Page 105 of Relationship Goals

“Hey, Tristan, great game. You were amazing,” she gushes, twirling a lock of her brown hair around a finger.

“You really think so? Did you see the save I made at the end of the first half?”

“Yeah, I did! It was brilliant. You were brilliant.”

I narrow my eyes at her. She doesn’t sound like she’s lying. She doesn’t even sound like she dislikes Tristan, which is what I assumed.

My feet sink into the thick rug on my living room floor as I pace, leaving a trail of footsteps in my wake.

“Thanks. I wish you were here,” Tristan manages to say, sounding half asleep.

I make a circle with my finger when she glances up at me. “Get him talking,” I hiss.

“So, about the thing you told Abigail—”

“I talked to Abigail?” he asks.

I groan, then in a complete give-in to all my intrusive thoughts, I pluck the phone out of Michelle’s hands.

“Hi, Tristan, it’s Abigail. I need to know what happens to Luke if I break up with him. Does he get what he wants still?”

“Oh. How did you know about that?” Tristan’s voice is thick with sleep and confusion, and I want to grab his shoulders and shake him back awake through the phone.

“That doesn’t matter!” I growl. “I need to know what happens if I break up with him.”

Michelle blinks at me. She’s never seen my truly manic side before.

She recovers quickly, though, pouring some more wine into her glass and then shoving it at me.

I hesitate, but a shrug later, I chug it.

Fuck hydration.

“Uh,” Tristan finally says. “Nothing. He’s supposed to date you the rest of the season, I think. That’s the condition.”

“Condition?” I say, my voice so sweet I’m pretty sure my molars just rotted straight out of my mouth.

“Yeah. Condition.”

“And if he breaks up with me?”

“Oh. Then he doesn’t get off the protected-player roster.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue, asking what that means.

I decide I don’t give a fuck what he wants and swallow the question down with wine as I take another swig from the bottle.

“Thank you, Tristan,” I coo at him. “Be sure to hydrate.”

“Is Michelle there?” he slurs at me.

I end the call.

Michelle’s knuckles are white on the stem of her wineglass, her brown eyes huge.

“You heard him,” I tell her, with all the intensity of a general rallying their troops.

Or troop, a single troop, in this case.

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