If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(21)

She shrugs, sniffling. “I like it. A lot. I really do look badass.” She sniffles again and clears her throat.

“Don’t cry, for shit’s sake.”

She shoves the phone into my chest and shoves me, too, for good measure. “I’m not crying. The onions on the burger make my eyes water.”

“This response came on rather suddenly, rather late into your burger.”

“Shut up, Gauthier.” She tugs my phone back and with one hand starts typing.

“Sigrid.”

“Sebastian.”

I rest back on my elbows, watching her. “What are you doing with my phone?”

Hers dings in her back pocket. “Texting my phone from yours. Now you have my number and I have yours.”

My heart rate spikes. “What the fuck for?”

“Because friends have each other’s numbers, genius.” She tosses the phone on my lap and narrowly misses nailing me in the dick.

I give her a wry look. “You didn’t have to make up that excuse to get my number, Sigrid. I’d have given it to you.”

“You’re such an arrogant piece of work,” she mutters before biting into her burger again.

The self-satisfied smirk I flash her way fades a bit as I watch her having another foodgasm with her burger.

As a car pulls into the parking lot, I glance over my shoulder, then swear under my breath when I see who, of all people, has just showed up.

Ziggy nudges my thigh with her knee. “What is it?”

None other than the Kings’ owner steps out of a vintage sports car, followed by two gangly grandkids, smiles on their faces.

“That’s—”

She sets a hand on mine. “I know who that is. He’s obsessed with Ren.”

“Of course he is,” I mutter. “Ren’s every owner’s dream athlete—excellent, dependable, minimal injuries, well-behaved.” I sit up, raking both hands through my hair. “This is it. He’s going to see us, and if we tell him we’re friends, it’s going to get back to Ren, the team…” I clench my jaw, pulling my hand away. “You don’t need to do this, tangle yourself up with me—”

Her grip tightens, stopping me. Then her fingers thread gently through mine. “I want to.”

“Ziggy—”

“Mr. K?hler!” she calls, dropping her burger in its container to wave brightly.

I swear under my breath again.

“Quit with the swearing,” she says through that wide smile.

Art K?hler walks toward us, an arm around each grandkid, who I recognize from when he brought them around the team for autographs. Art’s smile is warm as he says hello to Ziggy, introducing his grandkids. It cools but remains polite as he looks at me. “Gauthier.”

“Mr. K?hler.” I nod toward the diner’s glowing neon sign. “You picked a good place for a late night bite.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Betty’s Diner doesn’t seem like your kind of haunt.”

“First time for everything,” Ziggy interjects. “Seb was even generous enough to treat me.”

Mr. K?hler glances her way, puzzlement starting on his face as if he’s finally piecing together that Ziggy’s with me and I’m with her. “And what’s a sweet girl like you doing with trouble like Seb Gauthier?”

Before Ziggy can answer, one of his grandkids says, “I think Seb’s cool.”

Mr. K?hler gives me a censorious look. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Regret gnaws its way through me. I’m a lost cause, but this kid isn’t. He has vital years ahead of him to make better choices than I have; I don’t want him emulating me.

“It’s cool,” I tell his grandkid, “to work hard and go after what you want. And I have done that. I’m where I am in this sport because I worked my a—” Ziggy’s knee hits my thigh sharply, right before I almost swear. “My butt off. But…” I glance toward Ziggy, who’s watching me intently, then back to Mr. K?hler’s grandkid. “I’ve also done a lot of things you shouldn’t admire me for. That aren’t cool at all.”

Ziggy gifts me a small, approving smile that I shouldn’t be so damn pleased about receiving.

But I am. I bury my face in my milkshake so I don’t have to look at her or Mr. K?hler, who’s staring at me curiously.

Then Ziggy says to Mr. K?hler, “To answer your question, Sebastian and I are hanging out here because we’re friends.”

“Friends?” Mr. K?hler frowns.

“Yep,” Ziggy says. “Friends. He and I connected over angry yoga.”

I almost choke on my milkshake. Angry yoga?

“Angry yoga?” Mr. K?hler’s voice echoes my incredulity.

“Mm-hmm. Want a fry?” She offers our shared carton of fries to the grandkids, who both help themselves. “You know they’re good when they’re tasty even after they’ve cooled off. But anyway, yes, angry yoga. It’s yoga that makes space for complex, often negatively connotated emotions, with the goal of using mindful movement to process them constructively with an ultimate goal of healing.”

“Cool,” the other grandkid says.

Ziggy smiles. “I’m doing it to tap into my anger and let myself feel the tough emotions I tell myself I shouldn’t. Seb’s going because he’s realized he needs a healthier conduit for all his existential angst.” She slaps a hand on my thigh, and I barely hide a glare. She’s taking this a bit too far.