second one of my guys from football—Sanders, thank God—gets a hand on my shoulder.
“Easy,” Kane says.
“Back up, Travers,” Jace mutters in my ear.
Neither of us moves.
