Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(88)

I hear Aiden sucking in a breath. “My man getting the shaft from a girl? No fucking way.” He scowls, darting his eyes from Hannah to me. “Nope, can’t see it. You two don’t go together. As Giselle says, no zing.”

Hannah sighs, her eyes on me, looking for something. “Right. It’s been a long time—seven years. I’m in town with some friends and read somewhere that you owned this place. Thought I’d just take a chance and pop in and see you. You look different.” She looks at the floor, then back up to me, holding my gaze.

And by different, she means the hair and earrings.

“I’m living in Cleveland and started a dermatology clinic with some colleagues.”

“Congrats,” I say, not sure why she wants me to know the details of her life. After that first year, I placed her on the shelf of people who deserted me, and I’ve never once reached to find her pages and read more. The pain of what she did lingered—not denying that—but she’s been written off, finished, closed, over. Once you hurt me like she did, once you leave me broken with scars that fester, I will rally and erase you.

Selena looms closer to her. “Well, Devon is famous and rich. Not that you ever cared about football, but he’s the best wide receiver in the country.” She pauses. “His girlfriend is younger, prettier, and a physicist.” She lets out a derisive laugh. “She doesn’t pop zits.”

“Selena, ease up,” I murmur. “She’s just passing through, right?” I glance at Hannah.

“I was hoping you were free for dinner, actually?” she asks in a hopeful tone.

Aiden’s eyes are wide, and I figure he’s still trying to understand how a girl could have dumped me. Poor guy. His heart has never been broken.

Hannah takes my hand, her gaze soft and inviting as she takes me in, and I let her, curious and bemused about where this is going.

“I’m in town for the weekend,” she says, an obvious meaning in her tone.

She wants to play on the wild side while hubby stays at home.

Have I thought about her showing up someday? Maybe.

Did I think I’d feel this disconnected from her, even with the rawness of her betrayal? No.

I feel nothing . . . except . . . regret that I’ve let my scars hold me back from Giselle.

She won’t leave. She’s the real deal.

“Sorry,” I drawl, disentangling her grasp and putting some space between us. “Don’t think it’s right to have dinner with you when there’s a beautiful girl waiting on me at home.” I stick my hands in the pockets of my slacks. “It was interesting to see you. Enjoy your visit, and tell your husband . . .” I hold a finger up. “What’s his name?”

“Edward.”

“Yeah. Tell him hello.” I turn, then pivot back. “Drinks are on the house, appetizers, whatever you’d like.” I give a wave and walk away.

Glancing in the mirror behind the bar, I see Selena doing a fist pump. Aiden still looks confused, while Hannah frowns.

She isn’t anything to me.

No zing.

Not even a little.

There’s only one person in this world who holds my heart.



I walk into the penthouse and call out Giselle’s name. With no reply, I check the place, but it’s empty. In the den, I bend down to a glass box with pics of me from high school pinned to cutesy football paper, my name in gold stickers on a goal post next to it. Grinning, I find another box, mementoes from the national championship game, the one she watched when I didn’t even know she existed. Old photos of me and Jack and Lawrence dangle from little ribbons. In the kitchen, I find one in progress, her name and mine written in script on a pink heart, a photo of us at Elena’s wedding, a plastic spider, a silver shark charm, a pic of Red, and blue butterflies laid out on the counter.

I grin like a lunatic. “Ah, baby, you make me so happy . . .”

After changing into joggers and a T-shirt, I text her again and hear her phone ping next to her laptop. Huh. I pick it up, my arm accidentally brushing the space bar on her computer, and her Gmail pops open. The first email has the subject line of Expedited Passports. I frown as a dark premonition crawls over me. Why would she need a fast passport?

Oh, what if . . . no way. Giselle wouldn’t be going somewhere. Not without telling me first.

Still, doubt slips in, hanging on to the threads of just seeing Hannah, and my mind jumbles.

Giselle’s been strange.

Fear wraps around my gut and sticks like cement. Heart hammering, I flinch back from her computer, shoving my hands in my hair. I hear a pounding in my ears, the echo of a drumbeat, blood rushing in my veins.

Oh, fuck . . . nah, nah . . .

With trepidation creeping in, I bend over and gasp in air, then touch the laptop again. Just to make sure, because it can’t be true; it can’t. Dread piles up brick by brick, building a goddamn skyscraper in my head, as I scroll down, find a message from Dr. Benson, and read the first few lines—

“What are you doing?” Giselle asks, walking in from the foyer. Her face is flushed from exertion, hair up in a ponytail. She’s in running leggings and a blue sports halter top, her hand clutching envelopes. “I went for a quick run and grabbed the mail downstairs.” Her breathing is erratic, her gaze wary as she watches me snap her computer closed.