37. DoubleNothing

37

DOUBLE OR NOTHING

Asher

I should focus on beating Miles at pool. I’m only a few shots from bragging rights. The trouble is, as I line up the cue, I can’t swat away a persistent thought— how the hell do I convince Maeve to stay? My chest tightens, and my brain keeps replaying the question on a loop as I move around the pool table with my teammate, post-workout.

It won’t leave me alone. I wish it were a simple question I could ask Google. I line up the shot, but the thought nags at me again, and the ball goes screaming past the pocket, just missing.

Miles shakes his head, giving me a sympathetic look from behind the black glasses he often wears off the ice. “I am so, so sorry you suck,” he says, then pushes up the sleeves of his Henley, revealing ink of an arrow on one arm. For focus, he’s said. And focus the fucker does. It’s almost like he’s saying sit down and watch how it’s done as he moves around the pool table, cleaning up the rest of the balls with practiced ease.

When he’s done, he wiggles his fingers. “Now, pay up.”

“In my own home?”

“Even more so. That’s embarrassing, man—for you,” he says with a grin.

“With friends like you...” I say, but I’m not ready to end the game. The last thing I want is to be left alone with my spinning thoughts. “Double or nothing?”

“You are a glutton for punishment, and I can’t resist,” he says, already resetting the balls for another round.

But once he starts racking them up, the question plays in my head again. Shit. I need to deal with this. “Dude,” I start.

He stops, looks up, no doubt hearing the urgency in my tone. “What’s up?”

“I want Maeve to stay.”

His brow knits, then he nods. “This isn’t fake for you.”

That’s all he has to say. He knows the score. They all have, honestly. For longer than I have maybe. But in Boston, I barely admitted I had feelings for her, only saying she was great . I’m getting a little tired of that refrain.

“It’s not,” I admit, sighing heavily. “Not one bit. Not at all.”

He pauses, the cue in hand. “Okay, so ask her to stay. Make it work. Give it a shot.” Miles studies me. “Right?”

“In theory, yes. But it could never work for real.”

He scoffs. “Why?”

I don’t want to get into my faulty heart right now and the way it sputters out, so I just say, “We’re friends and all.”

“That’s your reason, man? ”

“That’s a damn good reason,” I argue. “I mean, we have a lot of history and…stuff. I don’t want to risk that.”

“Sure, I get that. But all that it’s complicated stuff is just bullshit at the end of the day, Callahan. If you want her to stay, ask her. Sounds like the perfect opportunity to work your shit out. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can win her over. Stranger things have happened. And maybe it’s finally time—you’ve been in love with her for years.”

I drag a hand through my hair, letting that one word sink in— years .

No.

That can’t be possible.

It can’t have been years. I’ve barely come to terms with my feelings for her since we said I do , with the depth of them, the weight of them, the danger of them. There’s no way it’s been going on for years. That’s just not possible. But it’s definitely been for longer than I’d realized. Problem is whether or not I’m in love with her doesn’t entirely matter, given my track record, given my past. “Just because you’re in love doesn’t mean you stay in love,” I point out.

“True, but so what?”

I furrow my brow. “So what?” I repeat.

He levels me with a stare as he lines up his next shot. “You think love comes with a guarantee? It’s not a Hydro Flask. Does hockey come with a guarantee? Every time you get on the ice could be your last time. Every time you leave your house could be the last time,” he says.

Like I need the reminder of everything that could go wrong. “I know that.”

“But you play anyway. You play a dangerous game for a living. You get in a car. You get on a plane. You fucking breathe. Of course you might not stay in love. But why are you letting that stop you?”

Because we’re friends. Great friends. I’m closer to Maeve than I am her brother. She’s my best friend more than he is, and I do not want to lose her. Not after nearly losing my dad. And not after all the losses she’s endured. After the hurt she’s been through. After all the people who are gone. “It might not work out,” I say. Even though I’m thinking it probably won’t .

Miles stares blankly at me. “And?”

I shove a hand through my hair roughly, breathing out hard, my shoulders tensing. “I don’t want to risk that.”

He nods a few times, then shrugs. “I get it. You’re a pessimist,” he says. “But this thing between you two—it’s doable. It’s not like she’s the coach’s daughter.”

I blink, taken aback. “Wait, do you have a thing for Leighton?”

He wags his finger. “We were talking about you.”

“And yet, you brought up Leighton.” Come to think of it, didn’t he give her a ride home after a community outreach event we all did last fall for The Garden Society? “You know…you do seem to gravitate to her at events.”

He scoffs. “We hardly have any events.”

“And that’s not a denial.”

He stares menacingly at me. Fine, fine, the dude does give good glower, I’ll grant him that.

“Photo ops,” I correct, thinking he’ll admit it that way.

“We’re talking about you now.” Miles tips his chin my way, making it clear that’s all he’s saying. His dark eyes brook no argument. “It’s my turn to give you a hard time, Mister Pessimist.”

“I’m a realist,” I counter.

“Then be realistic for yourself, man. Yes, it’s risky. Yeah, it might not work out. But do it anyway—ask her to stay for longer. You’re clearly not getting divorced any time soon. Look around. You hung up a million pictures of her.”

It’s the bare truth, and I can’t even pretend it was just for the camera crew earlier today. Fact is—I took those pictures. I like those pictures. And asking her to stay isn’t the same as risking pouring out the truth of my heart to her. I can do the first without doing the second.

“Okay,” I say, letting out a decisive breath. “I’ll do it.”

“Sooner rather than later,” he says, pointing his cue my way.

We start the next round. With each shot, I feel looser, freer. I’ll find an opportunity and I’ll seize it. We make a game plan for our upcoming game against the Los Angeles Supernovas in two more weeks, especially how to score on his brother Tyler, who plays for them while raising two kids on his own. Younger than Miles by a few years, Tyler’s carved out his own solid career for our rivals.

We finish our round, with Miles taking all my money and making a show of pocketing it. “Always a pleasure cleaning you out.”

“I bet.”

I walk him to the door, opening it just as Maeve’s coming up the steps, looking like she’s got something on her mind.

“Hey, Maeve,” Miles says with a grin. “Be nice to Asher if he asks you something.”

“Asshole,” I mutter to him.

He flashes me a grin, holding his arms out wide. “Like you’d expect anything less?”

“Did he say I was the mean one? Because he is, I swear,” Maeve asks, playfully .

Miles just waves goodbye, then trots down the steps.

Maeve comes inside, but the easy zing-zing-zing I felt with Miles is erased the second the door shuts. Her expression is serious, her brow furrowed. Something must have come up with Angelina, and the weight of whatever she’s thinking seems to hang between us. Maybe this isn’t the moment to ask.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“A lot,” she says, her voice shaky. No idea if that’s good or bad.

“Talk to me,” I say, nodding to the couch in the living room.

Once we sit, she breathes out like she’s girding herself to say something hard. I tense, preparing myself for bad news, when she says, “Angelina has a bunch of opportunities for me. For a few months.”

I don’t even think twice. I take the chance. “Stay here with me. Through the end of the season. Just stay.” Then, so she doesn’t think it’s for show, for the Greers, for appearances, or for any other reason than pure want, I add, “I want you to.”

Her smile is radiant, so damn beautiful. “Really?”

“I mean it. Stay.” It’s both a command and a plea, and I hope she doesn’t hear the desperation in my voice.

“Asher,” she whispers, her eyes wide, like she’s afraid speaking any louder would break the moment. “Confession: I was going to ask if I could stay.”

Damn, this feels like some kind of luck. And I can’t help myself. I rap my knuckles subtly against the back of the couch. It’s not wood, but it’ll do for knocking. “So, we’re married through the end of the season,” I say, though it’s more of a statement than a question. I lift a hand, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as I set the timeframe for the rest of this union. At Mr. Vincenzo’s party three weeks ago, we said we’d do this for a month or so, till Total Teamwork officially launched and the mural was done. But now? Now I have even more time with her. I’ve got a few months, and I want to make the most of them.

“We are,” she says, and she sounds…relaxed. Excited too. I like both of those sounds—a lot. “And I still have my sub-lease on my place. So don’t worry. I won’t crowd you too much. I’ll be able to return to it when this is over.”

When this is over …The thought curls my stomach. I don’t even want to acknowledge the statement. So I sidestep. “You could sub-lease your place for a while. Pocket the rent.”

“Oh. Do you want me to pay rent here?”

I scoff. “No.”

“Asher,” she presses.

“No. Just no. You are not paying rent, even if you lease your space. In fact, you’ll never pay rent here, and you’ll always be welcome,” I say, meaning it. Hell, this home feels like it was meant for her.

“If you say so.”

“I do.” I exhale, relieved, settled even. “Now that that’s settled, be a good wife and tell me what’s going on. What are these opportunities?”

She laughs, then begins. “There’s California Style .”

As she shares more of her conversation with her agent, I smile confidently. Knew it. Called it. “I told you big things would happen for you.”

Her mouth is soft, grateful as she says, “I don’t say it enough, but I really appreciate how much you’ve believed in me.”

Please. That’s easy. I hook my thumb toward the hallway. “That mirror of yours? I hung it for you. Not for the crew. Not for show. But because I legit love it. Because I’m proud of you. And because it’s great.”

She dips her face, smiling. “Stop making me feel so good.”

“That won’t happen,” I say, and this is the perfect chance to deal with something else. Something I didn’t deal with last night. Or before I left for my road trip. Something, frankly, I didn’t deal with well in Vegas the night it happened. The night we happened, when I said it shouldn’t happen again.

Fuck that.

I meet her eyes and ask the tough question without agenda, without preempting her, with only the hope for her yes . “What do you want to do about what happened last night?”

And I don’t have to wait long.

Her hazel eyes glimmer with that look she gets when I kiss her, when I touch her, when I edge her. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she admits. “But I don’t want to lose our friendship.”

“I don’t either,” I say, my voice thick with desire and something more. But something I won’t let on now. Not yet. Not this soon. I can’t risk scaring her away with the depths of my feelings. But the depths of my desire? That’s a whole other story, and I am ready to tell it.

She pauses, clearly thinking. “Maybe we need to get it out of our systems.”

Oh hell, do we ever. “We should enjoy the marital benefits then. It is our three-week anniversary after all.”

Her smile is the sexiest yes I’ve ever seen. “And I know what I want—friends with benefits. Husband and wife with benefits. Same idea?” she asks, like she’s testing out new terms .

Do I want more? Yes. But will I take what I can get for now? I absolutely will. I am not going to press my luck by saying anything further.

“Yes.” I let out a slow breath and wrap a hand tightly around her head. “And now I’d really like to fuck my wife the way I’ve been wanting to for a long, long time. With no regrets.”