Page 8 of Loaded Laces

He opens his mouth, but one look has it clicking closed again.

I straighten out of the car, close the door, then turn back to the man who’s positively vibrating with rage behind me. West is beautiful in his anger, the dark slashes of his eyebrows as he glares at me, the stubble on his cheeks calling for a woman’s fingers, the hard lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose that whisper for gentle kisses.

“Do not fucking tell me?—”

I step close, settling my hand on his chest, and tamp down on my idiocy, my shame, and give him what he needs to know.

“He’s not yours.”

West had been in the process of reaching down, readying to remove my hand from his body, if the tight fingers around my wrist are any indication.

My words have him freezing.

“Whose then?” he rasps.

Bile rises, burning a path in my throat.

“Not yours,” I push out, knowing that even though I try to force my tone back to normal, try to make this all seem casual and no big deal (and circling back todelusional), I fail miserably. “That’s all you need to know.”

His eyes tell me he knows I’m lying.

But he doesn’t call me on it.

Instead, he flicks his gaze to the rear window.

My eyes follow his, see that Quinn is watching us.

“I need to go,” I tell him.

“If you honestly think that I’m letting you go after showing up in my locker room?—”

“It’s not yours,” I mutter.

His brows flick up in question.

“It’s theEagles’locker room,” I tell him.

A flash of irritation through his eyes. “And am I not a player for the Eagles?”

I don’t know why I’m even arguing about this. “I’m going to go.”

“You’re not just leaving,” he snaps. “Not after that scene in the locker room, not after all these years.”

“You don’t get to have an opinion about what I’m going to do.”

“Right,” he mutters.

My brows drag together—because he’s agreeing with me all of a sudden? But before I get the chance to get the hell out of here, he’s reaching forward, yanking open the door, and tearing my keys from the ignition.

“What are you?—?”

He turns, looks in the back seat. “You as confused as I am, kid?”

“Quinn,” I begin.

Neither of them look at me.

“Yeah,” Quinn mutters.

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