“I know that.” I tuck a lock of his hair back from his brow. “Let’s just do as we promised. Let’s just be. I’m okay with that.”
“You taking me literally wasn’t what I had in mind,” he mutters with a frown.
Annoyance skitters up my back. “If you want to pick and choose what we focus on, then expect the same from me.”
The space between us tightens as we lock gazes. But then he relents with a grunt and walks off to the bar. As soon as he’s gone, my shoulders sag with remorse. I can’t snipe at him whenever he accidentally touches a nerve. It isn’t fair to either of us.
He returns with two glasses and a wary expression. “Here.”
“Thank you.” I take the glass. It’s filled with something pale green bubbly. “What is it?”
“Tears of Regret.” His mouth quirks. “I hear it tastes a lot like Champagne cocktail.”
My hand trembles as I take a quick sip. “I’m sorry too.”
He doesn’t say anything but kisses the top of my head.
“I got offered a job in New York.”
Finn pauses, his glass halfway to his mouth, then takes a long, audible swallow of his drink. “It must be good,” he says, after catching his breath. “To put that look in your eyes.”
I study the rim of my glass before taking another sip of my cocktail.
“Tell me about the job, Chess.”
He listens as I fill him in on the details, both of us strolling toward the French doors that lead to a terrace. Outside, we find a dark corner, and Finn leans against the wall of the house.
“Sounds like a great opportunity,” he says, giving nothing away. “How long would you be away?”
I grip the narrow bowl of my glass. “One to two months if all goes well.”
He nods, glancing down at his shoes. When he looks up, his eyes glint in the moonlight. “Is this something you really want?”
Such careful control in his voice. It closes in on me like a vise.
“When James first told me, the answer was yes. But…” I lift my hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t want to leave you.”
Finn gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
But I would. And it feels wrong leaving him right now. As if it will kill the momentum of us, when we’ve only just started.
“When would you leave?” he asks.
“In the next two weeks.”
A grimace mars his features, though he clearly tries to hide it. “I won’t be able to visit you,” he says. “These last two games of the season are going to be intense. And if we win, I’ll have to concentrate on the playoffs.”
He sounds so apologetic, as if it’s his fault I’m leaving. Sadness and a strange sense of panic roll around in my chest, rising up to clog my throat. From the second I’d thought of taking the job, I knew he wouldn’t be able to follow. Something in his eyes tells me that he understands this as well.
“You’ll make the playoffs,” I tell him. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
His smile is tilted and wry and fades fast. “I’m proud of you, Chester.”
I don’t feel anything but a need to cling, a weakness I don’t want or like.
Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt when Jake strolls into our quiet spot. “Manny. Copperpot. Why are you two hiding back here?” He glances between us, noting the distance. “I’d approve if someone had a hand in someone else’s clothes, but no way am I letting you guys get away with trying to escape the stuffed shirts.”
“Did you just call me Copperpot?”
Jake is all innocence. “What? Me? No. Who?” He hooks my arm over his elbow. “Now, come with me. The guys want an official ruling on whose dick is the biggest.”
I laugh, as Finn pushes himself off from the wall and glares. “I will kick your ass, Ryder.”
“You’ll have to catch me first, and we both know I’m way faster.”
Jake leads me way, with Finn following. And I don’t protest. It’s a relief walking into the crowded, noisy party where I don’t have to think.
Just be. Just be. I can do that. I have to.
* * *
Finn
* * *
“I don’t know about you guys, but I look fucking sharp in this suit.” Woodson runs a hand down the front of his tux. “I’m getting laid tonight.”
You have to love Woodson’s cornfed, Iowa boy brand of optimism and child-like honesty. I laugh as he waggles his brows with hopeful glee.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” North asks him with a look that clearly states he’s skeptical of Woodson getting any play.
“Cynicism is a bitter taste that rests on the tongue and destroys the appetite,” Woodson intones.
North snorts. “You read that in a fortune cookie.”
“Did not.” Woodson grins. “I saw it on the side of a bus.”
“No way.”
“Believe what you will, bitter boy. I, on the other hand, am going to hunt down my wife. Convince her to get an early start.”
North and I groan, and I wave Woodson off. “Those who talk too much do too little.”
“Let me guess,” Woodson says. “Fortune cookie?”
“No, a simple Finn Mannus truth.”
Woodson scoffs and then goes in search of his woman. He trudges over the grass toward the house, leaving Woodson and I sitting on a low stone wall that edges the pool area. Up in the distance, I catch a glimpse of Chess’s dress. She’s talking to Meghan, our PR director.
“Ten bucks says she’ll have a headache,” North says.
I flinch, thinking he’s talking about Chess, but then I realize he means Woodson’s wife. “You really are a cynic.”
“I prefer realist.” North turns my way. “So how about you, Manny? You ready to buckle down and finish out this season with some wins?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Is this some sort of pep talk?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” North rests an elbow on his knees and gives me a look. For a bizarre second I have the image of The Thinker coming to life to get me a lecture. Weirdly, that image doesn’t die when North speaks again. “We win these last two games and we’re in the playoffs.”