Page 103 of It's Always Us

“Sand-berg.”

Mark turns his head, and I see one huge dude walking toward us with a posse in tow. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and his smile is blinding. He looks familiar, but I can’t place what team he plays for. The giant man nears, and he and Mark slap hands, moving into a man hug.

Mark is tall. He’s 6’4”, and I barely meet his shoulder with shoes on. This guy is taller. He’s huge and greets Mark with a smile that matches his size. I watch as his eyes shift to me. He stares while Mark hugs the other guys.

I stand like a suspect in an interrogation room who won’t talk. I’d like to sip my water and pretend I’m completely normal. I want to be unfazedby all this, but I’m certain it will slip from my sweaty hand, and I’ll make more of a scene than I already am by just being here . . . with Mark.

The big dude continues to eye me but then bumps Mark on the shoulder. “Who’s this pretty little thing you’ve been trying to hide?”

I want to roll my eyes, but the jolly giant’s smile tells me he didn’t mean it in a gross, dickhead way.

Mark’s arm slips back around me, and there’s that damn smirk again that has me ready to get back to the PDA.

“This, boys, is my wife, Lex. Lex, this is Macgowen, Cush, Frank, and Jacobs.”

“You, bastard. You’re married?” Macgowen grabs his shoulder. “When and why the hell wasn’t I invited?”

I can only watch these men interact. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen Mark in his element, and these guys appear to be his friends, ones I’ve never met. It reminds me of all I’ve missed.

“A bit ago,” Mark answers. “We wanted it to be private.” He kisses my temple as his hand spreads over my stomach, then his eyes flick to mine. A smile appears like he’s the holder of the last secret. “We’re having twins.”

Macgowen’s eyes grow wide. “No shit. Sandberg is gonna be a dad.” The other guys let out a loud round of manly cheers, all congratulating us. Macgowen moves forward and sweeps me into his massive arms, hugging me. I don’t know this man, but I go with it before I fall into awkward, overstimulated uncomfortableness.

When he releases me, I scoot right back next to Mark, and as if he knows I need it, his hand rests low on my hip, keeping close contact.

They talk shop on the latest trades and moves, and Mark’s posture stiffens. He restrains from providing details about his status and quickly changes the subject. It all tells me he’s more stressed about it than he’s been letting on.

“How about you, Lex? What do you do besides putting up with this handful?”

All eyes in our small circle are on me. My babies and I want to puke up my few sips of water.

Here it comes. The furrowed brows. Then, the comments, followed by the jokes. As if this is my lucky day, a few more people push into our group.

I recognize the guys as some of Mark’s now former teammates. The woman with them is, of course, the daughter of the owner of the New York Liberties, Rochelle Gibson. The same woman, I suspect, was very much after Mark, and by the way she eyes his arm around me, my suspicion is spot on.

Her long, dark hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing a dress that covers about as much as one of my bandanas. I wonder if she’s ever worried about something slipping or popping out. Probably not. She’s tall and beautiful but in that too-perfect kind of way.

Mark ignores the newcomers and answers Macgowen’s question for me. “Lex is a mechanic.”

The group eyes me. “Really?” Macgowan says. “What do you work on?”

Mark laughs. “The shorter list would be, what doesn’t she work on?”

“I grew up in a garage,” I add, wanting these people to know I can actually speak.

One of the other guys in the group, Cush maybe, says, “I test-drove a McLaren 720.”

I can talk cars all day and all night. So, ok then. “The Brits know how to make a sweet-looking car. All luxury and style. But do you want to drive a computer or a vehicle?”

“All right, now,” he says as the guys laugh, but the condescension I was waiting for isn’t there.

“Who’s this?” One of his former teammates asks, gesturing to me with his chin.

Mark’s body goes rigid, his fingers digging into my hip.

Something tells me this cocky jerk isn’t one of Mark’s friends, and with the way the chick next to him is staring at me, I’m certain they don’t have anything nice to say.

For some reason, I don’t find myself intimidated. Maybe it’s the confident man standing next to me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve dealt with people like this before. People who look down on me as if I can’t possibly have anything to offer. Either way, it’s new, and it feels damn good.

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