Page 41 of The Backup

“But you’ve got distractions, don’t you?” he continues, his tone casual but sharp enough to cut. “Heard you’ve been spending a lot of time off the field. Saw who you came to this party to watch.”

My grip tightens around the glass. “What’s your point, Joe?”

He shrugs. “No point. Just saying, maybe you’re not as focused as you should be. And the team? They’re starting to notice.”

“You don’t speak for the team,” I snap, finally looking at him.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, just trying to help. Don’t want you to lose your spot over something stupid, that’s all.”

“Like I said,” I reply, stepping closer, “you don’t speak for the team. So stay out of my business.”

Joe’s gaze flicks past me. “Sure thing, man. But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on her.”

I follow his line of sight and see Sloane spinning under Suspenders’ arm again. My blood boils, but I keep my face blank, stepping away from Joe without another word.

I can’t take it anymore.

The whiskey isn’t helping. Joe’s smug comments are still ringing in my ears, and now I’m stuck watching Sloane laugh and twirl with Suspenders across the dance floor like she hasn’t thought about me once tonight.

She has, though. I know she has.

Because every time her eyes flick to mine—and they have, more times than I can count—I see it. That same pull that’s been driving me insane all night.

I slip my phone out of my pocket, my thumb hovering over her name. It’s a bad idea. Aterribleidea. But then I see Scott lean in to whisper something in her ear, and before I can stop myself, I’m typing.

Me: Having fun with Suspenders?

I watch her glance down at her phone mid-spin. She falters slightly, her brow furrowing as she reads the message. She doesn’t reply right away, but her eyes find mine across the room.

Good. She knows I’m watching.

Finally, her reply comes through:

Sloane: What are you doing?

I smile, leaning against the bar.

Me: Trying to figure out why you’re wasting your time with him when you could be with me.

Her head snaps up, and our eyes lock again. She looks irritated—and flustered.

Sloane: This is the plan, remember? Neutral. Low profile. You’re not helping.

I roll my eyes, shaking my head as I type back.

Me: Your plan sucks. Neutral doesn’t suit you.

She stares at her phone for a long moment, biting her lip. Her fingers fly over the screen, and her reply is short and sharp.

Sloane: Stop it. You’re making this harder.

Good. Sheshouldfeel how hard this is. I glance up, and she’s still watching me, her expression torn between anger and something else.

Me: Harder than pretending you don’t want me?

She looks away this time, but I see her chest rise and fall like she’s trying to steady herself. Her reply comes a moment later.

Sloane: This isn’t the place.

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