Page 12 of The Curveball

“Different with the ladies,” Dax mumbles.

“What was that, Sage?” I quip. “Speak up.”

Dax doesn’t ruffle, he simply sighs. “Griff, you like to be liked, but it bothers the crap out of you if women don’t like you.”

“Hey, I don’t play the ladies.” I point my bottle at my stupid friends. If anyone had a no strings attached experience it was Parker, not me. Another reason it’s so strange he was the one to tie the knot first.

“I’m not talking about sleeping around,” Dax says, lowering his voice. He takes a quick glance at the table where our numerous coaches sit with their families. Funny, but our head coach’s oldest daughter looks at our table at the same time. Dax rips his eyes back to his half-eaten plate and clears his throat. “You’re the charmer, but it hasn’t worked on Wren. It bothers you.”

“Untrue.”

Ryder groans. “Who cares? Can we just eat and talk about literally anything else?”

I frown and slump in my chair, fighting the urge to watch the dullest-looking date I’ve ever seen. What does an author even talk about with an analyst?

I know our professions aren’t the same either, but she writes sports romance. We’d have more to say. Not that I’m jealous; I simply believe Wren would have a lot more to say to me.

Wren has hardly moved. Occasionally, she’ll pick at some of the cheese sticks in the basket in front of them. The guy isn’t even talking to her. He’s talking to Parker, who looks like he’d rather take a nap.

“See what I mean,” Dax mutters. He’s leaning into Ryder, not looking at me, but everything he says is about me.

I twist in my chair, making certain my back is facing away, and glare at my friends. “I don’t need to be liked.”

“Okay.” Dax cracks a smile and sends a message on his phone.

“Tell your sisters to get down here, or to leave you alone duringRocco’s, Sage,” Ryder says.

Dax tucks his phone away, a bit of color on his cheeks. The man has four sisters he basically raised. A quartet of sweethearts. Brutally honest sweethearts, but—

“Hey, youshouldtell them to come down,” I say. “Maybe they’ll tell me why she doesn’t like me.”

Rarer than snow on The Strip, Dax laughs loudly. The head-tossed back, draw-attention-to-us, laugh.

“What is wrong with you?” I whisper, but it comes out more like a hiss. Parker and Skye are watching with as much confusion as me, and now Wren is glaring at me again. This time, I glare back. I didn’t send our somber, silent Dax into a tailspin on purpose.

Dax wipes his eyes and composes himself a few seconds later, but my face is already set aflame with all the looks of shock. The man can’t change like that on a whim. It draws unwanted attention and unnerves me.

“What was that?” I grumble.

“I knew it,” he says, returning to his soft chuckle. “It’s not that she doesn’t like you and youwantto be liked—youlikeher.”

Ryder clicks his tongue. “I think Daxy is on to something.”

“He’s not,” I insist. “Both of you are douches and should eat your nachos.”

“No, no, hear me out,” Ryder says, a bit of misplaced sunlight in his voice of doom. My Oscar the freaking Grouch pal is grinning like we’re about to scheme a heist together. “You never checked in on Skye.”

“Because she was with Parker.”

“Before they got together,” Ryder says. “But you check on Wren all the time, and she barely bats an eye at you. She’s the thing you can’t have, and you like to chase it.”

They’re wrong. I like Wren as a human being, and I feel bad that when we first met, I was a little prickly. But can anyone blame me? We met when my best friend was in distress over a possible breakup with the love of his life.

I was defensive.

So, I’ve tried to make up for it. She’s not incredibly receptive, of course, but I keep trying because I was the tool when we met. It’s my job to make it right. Doesn’t mean—

Laughter drags my gaze back to the table wholly determined to ruin my entire night. Wren is smiling . . . at Alvin the Analyst. Her date must be going well.

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