Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(10)

“What?” Jorge hugs his cards to his chest and leans in. “What is it?”

Itsuki sets a hand over mine. “I think our boy’s been bitten by the love bug.”

The room erupts.

Who is he? Tell us about him! What’s he like? Have you kissed?

“Oi!” I yell.

They fall silent.

“I have not been bitten by the fucking love bug. I…” My voice dies off. Mitch gives me an encouraging nod. I clear my throat roughly, glaring down at my cards. “I…may have experienced a…professional…setback…today.”

Jim wrinkles his nose, feigning thought. “What the hell do you even do again?”

Mitch tuts disapprovingly. “Go easy on him.”

“Man, I’m still mad about that,” Lou says. “Mitch reels us in with some shit about you being a big-deal professional athlete. I’m picturing seats behind home plate at Dodgers Stadium, a nice, toasty box at the arena. I’m seeing courtside with the Lakers, the fifty-yard line at SoFi Stadium, and what do you do? Kick a bathroom-tile-looking ball around and run so long you make me tired.”

Itsuki snorts a laugh, then schools his expression. “That wasn’t nice, Louis. Besides, I like soccer. It’s very calming.”

“You’re watching the wrong kind of soccer, then,” I tell him.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Mitch says. “What’s going on?” He leans his elbows on the table, offers a nod of encouragement. His white hair’s a soft cloud white, his matching mustache neat and trimmed. He reminds me so much of Fred, the one person who ever saw something in me, whose kindness changed my life.

Maybe that’s what makes me momentarily shed my typical armor as I gruff, “I have to team up with someone at work who I don’t want to team up with at all.”

A chorus of hmms and oohs echoes around us.

Itsuki asks, “Why not?”

“You don’t get along?” Lou offers.

“I hate sharing air with him,” I snap.

It sounds vicious, but God help me, it’s true. I hate sharing a team, a field, a practice space, a locker room, meetings, you name it, with Oliver Bergman. Sharing captaining is the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Jorge frowns at me in curiosity. “Why?”

I bite my cheek, remembering vividly how it felt the first time I saw him two years ago. Like I’d taken a direct kick to the gut. Tall, fast. All long, lithe limbs and easy smiles. He’s everything I once was and more. Young. Happy. Healthy. The world at his feet. Untold possibility on the pitch.

It stung like a thousand papercuts doused in vinegar. It hurt in so many ways. And the last thing I need in my pain-riddled life is one more thing to make me hurt. So I’ve made it abundantly clear to Oliver Bergman I want nothing to do with him.

“Dispositional differences,” I mutter. “Now can we play some fucking cards?”

“Nope.” Jim stands slowly, hands braced on the table. His gaze travels his fellow card sharks. “Gents. You know what we need to do.”

Mitch sighs, scrubbing his face. “I’m going to have to call in sick tomorrow, aren’t I?”

“You’re retired, asshole,” Lou grumps. “I’m the one who’s gonna be hating himself in the morning.”

“Oh dear,” Itsuki says quietly.

“What?” I bark. “What the hell is going on?”

Jorge pats my hand and smiles. “It’s best not to ask questions and just go along for the ride.”





My tongue is sandpaper. My head pounds.

“Fuck.” Groaning, I blink open my eyes, hating the existence of daylight. I’m on my bed, still wearing last night’s clothes, reeking of sweat, fried food, and syrup-sweet tiki drinks.

A vague memory of the night flashes through my mind. The poker guys piled into my Land Rover, commandeering my sound system, dragging me to some hole-in-the-wall that Mitch promised me “nobody who’s anybody knows about.”

I groan again as I slowly roll to my side, then sit up. My body screams in protest over how I slept—my sore knee bent off the bed, my always-aching back twisted sharply.

Breathing slowly, I shut my eyes and try to piece together the rest of the night as pain pulses through my body. I remember karaoke. I definitely didn’t sing. I never would. But the poker guys did, especially Jim, who stuck to mocktails and brought down the house with his version of Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger.”

Clearly I drank a metric shit ton of tropical drinks with those damn tiny paper umbrellas to survive the experience.

Gingerly, I ease off the bed and stand.

“Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit.” Each step toward the bathroom is agony. My knee hates me. So does my back. So does my neck. Waves of white-hot pain radiate through my body, so intense my stomach churns.

Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking, too.

I vomit, and the pain of my torso contracting, engaging my spasming back muscles, nearly makes me vomit again.

Cursing under my breath, I flush the toilet and gingerly ease myself upright. I avoid my reflection in the mirror, knowing it’ll show me something I don’t want to see, and rinse out the taste of last night’s poor choices.

Fuck, I should not have drunk like that.