Page 27 of He Has Pluck

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Finn gets up from his chair. “Guys—”

I shove Tony back up against a wall and grab two fistfuls of his shirt. “What are you trying to say, Tony?”

“Get the fuck off me. You’ve been flirting—”

“Cut the crap.” Finn gets between us, and O’Rourke appears at my back, taking hold of my arm and separating me from Tony G. I look around, and that’s when I spot the camera aimed at me.

Juliette lowers it slowly as I back away and Finn moves Tony towards the door. Her face flashes like neon in a rainbow of emotions from distaste to disappointment to objective assessment to excitement and everything in between.

I stare back at her, caught up in her blatant judgment, knowing I look fierce and angry at the world for no reason because she’s brought it out in me, because she’s something I want that I can’t have. Even if she wasn’t associated with the team, my bread and butter, even if she wasn’t like poison, a worse distraction than I’ve ever come up against, and that counts my father’s death.

At least his death was inevitable, something out of my control.

She’s like a drug I can’t get out of my system. I should be able to get rid of her, of my need for her, but I can’t. Or I won’t.

Rafe pays the bill, and we leave the bar which is nearly empty, thank fuck. We’re heading for the elevator, and Juliette takes a detour to the hallway where the restrooms are located.

“I’ll meet you upstairs,” I say to Finn. “I’m going to talk to Juliette about that last bit of filming she caught.”

He glances in that direction and nods his head. “Good idea. I don’t think Coach would appreciate seeing that shit.”

Rafe nods his head in agreement. The elevator dings, and I take off as Finn and Rafe get inside.

I track down Juliette as she’s coming out of the ladies’ room, her ubiquitous camera slung over her shoulder. She stops short, and I pull her deeper into the hallway.

“What do you want?” she asks as if she doesn’t want to know.

“Why did you film me and Tony…having words?”

She snort laughs. “Having words? You were a hair away from planting your fist down his throat.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Fuck. I sound like a fourteen-year-old caught by the principal. “Look, I was blowing off steam, and he got in the way. It wouldn’t be good for the team to include something like that in the documentary. It would be misleading.”

“You’re the only one doing the misleading,” she says, and my eyes widen like she’s lit her hair on fire. “Me?” We’re not talking about my words with Tony anymore.

She turns away, and I want to take her by the shoulders to face me, to shake her, to drag her up to my room if I’m being fucking honest because as we stand here in the confined space of the hallway, I feel the draw, the sensual energy rising in the atmosphere like a cloud of poison overtaking me.

But I manage to keep my hands at my sides, and she takes a step away like she’s leaving without answering my question, and so I force my mind back to her filming me about to beat the hell out of Tony because she was right about that.

“Don’t go. You didn’t answer my question.”

“You don’t get to decide what goes into the documentary. That’s above your pay grade, mine, too. But I can frame it as part of your struggle to fit into the team, because it is. A natural rivalry between the new guy and the next guy on the totem pole. Fascinating stuff.”

“This is my life you’re talking about; everyone on the team would be affected.” I’m looking for some sign that she’ll recognize my humanity, and she’s thinking about the drama of the documentary. The sensation of wanting to shake her or kiss her or push her against the wall and—

“Your life? You’re the one who chose to play a game for a living. You’re the one who decided to take out your frustrations on Tony. Though I don’t know what you have to be frustrated about.” She tosses me a cat-like smile. “You just scored, didn’t you?”

I’m not sure if she’s talking about my goal in the game or last night, and that’s the rub. And I feel it like a long stroke of my dick as it stiffens and my blood sparks.

“You really are an ice chip, too cold to be real.”

“That’s not what you thought last night.” Her eyes flash, and I get a glimpse of the fire underneath her cold shell. I stare, and she stares back.

My stare turns to smoldering because it’s the only way I can go with her, the only way my dick will allow. When I take a step closer to her, she reads my intent because I may as well be announcing it with a bull horn. She pushes me away—she actually puts her two hands on my chest, which sizzle like they’re brands—and shoves me backwards.

“You’re an idiot. I’m going to bed.” She turns and saunters off down the hall, taunting me with the sway of her hips and her perfect peachy ass outlined in skintight jeans. But I’m picturing her naked, God help me. Fuck.