Page 40 of Faking It with the Forward

“I’m just glad you came.” I brush her hair behind her ear, finding it impossible to keep my hands off of her. “Do you want to go join the party? Have a drink?”

She looks down at her outfit—the same one she wore all day for training the team. “In this? No way. I look terrible.”

“Sunshine, you have a way of making a T-shirt and joggers look pretty sexy.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stop.”

“It’s true.” I shrug, even though I know she doesn’t believe me. “But if you’d rather go, that's fine too. Do you want me to walk you home?”

She tenses. “I don’t want to see Nadia yet.” She looks up at me, expression guilty. “But you go back inside and hang out. You deserve it after the win today. Go have fun. I can just…” She looks around at the small room. There’s nothing in the room but a small metal table and chairs, some dead potted plants and a worn-out loveseat we pushed out here the day we moved in. “I can stay here.”

“We can both hang out here,” I tell her, taking her hand and leading her over to the small couch. I take up more than half the space, but it’s an excuse to sit close to her. “So stuff is bad between you and Nadia?”

“Yeah, we had a big fight and we both probably said a few things that crossed a line.”

She doesn’t say more, so I let it drop. Getting between chicks when they’re fighting is a no-win situation.

“I’m sorry about the tickets. I’m not sure why it’s so important to you, but I know it is.”

I don’t know if it’s the dimly lit room, the only real light coming from outside, or the fact we’re truly alone for a minute, but I feel a shift in Twyler. She looks down at our intertwined hands and says, “I first got into the New Kings in high school. They were pretty indie back then. Kind of obscure, but everything about them just resonated with me.” She keeps her eyes down. “I struggled with some depression—and making friends. I was lonely and things got kind of dark. William and Trey, the guys in the band, their lyrics hit on a lot of those things, and it helped me find my way out.”

I don’t like the idea of teenage Twyler being alone and depressed any more than I like the idea of her being hurt now.

“My dad took me to my first New Kings concert. I didn’t have anyone else to go with. He got the tickets, drove us down to this shitty little club in a terrible neighborhood. He always supported my need to be part of that community.”

“That’s cool that he gets you like that.”

She looks up at me, and there’s something written on her face that makes my gut drop. “Got me,” she says. “He died three years ago.”

“Fuck, babe.” There’s zero hesitation as I wrap my arms around her, and I expect her to fight it—to fight me—but for once she doesn’t, just allowing me to pull her small frame against my chest. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“It sucks.” Her voice is small, not like the ball-busting, quirky girl I’ve gotten to know. “He was always there for me, even when shit got dark.” Exhaling, she adds, “When they announced this tour, I figured it would be impossible to go with the team’s schedule, but then they added a location locally, and it happens to be on Dad’s birthday.” She takes a deep breath and lays her hand flat on my stomach. “It seemed like fate that it was all aligning, but…”

But Nadia.

NowI’mpissed.

She leans into me for a moment longer and I feel her breathing even out and her limbs relax. Fuck, this girl feels right in my arms, and the way her hand rests on my stomach makes my pulse quicken. Unfortunately, it also sends an alert to my dick, sending a false signal for it to wake up. Twyler’s confiding in me as a friend—leaning on me for comfort—not as a gateway to a hookup.

“Hey,” I say, running my hand down her hair. “I know you don’t want to party, but how about we go make an appearance. Let Nadia and everyone else know we’re on good terms and then I’ll walk you back home.”

She shifts, turning her gaze to mine. “Sure. We can do that.”

We disentangle and I help her off the couch, using it as an opportunity to keep my hands on her a minute longer. I have more questions, like why she was ranting about her ex, but I know Twyler well enough to realize the amount of personal information she shared tonight was huge.

“Wait,” I say. Lifting my sweatshirt over my head, I place it over hers, dropping it over her uniform. It engulfs her, hanging down below her thighs. “That’s better.”

Following her through the door that leads back into the house, I keep my eyes on her, the way she looks in my shirt—how seeing her wearing it makes me feel.

Terrified.

I like it.

More than I should.

* * *

“You’re disturbingly good at this.”

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