Page 77 of Twisted Play
“Yeah, but what work could she?—”
“Fuck.” Cole was already on his feet, grabbing his keys. His expression had me following without question. The team didn’t question our departure, exchanging amused grins as they assumed we were going after Eva.
“Cole, what the hell is going on?”
He yanked open his car door. “You coming or not?”
I got in. Whatever was happening with Eva, whatever she was mixed up in, I needed to know. And from the grim set of Cole’s jaw as he peeled out of the driveway, it wasn’t anything good.
31
COLE
“What are we doing here?”Tristan growled. I raised my finger to my lips, waiting for his silent nod of agreement before I pushed open the door to the locker room.
“Watch,” I whispered, nodding toward the glass windows of Coach’s locker room office, where Eva was bent over his desk, taking pictures of player files. She still wore that damnable sun dress, forest green against her creamy skin, dotted with freckles that begged a man to lick paths between them and form constellations with his tongue.
The curves of her breasts crested over the neckline, a delectable expanse of skin I wanted to nip and suck and nibble until I’d marked her so well, no one would ever mistake her for being anything but mine. I wanted to trace over the scar she never mentioned with my tongue, taste her until she whined with pleasure. And her hips, fuck—each brush of the fabric against them made me want to dig my fingers into her flesh and leave bruises that would make sure she never forgot who she belonged to.
“What the fuck?” Tristan whispered.
I grabbed his arm when he would have stormed over. She hadn’t seen us yet.
Eva’s fingers shook as she methodically went through Coach’s files, photographing page after page. Her face was blank—no guilt, no triumph, nothing—a mask of emotionless determination.
When she finally looked up, her expression froze before smoothing out again. Her fingers clenched around the file she held before she set it down, her hands trembling until she spread her palms out over the flat surface of the desk.
Her eyes darted between us, lingering for a heartbeat on Tristan’s face before shifting to the door as we both walked into the office and blocked her path. Raw desperation flickered in her expression before her composure slammed back into place.
“Surprised to see us, sparrow?”
Eva lifted her chin, then squared her shoulders, standing straight and proud.
“Show him the phone,” I instructed her.
When she refused, I raised an eyebrow. “What was our deal, Eva?”
Tristan’s gaze snapped to mine, surprise and hurt lighting his eyes. He’d be more hurt by the time we were done tonight.
“Show him the phone.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to hold back tears, but when she opened them again, her gaze was clear. She handed him the phone, unlocked.
Tristan scrolled through the messages, fury sharpening the lines of his face. “Who are you sending these to?”
Eva swallowed hard, and her fingers twitched, but she lifted her chin. Always so proud, so controlled. She’d refused to tell me, so why would she tell him?
“The bratva,” she said, surprising me.
My incredulity must have been obvious, because she continued.
“They pay well for inside information to make their illegal gambling operation more profitable.” Her tone was mechanical, rehearsed, as if she’d prepared for this moment.
“Liar,” I snapped, but doubt crept in. Maybe she wasn’t.
“Does it matter?” Her voice was icy. “You caught me.”
“It matters to me!” Tristan’s voice echoed in the empty office, anguished. “Everything between us—was it all just so you could spy on the team?”
