Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(23)

Timmy bites his lip and gives me an “I’m sorry” look. “He’s coming to Daisy to have breakfast with me tomorrow . . . and he—he’s going to be hanging out with me a lot.”

What the hell?

All eyes look at me. I throw a glance at Lawrence, who’s moved next to me with Devon. Devon laughs, and I can see the wheels in Lawrence’s head spinning.

They both know I haven’t agreed to any of that . . .

“He’s going to come to my school, too, and give a talk about what it’s like to be a famous quarterback.”

I sigh. Timmy is quite the manipulator.

Timmy stares up at me with big eyes. “And he said he wants to support our little town by participating in our play this year. My mom is the director!” His face brightens as he turns back to the reporter. “He’s going to be my best friend!”

“Wow, Jack,” Devon murmurs next to me. “Didn’t know your schedule was so fluid. Wanna come help me do some shit too?”

“Go with this.” Lawrence’s green eyes gleam. “Spin it. Because this just fell in your lap . . .”

I stare down at Timmy while he talks to reporters, taking him in, recalling how small his little body was when I dashed to the back of my SUV and saw him lying there, his arm broken, the scooter snapped in half. I recall the terror I felt. It’s a wonder I didn’t kill him.

“Is all this true?” The question comes from one of the female reporters, and she’s got a glimmer of tears in her eyes after talking to Timmy, when he was describing how his dad had recently passed away. He might possibly be the perfect poster child for Let’s make Jack Hawke look good.

I let out a deep sigh. I don’t like using this situation at all, but . . .

“Yes. Timmy’s a great kid. We’re gonna be great friends.”





Chapter 10

ELENA

“Can I buy you a drink, pretty girl?”

The male voice comes from my right at the bar just as I’m sucking down a tall glass of ice water. Sweat dots my forehead, and my mascara is smudged—I can see it in the mirror across from the bar—so I know for a fact I am not pretty right now.

I don’t even glance at him, although a cursory look in the mirror tells me he’s tall with clipped hair at the sides and with spiky hair gelled and sticking up.

“Not interested.” I signal the bartender for another glass of water. “Hit me again. Less ice this time, please,” I tell him as I dab at my face with a napkin, then my chest.

Mohawk leans in a little closer, and I smell expensive aftershave, something with cool tones, like the sea. “Really?” he murmurs. “You trying to run me off? I’m kinda scary at first, but once you get to know me—”

“Try another pretty girl.” I am not in the mood for men—especially after last night.

The bartender sets down the water, and I attack it.

Mohawk chuckles. “You’re a thirsty one.”

“Are you still here?” I say, pulling my phone out of my crossbody purse and pretending to scroll.

“Yeah. And I’m surprised you aren’t asking for an autograph by now. You come here often? I haven’t seen you, and I know everyone who comes in here. These are my stomping grounds.”

Autograph?

Okay, curiosity makes me turn and give him a full-on look. He’s tall, about six two, and lean, with purple-tipped hair and tattoos up his arms, disappearing into his clothing.

I arch my brow at the dress shirt he wears with red lightning bolts all over it. “I don’t come here ever. Actually it’s my friend’s birthday.” I point out Topher and Michael and some of his friends. The guys are dressed as T-Birds with pompadour hair, black leather jackets, white T-shirts, and combs in the back pockets of their jeans. A couple of girls—Michael’s entourage—are wearing Pink Ladies jackets and poodle skirts. It’s Grease everywhere. Topher strikes again. We had dinner early at a Thai place on Second Avenue and then popped in here to dance. Topher planned the entire event. It’s one of the things I adore about him, how he loves to make other people feel special.

Mohawk watches them dance to “Who Let the Dogs Out” and then turns back to me, an amused smile on his face. He checks out my long teased hair, the red stilettos, the suffocating black leather pants, and the off-the-shoulder tight black shirt. “I guess you’re Olivia Newton-John at the end of Grease? Hot Sandy?”

“Mmm. You’re super smart.”

He isn’t deterred by my sarcasm. Although, on a better night, I might have been flattered or even asked him about that print on his shirt. It fits him perfectly, tight across the chest but not clingy, the sleeves perfect around his muscled biceps. Tailored. Expensive. Not a shirt for me, but the fabric is interesting. Romeo might like a new bedcover. I make a mental note to search for it online.

“The name’s Devon Walsh, by the way.” He looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to do something—so I do a slow golf clap.

“Nice. That’s a girl’s name.”

He cocks his head. “Seriously, you don’t know me? Even with this?” He brushes a hand through his spiky hair. “It’s my calling card. Has been since high school.”

“Some men peak in high school, Devon. I wouldn’t brag about it.”