Page 79 of My Brother's Teammates

It’s decadent as fuck.

I stare at the flickering candlelight for a long moment before it occurs to me I’m not alone. When I lift my gaze, it lands on two tuxedo-clad hockey players, each holding a single red rose, sheepish smiles on their faces.

Damn, they can wear a suit.

Jace must be busy, and as much as I’d like him to be here, I’m okay with it just being the three of us. It’ll give me a chance to figure out what our dynamic of the relationship looks like.

I glance between the two of them and the glitzy table, and my heart stutters in my chest. My eyes well with tears at the sheer thought and effort that’s gone into glamming this place up. “Y-you did this for me?”

Roman shrugs like it’s not a big deal, like he isn’t making me feel like the single most special person on earth. No one has ever done something so nice for me before.

“We can’t take you out, you know, what with…” Mateo tilts his head from side to side like he’s trying to say something other than the word ‘Harrison’.

“My brother and the press.” It’s a statement, not a question.

They both nod. “But we wanted to take you out to dinner, so…” Roman gestures at the table. “We brought date night to you.”

The fact they’re both in formalwear makes me feel wholly underdressed in my yoga pants and loose-fitting T-shirt from the spa.

I don’t have much by way of glitz and glam, but I think there’s at least one half-decent dress I have in the closet that isn’t the same black one I wore to dinner last weekend. Hell, even jeans would be better than what I’m currently wearing.

“Can I get changed? Do I have time?” I hand the pie I’m still cradling to Roman and point at the oven.

Everything smells delicious. Holy crap on a cracker. I don’t know what’s invading my nose, but I want it.

All of it.

Including the two men wearing cologne.

“Not long, but if you want to change, we can wait.”

I don’t want to miss a second of date night, so I race to my room, drop my purse in the corner, and strip.

When Mateo and Roman presented me with a gift card for a trip to one of the local spas, I felt guilty taking it from them. I’m not used to being… treated, I guess. Shane didn’t have a penny to his name, I was the breadwinner, and everything we had, I worked hard to earn.

Being handed a card for an overpriced, luxurious spa day definitely felt icky. But they insisted, and told me next time we’d all go together, so I relented.

When I showed up, they all knew my name. I’m guessing it was Teo who set it all up because he has a membership there. They gave me first-class service, and even now, I’m walking on air, my muscles are soft and relaxed, and I smell like heaven.

If there is a next time, I’m not going to fight them on whether or not to take the gift card. I’m just taking that sucker and making an appointment.

The oil from the massage has left my curls a little messy, but I don’t really have time to fix my hair. I slick some curl cream and gel on my hands, spray it with water from my bottle, and rub my hands together before smoothing out the frizz and finger-curling my waves.

When I’ve done all I can, I throw on an emerald green sparkly dress with a slit that goes all the way up to my thigh—a dress I forgot all about but am so glad I found at the back of the closet. It’s one of those dresses you’re never brave enough to buy by yourself, but Meghan convinced me I needed this in my wardrobe when we were shopping last year.

Every now and then we check out the boutiques around the French Quarter for absolutely no reason, pretending money is no object. We pick a bunch of dresses for each other off the racks, and usually we each come away with a new addition to our wardrobe. She said this dress made me look like Jessica Rabbit, and the sales assistant told me if I was a lesbian, she’d ask me out.

I figured that was the best compliment you could get.

It has a sweetheart neckline, a thin overlay of sparkles, and nips in at the waist like it was made for my curves.

Shane laughed when I brought it home, and it’s been hanging at the back of the closet ever since. There’s never a need for something so elegant and sparkly when you live with someone who never takes you out.

It’s a bit much, but as I skim my fingers over the sparkles, I remember there are two front-cover models from Sports Illustrated waiting for me in the kitchen, fully kitted out in tuxedos.

There’s no such thing as too much right now.

Thankfully, the zipper is up the side so I don’t need to call someone in to help me get the damn thing on. I’m even more gleeful when it fits even better than it did in the store. Living with three athletes who eat well—and often—seems to be working out for me.

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