Chapter 13

thirteen

. . .

Asher

The whiskey’s not doing the job, so I’m just staring into the crowd, trying to decide if I need another. My eyes keep drifting back to Sloane, who’s still dancing with Suspenders like she’s having the time of her life.

I glance away before my mood tanks any further, only to find Joe heading straight for me. Of course. Just what I need tonight.

“Asher,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder like we’re best friends. “Hell of a game today.”

“Joe,” I reply, keeping my voice even.

He leans against the bar, ordering a drink before turning back to me, his grin too wide to be genuine. “Tough break out there. I know how it feels, man. I’ve been there. All that pressure? It’s a lot.”

I don’t respond, sipping my drink instead.

“But you’ve got distractions, don’t you?” he continues, his tone casual but sharp enough to cut. “Heard you’ve been spending a lot of time off the field. Saw who you came to this party to watch.”

My grip tightens around the glass. “What’s your point, Joe?”

He shrugs. “No point. Just saying, maybe you’re not as focused as you should be. And the team? They’re starting to notice.”

“You don’t speak for the team,” I snap, finally looking at him.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, just trying to help. Don’t want you to lose your spot over something stupid, that’s all.”

“Like I said,” I reply, stepping closer, “you don’t speak for the team. So stay out of my business.”

Joe’s gaze flicks past me. “Sure thing, man. But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on her.”

I follow his line of sight and see Sloane spinning under Suspenders’ arm again. My blood boils, but I keep my face blank, stepping away from Joe without another word.

I can’t take it anymore.

The whiskey isn’t helping. Joe’s smug comments are still ringing in my ears, and now I’m stuck watching Sloane laugh and twirl with Suspenders across the dance floor like she hasn’t thought about me once tonight.

She has, though. I know she has.

Because every time her eyes flick to mine—and they have, more times than I can count—I see it. That same pull that’s been driving me insane all night.

I slip my phone out of my pocket, my thumb hovering over her name. It’s a bad idea. A terrible idea. But then I see Scott lean in to whisper something in her ear, and before I can stop myself, I’m typing.

Me: Having fun with Suspenders?

I watch her glance down at her phone mid-spin. She falters slightly, her brow furrowing as she reads the message. She doesn’t reply right away, but her eyes find mine across the room.

Good. She knows I’m watching.

Finally, her reply comes through:

Sloane: What are you doing?

I smile, leaning against the bar.

Me: Trying to figure out why you’re wasting your time with him when you could be with me.

Her head snaps up, and our eyes lock again. She looks irritated—and flustered.

Sloane: This is the plan, remember? Neutral. Low profile. You’re not helping.

I roll my eyes, shaking my head as I type back.

Me: Your plan sucks. Neutral doesn’t suit you.

She stares at her phone for a long moment, biting her lip. Her fingers fly over the screen, and her reply is short and sharp.

Sloane: Stop it. You’re making this harder.

Good. She should feel how hard this is. I glance up, and she’s still watching me, her expression torn between anger and something else.

Me: Harder than pretending you don’t want me?

She looks away this time, but I see her chest rise and fall like she’s trying to steady herself. Her reply comes a moment later.

Sloane: This isn’t the place.

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. She’s right, but I’m not ready to back down. Not yet.

Me: Fine. You want to be my dirty little secret? Meet me in my room in twenty. To talk.

She doesn’t respond right away, so I push further:

Me: I’ll go now so it doesn’t look like you’re following me.

I glance up, meeting her eyes one last time, and I see it—hesitation, frustration, and something else entirely. She shakes her head subtly, like she’s telling me no, but the way she grips her phone says otherwise.

Without another word, I down the rest of my drink and leave the room, weaving through the crowd toward the stairs. My heart’s pounding, and I can’t tell if it’s from the whiskey or the sheer recklessness of what I just said.

Twenty minutes. Let’s see if she shows up.