Page 141 of Can't Always Get What You Want

Ugh!

But…

Gio is my brother. My twin.

No matter how famous or irritating or emotionally constipated he gets, I will always be the one standing beside him while he spirals in his three-piece suit that costs more than a semester at university.

I cross the room and gently tug at the collar of his shirt. “Snap out of it,” I tell him firmly. “You were nominated for goalie of the year. You’re making a speech at dinner later. Stop giving this woman more brain space than she deserves.” My hands are on my hips, bangles jingling. “What advice would you give me if the roles were reversed.”

“I’d say FUCK THAT GUY.”

“Exactly. Now come on, let’s go get you an award.”

The red carpet is absolute chaos. Reporters. Athletes in suits that cost more than my car. Influencers. Everyone is posing, everyone is glammed up. Diamonds. Expensive watches.

Egos that go on for miles…

Gio gets pulled toward the step-and-repeat while I hover to the side, smiling politely at anyone who glances my way. Clutching the purse he bought me that matches my dress.

I’m trying to be cool.

Trying not to gape.

Tryingveryhard not to trip in my heels.

And that’s when I see him.

Across the carpet, off to the side—leaning against a column like he’s allergic to attention but magnetic as hell—ishim.

Luca Babineaux.

I had just learned his name—he hasn’t been drafted yet, but my brother says he’s someone the coaches are looking at. Players have a way of knowing these things, and I like knowing things too, so my eyes go straight for him, drinking in the sight of him.

He’s tall.

Like—crazy tall.

Broad.

Ridiculously hot. His suit fits like it was made for his body and his hair is slicked back in a way that makes me irrationally thirsty. He’s laughing at something, smile flashing, and I swear, for a second, the entire awards show dims.

I go still.

My heart does a full-body lurch.

As if sensing the moment, his eyes flick toward me.

Hold.

Linger.

That single look is everything—awareness. Surprise. Interest.

The world tilts a little.

I forget about my heels. About the uncomfortable pair of Spanx I jammed my body into so I could fit into this dress. About the paparazzi shouting for Gio’s attention and the blinding flashes of light bouncing off glass and diamonds and status.

Luca Babineaux doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave or nod or offer some cocky little smirk like most guys might. No, he justwatchesme—eyes locked, like he’s flipping through some mental file to place me.

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