It isn’t him trying to score points off Tristan.
It’s just… blunt.
Protective, even.
And I refuse to make room for that.
Not when my own heart is already stretched enough trying to turn Tristan’s almost into something steadier.
So I give Drew the coldest smile I have. “You are mistaking interest for entitlement.”
His face hardens right back.
“No,” he says. “You are mistaking hope for denial.”
That does it.
I step into his space and jab one finger into the center of his muscular chest almost bending the tip in the process.
“You don’t know what he feels.”
His eyes drop to my hand. Then lift. The tiny specks of turquoise glow now like embers in a fire. “Do you?”
The silence after that is enormous.
Because no.
Not fully.
Not enough.
Not in the clean, simple way I want to.
But I hate him for making me feel that uncertainty in my own bones.
So I square my shoulders, smooth my face back into beauty-queen composure, and say, “Stay out of my love life, Drew.”
His nostrils flare slightly.
“Then stop dragging me into it.”
I blink.
“What?”
He lets out one short laugh with no amusement in it.
“You think I don’t know that I saw you watching me while pretending not to at the party last Thursday. When you were looking for him… your eyes kept landing on me. Talking to Hailey from track.”
For one stupid second, all I can do is stare at him. Because I was looking at him all tan, fine and muscular drinking beer like there was no tomorrow cutting it up with a group of WAG wannabes clinging to his biceps. Not because I wanted him. But because so many girls did and I just didn’t fully get why… but now…
He sees the crack.
Of course he does.
And because he is incapable of letting a moment stay tender for more than four seconds, he steps back, shoves both hands in his hoodie pocket, and says, “Go be mad. You play tonight, right?”
I narrow my eyes.
