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“My wife knows everything.”
That's said with the resignation of a man who has long since accepted this as a fundamental law of the universe.
Tank nods. “Dani too.”
“Koa?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Finley.”
“Luca?”
“Annabeth.”
Of fucking course, the wives know.
The wives.
Because apparently there's a communications network operating inside my rugby team that rivals the NSA, and I'm only now discovering the extent of it.
“How much do they know?”
Tank starts laughing. I point at him.
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” he says. “It's just really fucking funny hearing you ask.”
“Why?”
“Because you're nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
Four expressions tell me I'm full of shit. I'm not nervous.
Mitchell Knight does not get nervous because a group of women knows he's sleeping with someone.
That's absurd. What I am is—
Fuck.
Maybe I am nervous.
Because the question I asked wasn't really about what they know.
It's about what Layla knows. And that's considerably less amusing.
See, I haven't decided what Layla is to me. That's a fucking problem.
No. That’s another lie.
Because I know what I want her to be. I'm just not ready to examine that too closely.
Just a week ago, I would've called her a complication.
A journalist.
A threat.
