Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(41)

For that moment, we press into each other.

The clank of the balls crashing into each other and the pounding of my heart is all I hear. We watch together, breathing in the air that the other breathes out, as the solid purple ball drops into the pocket.

And then he pulls away. Like he always does. And I’m still leaning over the table, overthinking a perfectly innocent interaction.

Like I always do.

The voice I hear next sounds like twisting chalk on the felt tip of my pool cue. “Oh my god! Are you Jasper Gervais?”

I don’t even need to look to know that Jasper offered an uncomfortable smile and his signature head nod to elicit the girlish squealing that now assaults my ears.

Pushing up to stand, I walk over to the rack without a backward glance. I press the stick into the claws that suspend it on the wall before turning and taking in the scene.

I permit myself one deep, desperate, centering breath before I plaster a smile on my face and make my way back over to the beer waiting for me.

Two girls are fawning over Jasper. I see them but not really. As usual I just see Jasper. The way his body tenses, the light peachy stain that creeps out from under his stubble across his cheeks, his hands obsessively folding at the brim of his cap.

I slide up beside him, reaching for my beer and watching one girl’s eyes catch on my ring. “Oh shit. Are y’all together?” Her finger lazily flicks back and forth between us.

Jasper’s head swivels in my direction, eyes boring into mine like I might save him. But save him how? I’m just not sure. Especially not after he told me in the plainest terms possible that I’m his friend as he bent me over a pool table.

If that felt platonic for him, well, fuck me sideways, I must be totally hammered.

“No. We’re friends.”

The girl smiles and sighs in relief. “Well, congratulations on the engagement.” Everyone’s eyes drop to my hand, and I lift my head slowly, offering her a wan smile in return. “Thanks.”

“Will you sign the back of my shirt?” Her friend asks as she tugs her coat down and pulls her hair over one shoulder, exposing her back and bare neck to my stupid-hot-friend-cousin who just takes the pen the other girl holds out to him.

When his hand wraps over her shoulder to hold her shirt in place, I walk away and order another beer that I do not need because I cannot stomach the sight of his hand on another woman.

I feel like there’s hot coal burning in my gut.

I swivel my hand in a let’s fucking go motion to the bartender, and he smirks at me. He can probably tell I’m wobbly on my feet or that my eyes are glassy. But you know what? I don’t care. I’ve been dutiful beyond compare to my family. I’ve been a professional in my career. And I’ve had a few shit weeks. If I want to watch my life circle the toilet, I can at least throw back a few delicious Buddyz Bests while I do.

I peek over my shoulder at Jasper. His hands still rests on the random girl’s back as he crouches to sign her plain white shirt.

If making yourself sick with jealousy were an art form, I’d be a master at my craft. Over the years, I’ve tortured myself by watching the NHL Awards. I’ve watched him year after year with a different woman, each one more stunning than the last. I’d watch them all dolled up, walking the red carpet, smiling for the cameras, and when it was over, I’d crawl into bed and imagine what they were doing at that very moment.

I’d envision them clinking crystal flutes filled with fancy Champagne, surrounded by other players at some ritzy club, followed by a quiet hotel room, where Jasper would peel off her slinky, sparkly dress. Because they’re always slinky and sparkly.

His lips.

His hands.

Her moans.

Imagining is easier to take than seeing it up close.

I wrap my hands around the slippery pint glasses that appear in front of me and walk back to our table.

“I want you to sign my tits,” is the first sentence I hear, and it makes me slam the pint glasses down with more force than I meant to. Drunkenness collides with anger and makes the golden liquid slosh over onto my hands.

“I only sign paper, clothes, and merch,” is Jasper’s simple response. I’m sure he’s heard this titty request many times.

I turn, wiping my hands on my jeans, not caring about the wet spots they leave.

The girl sidles closer and rolls her eyes like what he’s said doesn’t matter. “Come on. There’s barely anyone here.” Her lips tip up in a smirk and she pulls the neckline of her already deep V-neck down even lower. “Right here.”

“I’m sorry, no.”

He’s apologizing to her? His eyes fall to mine, and to his credit, he doesn’t even glance at her cleavage that now shows the trim of her red lace bra.

“Would you rather do it in the bathroom so no one can see?”

His eyes are tight and searching. He looks like a dog staring up at me through the bars at a shelter, desperate for someone to save him, to shield him. I think he’s always needed that in some way.

Holding his navy-blue gaze, I take a deep swig, and goddamn, the more Buddyz Best I drink the better it tastes.

“Girl, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself,” I blurt, flicking my eyes over to the woman who is holding her tits out to him like she’s the deal of the day at a fastfood restaurant.

I’m cringing for Jasper but I’m also cringing for her.