Page 72 of Crossing the Top Line

“Oh, look who it is!” he crows, shoving through the two guys in front of him to take the lead and advance on my position.

I close my laptop and stand, pulling myself up to my full height before crossing my arms over my chest. I try to smile politely, but I drop the expression as it starts to feel more like a sneer.

“Hello, Tristan,” I reply coolly, eyes darting around for a moment before settling back on him.

He doesn’t get within arm’s reach, but it still feels too close, especially when a few other guys, who I can only assume are his teammates, crowd around his back, staring at me with undisguised hunger.

“I didn’t know if it’d be you or what’s-her-face making this trip. Though I’m not surprised she would have chickened out,” he starts, speaking more to the small crowd around him.

I scan their faces briefly, but I don’t recognize any of the Wardens’ marquee players. Definitely no sign of the team captain or the assistants. But that’s been Tristan’s MO since I met him. He’ll talk a big game when there’s no one important around, but then cry victim as soon as a coach or exec turns up.

“Actually, I volunteered for this trip. I wanted to be here in person when the Mystic mop the floor with y’all,” I sneer, unable to keep the venom out of my words.

“Oooh, the girl’s got a mouth on her,” one of the other guys says with a laugh, nudging Tristan’s shoulder.

But Tristan isn’t laughing, and his smile has turned harsh, a dangerous glint to his dark brown eyes. His eyes run down my body and back up to my face, and I struggle to contain my shudder. He opens his mouth again, but a door closing behind him pulls his attention, and all of us turn to see who’s there.

For what I believe is the third time in as many months, I breathe out a sigh of relief, glad to see Spencer Black marching toward me, Oliver and Elijah hot on his heels.

“Hey, guys. Long time, no see,” Spencer says casually once he’s within range, moving to stand next to me, his body angled so his shoulder is ever so slightly in front of mine, like he’s preparing to step in front of me.

Eli throws an arm around my shoulders, the weight strangely comforting. Oliver completes the flanking maneuver, slinging my bag over one of his shoulders. There’s a tense moment when all the alphas around me size each other up, chests expanding and spines straightening. Nothing aggressive, just a lot of posturing. It takes a lot of willpower to stop myself from rolling my eyes at their behavior.

“Hey, Spence. Seems like you’ve been…settling in nicely in New Orleans,” one of the players, a tall, lanky brunette, says, jerking his chin up once in greeting.

I tense, picking up on the subtle jab. If Spencer notices it, he doesn’t show it on his face. Instead, he’s watching Tristan like a hawk, who in turn is staring at me like he’s trying to burn a hole through my forehead with his eyes.

“Your girl seems to think you’ve got a shot at beating us tonight,” Tristan sneers, making his teammates chuckle darkly.

I open my mouth to object to being called Spencer’s anything, but a hand on my wrist and a barely audible warning growl from Oliver kills the words in my throat. Instead, Spencer lets out a humorless snort of a laugh through closed lips.

“We’ve got more than a shot, King. And I’d guess that you think so, too, or else you wouldn’t have snuck into our practice to spy on us,” he fires off, tone better suited to a conversation about the weather than a damning accusation.

The smiles die on the Wardens’ players’ faces, and the air crackles with rising tension. I look around, trying to find anyone who could put a stop to this before it escalates any further, but no one else has come out of the weight room or the locker room.

“Be careful with what you say around this one, Black. Never know when she’s got a camera hidden between her tits.” Tristan nods at me, not taking his eyes off Spencer.

My jaw tightens, teeth aching with how hard I’m clenching. The brunette who greeted Spencer turns his attention onto me, openly looking at my chest and making me flush hot. My team shirt isn’t cut low enough to show any cleavage, but the material of the polo clings to my breasts, not hiding the size and shape of them in the slightest. Oliver’s growl is louder, the warning loud and clear. I don’t know if Tristan has taken a serious blow to the head since he came to San Francisco, or if he’s as stupid as he looks, but he laughs outright.

“Wow, I didn’t see this one coming, but damn, Tori. Is your—”

“Keep her name out of your mouth,” Spencer snaps, a hint of alpha bark slipping into his words.

He steps fully in front of me, going chest to chest with Tristan. Spencer is a few inches taller, his shoulders slightly wider, too. I blink, mouth falling open slightly as I stare at Spencer’s back. Eli pulls me backwards before putting himself between me and Spencer, blocking my view of the entire group of Wardens.

“Or what?” Tristan challenges, his words still full of that obnoxious taunting laughter. “You do anything, and you’re benched until the All-Star break.”

“Then I’ll just have to teach you some respect on the ice. Hope the team found a better dentist than the quack they had last season. Would hate to see you lose that gorgeous smile permanently after I knock out your teeth,” Spencer returns, not missing a beat.

Tristan growls, and I catch the clench of his fists in the gap between Eli’s and Spencer’s legs. Thankfully, the locker room door opens again, and all of our heads whip around. Dallas, Henri, and Jari are absorbed in their own conversation and don’t notice the standoff, which might be a blessing in disguise. Dallas didn’t mince words with Tristan when things went down during The Incident, and I don’t know if I could stop a real fight from breaking out if he were to find out that Tristan is trying to start Round Two.

The Wardens’ players scurry away out the front doors without another word, but I do catch Tristan’s last glance backward, the malicious promise in them visible, even with more than fifty feet between us.

“Scumbag,” Eli sneers, turning to look at Spencer.

“Shouldn’t surprise me that he’s thriving here. Place is more toxic than the LA River,” Spencer replies, eyes still fixed on the doors, as if expecting them to return at any moment.

“What did he mean about…” Oliver’s question trails off as he turns to me, barely contained rage turning his amber eyes bright yellow.

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