Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(70)

Annoyed, I frown. “Mariah.”

He nods and takes a bite of cake. “Right. How long did that last?”

I scratch my jaw. “A month. She went her way, and I went mine. She’s dating Michael now. He’s crazy about her.”

“Only Devon Walsh can date jersey chasers, send them off happy, then set them up with another player,” Aiden muses, admiration in his tone.

“Who was the girl before Mariah?” Jack asks as he sets his fork down, a hard glint in his eyes.

I take a sip of water, eyeing him. “I know what you’re doing.”

“You don’t remember her name,” Jack replies. “My point is, Giselle isn’t going to be the next one. She’s not that kind of girl. She’s the one you get serious with.”

“Her name was Kandi. The one before that was Lori. They walked away with smiles.” I’m not an asshole. I remember names, just not warm, fuzzy feelings of the time we spent.

He waves me off. “But they disappear from your life and move on. Giselle isn’t going anywhere. She’s part of my life, a sister I never had, and you’ll have to see her.”

“You need to stay out of it,” I reply as I stand. He isn’t telling me anything that hasn’t been running around in my head for the past few days, but something has irrevocably shifted, and I refuse to tame it any longer. My crossroads? I’m going right, straight to her.

Jack sits back and watches me, an enigmatic smile on his face. “She’s driving your goddamn prized possession. You shoved Aiden around. You’re ready to kick my ass. I’m the one who throws you the damn ball.”

Aiden interjects, “I’m the one who’ll throw you the ball next year, Dev.”

“Dream on, rookie,” Jack snaps at Aiden. “I’m the person you call brother,” he continues, looking at me. “I don’t know what is wrong with you.”

“Check yourself,” I growl. “You did your own playing around before Elena, so don’t talk to me about my past love life.” My hand taps my leg, my head scrambled, and I can’t pinpoint what part of what he’s saying is pissing me off more—the fact that I’m messing with the dynamics of our team or the fact that I go through women and he’s lumping her in that category. Giselle is different.

“Settle down, you old farts,” Aiden mutters. “This is a party.”

Jack leans back and crosses a leg, watching me, a gleam in his eyes. “Giselle is getting over her ex. She is vulnerable. Remember those days after Hannah? How fucked up you were?”

A sharp inhale comes from me.

He nods. “So you do remember. You were lost. You didn’t know what was left or right. You were devastated. Don’t devastate her.”

Never going to happen.

Something he sees on my face makes him drop his casual sitting position, and he stands and gets in my face. He’s taller, but I’m leaner and meaner. We used to tussle in college—over girls, over games—and we laughed over those times minutes later, two alphas working out frustrations. It’s been a while, but I know his weak points.

And it’s been a hell of a week.

He gives me a quizzical look. “Dude. You won’t hit me—”

“Don’t be so sure,” I say, hands tightening.

“Better tread light, Jack,” Aiden chirps. “He moves fast.”

Jack huffs. “Fine, there’s no talking to you today. Let me say one thing. If you touch her, you better fucking mean it. And if you break her heart, I’ll take you apart piece by piece.”

Little did he know she’d be the one breaking my heart.





Chapter 21

GISELLE

It’s six by the time everyone is gone, and I leave with Devon. My body tingles as he walks next to me, his hand in mine. I feel Mama’s eyes on us as he opens the passenger door of the Maserati and helps me in, then goes around to get in and crank Red. She caught me earlier in the bathroom and asked me to swear I wouldn’t have sex with him. I patted her on the shoulder and walked away.

Topher and Quinn offered to drive the Hummer back for us, and I can’t wait to be alone with him.

We’ve barely spoken since the episode with Mike. Every time I turned around, he was watching me, eyes smoldering, a promise in those green depths. The emotion that rolled off him was palpable, cloaking me in anticipation.

I take the pins out of my hair and shake the strands out as his eyes linger on me.

“Eyes on the road,” I say as I lean the seat back all the way and prop my feet up outside the passenger-side window, shaking my heels in the wind. “Black Velvet” by Alannah Myles plays from my phone.

His hands grip the steering wheel as he takes a turn on a familiar gravel road. I hear pings from the rocks hitting the car, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“The barn?” I ask. “Do you have any golf clubs in here?”

“I’ve got something else in mind.” His voice rumbles, dark and thick, laced with heat, and shivers dance down my spine.

My heart flutters, and I swallow.

He handles the car with precise movements, shifting gears, his feet moving the transmission with athletic ease, and I close my eyes and sing loudly as Buddy Guy’s “What Kind of Woman Is This?” comes on.