Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(28)

“Bergman, I—” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “I realize I was…a bit high-handed the other day.”

It’s quiet but for the faint roar of the Pacific a few blocks away, a stray bird singing its night song. Slowly, Oliver pushes off the side of his house and steps out of its shadow. In moonlight, his eyes are eerily pale, the sharp planes of his face sharper as they cast shadows on his skin. “‘A bit’?” he says.

I grit my teeth. “Yes, a bit. However, in a nutshell, I meant what I said. We’re not getting chummy, but I’ll keep my temper in check with you. I have the last two days, haven’t I?”

“You’ve been okay, I guess.” He takes another step. Then another. A foot stands between us, mirrors of each other. Hands in pockets, gazes locked. “So, that’s what we’ll be…civil.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s it.”

“Yes,” I grit out.

He tips his head, examining me. “Why?”

That’s the question I can’t answer. That I won’t.

I’m not telling him that I’ve had my fill of learning how little I meant to people beyond what I can do with a ball at my feet and the world it can buy me. I’m not telling him that soon I’ll be an always-in-pain washed-up former athlete, and he’ll be where I once was, the world before him, and I cannot let one more person, let alone someone who has everything I’m about to lose, decide that I’m not worth much at all, certainly not worth keeping around when his life and career are soaring into the stratosphere while mine crashes and burns.

“I don’t have friends here,” I finally tell him.

“Except the poker grandpas.”

“They forced themselves on me. And ‘friends’ is a generous term. I endure them. That’s all I do with anyone here, and that’s what I meant when I said that to you,” I lie. “Even if I said it…a tad…harshly.”

“But you meant it,” he says. “You’ll never be my friend.”

I stare at him, knowing down to my bones, that’s impossible. “No. Not your friend.”

My gut twists. I don’t like hurting people, believe it or not. I’ve just accepted that many small cuts are better than one large gaping wound. To avoid much worse hurt down the road, these brief, sharp inflictions are necessary.

I brace myself for that stricken expression again, like in the locker room, the one that cut straight through me like a knife to the gut. But it doesn’t come.

“You got it,” he says, staring down, toeing the grass.

I blink, surprised. “I…what?”

He glances up, and there it is—fire in his eyes, that devious smile as he backtracks toward his house. “On practice days, you pack a change of clothes, right?”

My eyes narrow. “Yes. Why?”

Oliver slips into the shadows of his house, his expression hidden as he says, “Just wondering. Goodnight, Mr. Hayes.”





Just wondering, my ass.

Seething, I walk into the locker room the next morning, rainbow confetti stuck to my hair.

And clothes.

And skin.

And other places I’m not going to mention.

I’m going to murder Oliver Bergman.

Santi, whose cubby is beside mine and whose sunny disposition gives Oliver a run for his money, turns to say his usual good morning but comes up short on a gasp.

“Buenos días, Santiago.” I drop my bag, making the entire room startle. They stare at me warily.

Santi swallows, his gaze darting nervously over me. “Capitán. What happened to your…hair? And clothes? And—”

“My entire fucking body?” I wrench off my sparkling shirt, sending a plume of rainbow confetti bursting into the air overhead.

Santi jumps back to avoid it. “Uh…yes?”

Oliver walks in, whistling cheerily, bag on his shoulder, the top half of his hair tugged back into an irritating little spurt of golden hair that makes him look deceptively innocent.

His eyes dance over me. He bites his lip. Hard. An infuriating cocktail of rage and unwelcome hot-blooded awareness spills through me, reminding me of that mouth I came so close to tasting, those fast, sharp breaths as our bodies drew close. Too close.

Fuming, I stand there and brush glitter off my chest. Oliver looks away as he clears his throat, heading for his cubby.

“Well, Santiago, I’ll tell you what I know.” Storming over to the sinks, I run my head under the water, then my face, rinsing off as much glitter as I can. “I was minding my own business this morning, opened my car door, sat myself down, and when the sun hit right in my eyes, I pulled down the visor.” I cut a seething glance at Oliver who’s started changing, his back to me. “Imagine my surprise when a glitter bomb of confetti baptized my fucking car.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” Santi cringes. The rest of the team makes sympathetic sounds.

“Damn, Cap.” Ben grimaces. “That’s a nasty prank.”

“Kids these days,” Amobi says wearily. “They have no shame.”

Carlo nods in agreement. “At least they didn’t—”

“Put it in the vents, too?” I offer. “Oh, they did.” I glare at Oliver’s back. “I have confetti in my fucking sinuses.”