Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(87)

“Postgame room entry, so I can see all your bumps and bruises?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

“Can I bring ten friends?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Evan, the superasshole? The one I met online who stalked me. Can he come?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t say. Fascinating. How about comps for that brisket vendor who puts waffle fries on the top? Plus all the drink tickets?”

“Okay.”

There’s silence, and I’m vaguely aware of Selena tapping her pen as I pull out my phone to see if Giselle’s texted me. I told her I’d be late for dinner, and she hasn’t replied. She had a meeting with Robert about a publisher, but that was earlier. She said something about Hobby Lobby and shadow boxes, then taking Myrtle to the doctor, but she’d still have her phone—

“What’s up with you?” she asks on a laugh, interrupting my thoughts, as she walks over to me. “I told you you’re making bank this month, and you acted like it’s chump change. If I asked for a company car to drive the one mile from my place to here, you’d probably give it to me right now. I’d like an old-school Trans Am, white with a blue stripe down the hood—I know, redneck, but there it is.”

“Yeah, not redneck. Sounds good. Giselle . . . something’s not right with us.” I rake my hand through my hair, unease crawling over me as I plop down on a chair. On the surface, things look fine, she and I consuming each other in heady doses, neither of us able to get enough of touching and kissing and fucking. Maybe I’m crazy to worry; maybe it’s just her mama’s prayer messing with me, about Giselle being chaste on her wedding day, and knowing I’ve pretty much shot the hell out of that pipe dream. I’m in with Giselle, and I want her, and there’s more, so much more eating at me, itching to make us permanent—wait, no, that’s crazy; it’s too fast. I’m just reaching, reeling in the off-the-charts sex and intensity of my heart wanting to cleave to hers, wanting to bind us, to kiss her every day, to make her need me like air. My thoughts shift direction, fear pricking as I replay Sunday. Was it Dr. Benson, something she said . . . ?

But why wouldn’t Giselle tell me?

My fingers trace one of the butterflies on my arm. Is she tired of me already? My head recalls some of the revealing shit I’ve said during sex. Am I too intense? Too needy?

“Ah, dude, you’re crazy about her,” Selena murmurs as I look up to meet her soft gaze.

My shoulders heave out a long exhalation, and I bend over and just . . . breathe. “Yeah. I’m fucking terrified.”

My phone pings, and I grapple to get it back out of my pocket, to get it back in my hands and see if it’s her. Just Aiden. I sigh.

Yo. Saw you come in. Where you at? There’s a chick out here asking for you.

On my way, I send and stand up, relief washing over me.

“Giselle’s here; I need to go,” I tell Selena, and she nods and follows me.

“Cool. I need to get to know her better. I get the feeling she’s going to be around awhile.”

I hope so.

“You think she likes Trans Ams?”

“Red is hers, so probably,” I say, my steps lighter, the tension loosening the closer I get to Giselle as we weave through the hallway and head out to the club. My eyes search the bar for her blue hair, not finding her but seeing Aiden at the end. I stalk his way, shifting past patrons with eager steps. My baby, my girl, my sweet, sexy scientist. I’m going to kiss the fuck out of her.

“Where is she?” I ask Aiden, who turns to face me from his stool, a water in his hand.

He nudges his head at the girl next to him. “Right here.” He waggles his eyebrows and leans in. “Says you guys talked about getting married. Came in to say hi. Didn’t recognize her, but she said she went to Ohio State—”

“You’re a moron, Alabama,” Selena breathes from behind me. I’m aware of her popping Aiden on the arm and his exclamation and curse, muttering something along the lines of “What is her problem? I didn’t know it was that big of a deal.”

The girl turns on her stool, and my chest seizes, the same hazel eyes behind thick lashes, the round face, and the straight black hair.

“Hannah?” I say, not believing my eyes. “What are you doing here?”

She stands in a graceful motion, petite and as curvy as she used to be, dressed in a black dress, pumps on her dainty feet. Her hair is shorter now, around her shoulders instead of down her back.

A blush rushes up her face. “I would have called, but I don’t have your number. I messaged your IG profile, but I’m not sure you even see those.” A half grimace crosses her face. “I probably shouldn’t have done that—a bit forward of me, I suppose, but . . .” She trails off. Her voice is small and lyrical, pulling me further down into the past, into when I hung on her every word. I see her in my dorm room, telling me she’s breaking up with me. I found someone else. You have football. I have medical school. He knows me better than you do. He’s the one for me. I’m sorry, so sorry . . .

She walked out and never looked back. I didn’t breathe right for a year, always looking for her face in crowds, wondering if she was happy, if she thought about us, if she’d really loved me at all.

“Because you’re married,” Selena mutters, easing next to me and crossing her arms and glaring at Hannah. “You dumped my cousin, married some guy, messed with Devon’s head, and I’ve never forgotten it.”