Page 51 of Line Change

I turn into Nolan’s parking garage and follow the visitor ramp to the same space I used last night. The engine goes quiet.

Fraser unbuckles his seat belt but doesn’t open the door. He’s looking at me with that fucking smirk again. “Oh, were you planning to come up?”

I lean toward him, ready to kiss that smirk off his face, then spot the camera over the exit. Anybody could come around the corner. The kiss will have to wait.

“I bought you dinner first,” I say instead.

He laughs. “I paid for my own damned burger.”

I get out of the car. Fraser’s still laughing when he joins me, but he waits beside the elevator until I catch up.

I follow him upstairs.

16

NOLAN

An eight-second video of Pope staring at me has earned our entire line a ring light.

The social staff waits until after practice, when we’re sweaty and tired enough to cooperate, then plants three stools in front of Pope’s stall. A sign taped to the wall behind us says HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW YOUR LINEMATES? in team colors. Most of the guys could be halfway home by now. Instead, they’re hanging around their stalls to watch us suffer. Sindre is still in the no-contact jersey he’s worn since Nara let him join team practice.

Bobby grabs one of the whiteboards and draws three columns on the back.

“They said this isn’t scored,” I remind him.

He writes KESSLER over the first column. “They don’t want anyone’s feelings hurt.”

The producer lowers the question cards in her hand. “I said it isn’t a competition.”

“That’s because you don’t understand professional athletes.” Bobby adds FRASER and POPE, then looks across the room. “Nobody helps. If you shout an answer, it doesn’t count.”

Caleb leans against his stall with his arms folded. “We’re not playing.”

“You could still compromise the integrity of the game.”

“There is no game.”

Bobby points his marker at him. “That’s exactly what someone planning to cheat would say.”

The camera operator laughs. Pope doesn’t. He’s on the stool beside mine, forearms braced on his thighs, studying the blank board in his hands like the correct answers might appear if he glares hard enough.

The first interview got clipped before we made it out of the arena. Pope said I was where he expected me to be. I demanded a thank-you, stepped into frame, and gave the internet eight seconds of material it apparently couldn’t live without. At the time, I wanted to know what his eyes were doing when they dragged over me.

Two weeks of sleeping with him cleared that up.

Pope won’t look at me at all.

Normally, I’d say something filthy and make him look at me. I don’t. He’s holding himself too still, like the camera might catch him screwing up, and I want him to relax.

“Ready?” the producer asks.

“We were born ready,” Bobby says.

Pope uncaps his marker. “You weren’t.”

That gets a laugh from the stalls. Bobby turns toward him slowly, already offended, and I bite the inside of my cheek. Pope stares down at his board again, but the corner of his mouth gives him away.

The room is laughing with him. Pope usually stands at the edge of this kind of shit waiting for it to end. I’m stupidly pleased to see him in the middle of it, so I keep my mouth shut and let the laugh stay his.