Page 100 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Jaw tight. Eyes murderous.
Scottie jerks back like I’ve electrocuted her, practically falling into the grass. My hands drop from her waist like she’s radioactive.
Leif glares at me, the stroller rocking gently with the force of his rage. His baby daughter gurgles happily, completely unaware that Uncle Jason is about ten seconds away from getting throttled in Central Park.
“What the fuck, Tate? You’re making out with my little sister?” I swear steam is coming out of his ears when he says, “I’m going to fucking break your other knee. Better yet, I’m going to kill you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Jason
How Not to Get Killed By the Hands of Your Best Friend
Leif’s face is doing that thing—veins bulging, murder flashing in his eyes—the look that usually ends with someone getting punched. Most likely, that’d be me.
I toss up my hands in surrender, like that’s going to save me from bodily harm, words babbling out before I can even think tostop them. “Look, it’s not what it looks like—well, actually, it is what it looks like—but it’s not what you think. Unless you think I just kissed your sister because I really, really like her, in which case, yes, that’s exactly what it is—fuck, I sound stupid.”
Scottie’s stiff at my side, her body buzzing like she’s caught in a bear trap. Her arm brushes mine—maybe by accident, perhaps not—and she doesn’t pull away. Good sign? Maybe. Bigger, bloodier target on my back? Definitely.
Leif doesn’t say anything. Just glares. If looks could kill, I’d be a stain on the grass right now, already halfway buried, but not before he personally snaps both my legs like a Thanksgiving wishbone.
I suck in a breath, shoulders tense, somehow forcing the next words out without choking on them. “I’m serious, man. I’m not—” I glance sideways at Scottie, who looks ready to either bolt or melt into the goddamn ground. “I’m not playing around. I wouldn’t hurt her. Like, ever.”
Leif’s jaw tics so hard I’m half worried he’s about to unhinge it like a snake and swallow me whole. His hands tighten on the stroller handle like he’s imagining it’s my neck.
Silence stretches between us, thick enough to cut with a butter knife—and I’m the idiot who forgot the knives.
Scottie doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Then—barely—she shifts a fraction closer to me. Her shoulder brushes mine again. Tiny. Insignificant. Earth-shattering.
Leif notices. Of course, he notices. His nostrils flare like a goddamn bull about to charge, but he exhales sharply like he’s counting to ten so he doesn’t murder me in front of a baby.
Finally, he jerks his chin at Scottie, sharp and grim, like this is some weird sibling courtroom drama. “What the fuck areyou thinking, Scottie? He—no. You and him, no. You can’t, Ella Crawford. I forbid you.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Scottie beats me to it, her voice tight and defensive. “I’m thinking I don’t need your input into who I can and can’t kiss, Leif.”
“Oh, you need someone to run a background check on him and an STI panel, and . . . for fuck’s sake, Scottie.” Leif, who’s usually very chill, is losing his cool and about to explode. “He’s Jason fucking Tate.”
“That’s not an argument!” she fires back.
“It’s Jason,” Leif repeats, like my name alone is an indictment punishable by death.
“I’m right here, buddy,” I mutter, half-raising my hand. “Fully sentient. Not a stray cat you found under a porch. Plus, I’m your best friend—and the guy who knows all your dirty secrets—which are worse than mine.”
Leif turns his glare on me so fast that I physically flinch.
“You?” he says, voice dripping with disbelief. “You’re not exactly a safe bet. I know you. I’ve partied with you. I’ve bailed you out of your own fucking plans when they go wrong.”
“Okay, first of all,” I say, holding up a finger, “that was one time, and it wasn’t even that bad?—”
“You set a ping pong table on fire.”
“I was framed,” I argue. “And it was technically more of a smolder than a fire.”
Scottie groans under her breath, dragging a hand down her face. “You two are unbelievable.”
