Page 78 of My Brother's Teammates

Harrison scoffs, sitting back in his chair and running a hand down his jaw. “I know you, Jace. You don’t do relationships. You don’t do feelings. You’ve spent your entire life dedicating yourself to hockey, and it’s paid off. You’re a damn good player. But as a boyfriend? Think about how much we travel during the year. Think of how many hours we spend in that arena. Do you really think you can have a healthy relationship with someone?”

I’ve spent my entire life dedicated to hockey, he’s not wrong about that. For a long time, it was the most important thing in my life, but the more I feel for Charlotte, the less important it seems. We do travel a lot, but she knows what it’s like to be a professional athlete. Plus, there are three of us to make sure she’s well taken care of.

“You have Lydia.” I point out with a grimace.

“Yeah.” His humorless chuckle has the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. “I have a girl who’s mad at me more often than not, and we’re about to get into the playoffs. How do you think she’s going to feel when I’m gone for weeks at a time? I can barely manage it, and I’ve had experience. Yours is nonexistent.”

“That’s not?—”

“Charlotte deserves someone to be there for her. She deserves way more than a hockey player who’s obsessed with the game, obsessed with winning. Whatever feelings for her you think you have, we both know you don’t. Forget they exist. She just had her heart broken, and the last thing she needs is for you to stomp all over it.”

I don't want that to happen to Charlotte.

“Harrison… I?—”

His hand comes back down on the table, and this time, the silverware jumps and we get a few curious looks from the table beside us. “Is there something going on already?” That hand curls into a fist, and his jaw clenches.

My chest tightens, and I grip the edge of my seat. The wood bites into my fingers, but I welcome the pain. I need it.

Do I come clean, lay all the cards—along with my beating heart on the table? Or do I keep building onto the fragile house of cards and hope it doesn’t topple down on top of us?

I could lose Harrison either way.

There’s a chance he won’t even look me in the eye once this is all over. What if he requests a trade at the end of the season? Sure, we’ll still see each other, but it won’t be the same. We won’t be able to run through the French Quarter during the few months the weather is nice. We won’t be able to carpool to the game. He won’t be able to torture us with new Taylor Swift songs. There won’t be anyone to tell me I need to get out of my head, or coincidentally, get my head out of my ass.

“No, there’s nothing going on between Charlotte and me.”

And with those words, I’ve just damned us all.

“Are you sure?” He cocks his head to the side, staring right through me.

As much as I hate myself for this lie, it needs to be said. For Charlie. For the guys. For the whole fucking team. I’m not going to be the one to singlehandedly ruin our chances to make it to the playoffs. For the first time in New Orleans Phantom history, we’ll have a spot. We just can’t fuck the rest of the season’s games.

And if I open my mouth, if I cause a rift between Harrison, me, Roman, and Mateo, we can kiss that spot goodbye. The future of the team and everyone on it is at risk. One bad game is all it takes. One fucking mistake on the ice, and that failure ripples through the team like a shockwave.

It could shape our team. Our future.

The truth could destroy us.

“I’m sure.”

TWENTY-NINE

Charlotte

I’m glad I took the extra time at the spa for a Brazilian wax earlier today, because when I walk into the apartment and see all the twinkling candles, my heart melts, right along with my handmade panties.

My breath stutters as I take in the scattered pillows strewn across the plush blanket on the living room floor. There’s a projector and a screen, and two bottles of champagne are chilling in a silver bucket.

This looks a lot fancier than the store-bought apple pie in my hand. When they asked me to pick up dessert, they should have specified something a little bit more elegant. Honestly, when Roman suggested cooking dinner, I figured it would maybe be a step above takeout pizza.

And whatever it is smells delicious.

“We’re in here,” Roman calls from the kitchen.

Snapping my jaw closed, I turn the corner and stop short. The table is dressed to perfection, and I can’t help but run my fingertips across the soft tablecloth. Wow. This is… fancy.

There are three place settings, the shiniest silverware I’ve ever seen, fabric napkins, and I bet those glasses are crystal, too. I didn’t know they had any of this stashed in the apartment. Everything is black with gold and silver accents. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was getting married in the apartment and no one told me.

---