Page 70 of Pieces of Us

Neither of them has been overly polite over the years but were cordial nonetheless if they happened to pass me, which was less than a handful of times. Both have their own lives that don’t relate to mine.

I tip my chin in their direction, surprised when they both greet me with a smile and a wave. I’m giddy at the small step forward, even though I know it’s probably for the benefit of Amity and my sister.

I’m stuck with an awkward predicament as Uncle Mark sits down next to my dad, leaving me to wonder where I should park my ass. I’m saved from making the choice when I feel a brush of fingers along my shoulder blade.

‘Come meet Jagger,’ Amity says.

I school my features into a grim smile, replying, ‘Sure,’ as I follow her down the steps.

In the distance, I can see he’s handing out beers to who I assume are his security team, based on their beefcake statures.

‘Jag,’ Amity calls out as I draw a deep breath, bracing myself.

There he is.

Fucking Mr GQ himself.

Golden boy of the NFL.

He starts running over like he’s in some sort of fucking marathon, but even I can’t help to gawk at how athletically handsome the son of a bitch is. Tamping down my star-struck feelings, I observe him as he pulls up beside us.

He doesn’t look at me first, but rather down at Amity, where he gives her a heart-stopping smile, causing a small smile of her own to kick up at her mouth. Freezing, I know exactly that look splashed across his face. I see it in the mirror every day. He is awestruck, mesmerised by her.

It’s clear as day that he’s still hung up on her. Why the heck wouldn’t he be?

I should be commiserating with him over our communal feelings, but blind panic is all I feel.

What if they are endgame?

‘Linc?’ Amity’s soft voice pulls me from my dark thoughts.

Both she and this NFL noob are staring at me. The difference is, she has a concerned look on her face while he has a cocky-as-shit smirk.

Fuck, have I been death-staring him while she was introducing us?

Trying to recover quickly, I reach my hand out to shake his. Plastering my fake-as-hell smile on my face, I put every effort into meeting him.

‘Nice to meet a legend,’ I say begrudgingly.

He grins at me, taking my hand in his and forcing me into a manly hug and back slap. It’s way more friendly than what I was going for, but also a little rough, as if he’s sending me some sort of message.

I don’t usually have fanboy moments, but admittedly I am having one internally. Jagger has swagger. Even if he wasn’t famous with model-good looks, he’d turn heads on the street. There is this effervescent quality about him that commands your attention. He’s built with lickable abs and arms that are clearly defined behind his shirt, and he has effortlessly cool hair that would take anyone else half an hour to style. To top it off, he has fuckboy tattoos scattered down both arms that have to drive women crazy. He’s basically the David Beckham of the NFL.

‘Thanks, bro.’ Not that I can read men well, but although he seems friendly, I get the feeling he doesn’t like me.

‘Let’s sit,’ Amity suggests, leading us to the lounges away from the others. Her suggestion doesn’t cut the tension in the slightest. I feel it getting thicker by the minute.

With Amity in the middle, I can’t help to note she is the rose between two thorns—me and her dickhead ex. He’s just another prick in my way.

‘So, Linc.’ Linc? Who is this fucker who thinks he can call me by Hart’s nickname for me? ‘How has it been seeing Amity after all these years?’ He bares his teeth at me as if they are fangs. I don’t miss the warning look she gives him to simmer down.

It seems as if he thinks we’re on the field, the way he’s trying to wind me up.

I clear my throat. ‘Feels like she’s finally back where she belongs.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Amity is shifting in her spot. I’m trying to keep my promise of being civil, but it seems this jerkface has a distinct advantage over me by knowing just who I am to Amity. I can’t fault him for being a protective friend. I can only imagine what she’s told him about me.

Unbelievably, I know next to nothing about him and Amity, which is unsettling. I suspect that at one time they’ve been more than just friends, but I don’t know where their relationship stands now. Truthfully, I don’t know if I want to ask.

‘So, how did you two meet, anyway? I mean, it was like, poof, you were just pictured together one day in the papers.’ I immediately curse myself for sharing my stalker tendencies. My face feels like it’s on fire at my embarrassing admission.

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