Page 34 of Play Maker

Lo, fucking Lo, and those eyes, I feel them burning into the side of my head. She’s holding what happened last night a secret, and now a fucking text that I should be giving everyone a heads-up about. Secrets are like poison, and I’m basically feeding it to her one spoonful at a time.

As everyone’s filing out, I step way the fuck out of my comfort zone, look at Jackson, raise my voice enough so that some of the guys will hear me, and the rest will know within the next couple hours, and maybe they’ll step forward and give the fucking militia a direction.

“I got a message that should probably be checked out.”

“Yeah, all right,” he says, holding out his hand. “Keys. I’ll have Skinner start your ride.”

I toss them to him and nod toward the bar. “Be back.”

I walk over and sit down as Lo’s wiping down the bar.

She whispers, “You’re doing this because last night wasas good as it was.”

I can’t help it. I laugh out loud, and she grins.

“That ego of yours is massive.”

She smiles softly now and tucks a lock of dark waves that have fallen from her braid behind her ear.

Her eyes are dark green right now.Sometimes, they’re lighter. When she’s pissed. When she’s lying about not being pissed. When she’s holding something in and thinks no one notices. I’ve seen her cry once, just once, when she heard about Syd being taken by her ex-boyfriend, the cop. And even then, they didn’t go dull. They burned.

That’s my favorite feature of hers. But there’s one close behind—her lips, which are the same color as her nipples—both like dark red wine, the kind that leaves a stain.

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“Yeah,” I say, but I hope it doesn’t bite me in the ass.

“Hey,” Jackson says as he sits down. “What do you have?”

I unlock my phone, hit messages, and slide my phone over to him.

“Silence will cost you.” Jackson scrubs a hand up his beard. “You know who it’s from?”

“My wife,” I say and catch Lo stiffen. “Ex-wife. Well, working on the ex part for the better part of two years now.”

“The holdup? How long were you married?”

“Less than a year.” I shift in my seat, feeling really fucking uncomfortable, and admit, “After I put my signing bonus for a down payment on a house in New York City.”

“You knew you were playing here for at least a few years?”

“She, uh, she wasn’t happy I didn’t get picked for the Jets. Her Dad, a lawyer, has connections there, and”—I shake my head—“he wasn’t too happy that she and I got married. He, uh, I signed a prenup.”

“You wanna tale a walk?” he asks.

I lift a shoulder. “Doesn’t much matter.”

“Come on.” He slides off his stool. “Let’s take a walk.” He holds up my phone. “Gonna screenshot this and send it to 711.”

* * *

Outside, CJ is leaning against my truck, talking to Skinner.

“He know about the ex?” Jackson asks.

“Little bit,” I admit.

“You know her being a cunt is not a reflection on you, right?”

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