29. Weston

Hunter strolls in for Bro Dinner twenty minutes late, sunglasses on, shirt untucked. It doesn’t take a genius to know he just rolled off some female and he’s hungover.

“You look like shit.”

“Well, I feel like shit, so it’s probably appropriate.” He pushes up his sunglasses to reveal his eyes are as red as I’ve ever seen them.

“Long night?”

He’s been having a lot of those lately.

“You know. It is what it is.”

He’s been saying that a lot lately, too.

I used to enjoy these same things, though, so I’m not judging. I’ve ordered in food, and while I’m tired from the afternoon game—another preseason win, which does jack shit for the quest for the Cup but at least serves to boost team morale—I’m glad we re-instituted Bro Dinners.

He pulls out his chair and cracks open one of the beers in the bucket on the table. “How’re things with the babe next door?” He sits back and takes a long swig from his bottle. “Mm. Not quite the hair of the dog, but close enough.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“The babe next door? Why not? Is she something else now?” He cocks his brow like I’m hiding some secret relationship from him.

I’m not, obviously. There will be no secret relationships. No relationships at all. Period.

“No—and just so you know, there are no things with anyone next door.” I don’t quite snap the words at him, but it’s enough to let him know that I don’t appreciate the question.

“Touchy, touchy.” He whistles low. “What’s the big deal? You like her and she likes you. You can say whatever you want, but anybody within a ten-mile radius of the two of you can see that you’re a big, fat liar if you deny it.”

“I’m not a liar. There’s nothing going on between me and Renee.”

“Well, maybe not, but you sure would like for there to be.” He’s so arrogant, so sure of himself that if he wasn’t my oldest friend, I would kick his ass all over this place.

“I’d fuck her, yeah.” It’s an understatement. I would do a hell of a lot more. I’d kiss her. Hold her. Fall asleep next to her and wake up next to her. And that’s exactly the reason I’m not touching her again. “But then she’s got to go. She’s got ‘stage five clinger’ written all over her.”

“You think?” He cocks his eyebrow. “She didn’t look so clingy to me. Not in the way you’re talking about, at least.”

Half of me wants to know why the hell he’s looking at her, but I can’t say anything without confirming what he’s already convinced that he knows. “It’s an act.”

“If you say so.” He shrugs. “Anyway. Have you seen the pictures she’s been posting online?” He pulls the phone from his pocket and flicks through a couple screens before he hands it to me. “The action shots are taken with looove.”

I roll my eyes, but he scoots closer to show me. “Look. Scroll. You’re in, like, three out of every five pictures.”

“Obviously. I have more ice time than everyone but Decker.”

“Decker is in a few pictures, but you are in a shitload more, my friend.”

I scroll through. He’s not wrong. It’s basically The Weston Scott Show.

“Okay, so I’m photogenic.”

“Somehow, I don’t think your ugly mug is the reason you’re her favorite subject.” He shakes his head. “I’m surprised you’re fighting this so hard. It’s not like you to ignore an opportunity.”

“She’s not an ‘opportunity,’” I lash out before I can simmer down.

“Hm. If you say so. Maybe I’ll take her out then.” He grins slyly, because he knows me as well as I know me.

“I don’t remember you having a fucking death wish.”

I’m ready for his retort, for more banter, for us to end up wrestling or boxing with the gloves I keep in the ottoman for occasions just like this.

But to my surprise, he just shrugs and lets it go. His smile fades as he drains his beer and pops open another. “It is what it is.”

I’ve never seen him like this and we go way back. “You okay, man?”

He sighs and for a second, I think we’re about to get deep, but then Hunter shakes his head. “I’m good. You know me.”

I do—which is how I know he’s lying. But I also know that he’ll talk when he’s ready and if I try to force him, he’ll shut down. Disappear for a month or two or ten.

“Okay. But I’m always here and this is always going to be your home.”

He nods, eyes downcast. It’s a few minutes before he looks up. “West, if you feel anything for this girl… don’t fuck it up because you’re so set on being alone.” He sighs and strokes his chin. “Sometimes, alone is too much. Even for you.” Then he shakes his head like he’s settling it back into place. The smile returns, as insolent and wry as ever. “If nothing else, you’re a one-and-done expert. Do her and get it over with so you can get over it. You work together. You owe it to yourself—and to her—to test it out, even if it’s just for one night.”

I hate what he’s saying.

I love what he’s saying.

I hate how much I love what he’s saying.

But I know better than Hunter that Renee and I are oil and water. Oil and fire, actually. When we get together, yeah, it’s hot—but then shit burns to the ground.

I do the only thing I can do: sigh and open a beer.

When did shit get so complicated?