Page 68 of Arrogant Puck

“I’m happy to have a friend like you, Slater,” I continue, trying to lighten the mood. “Let me help your hip. Lay down.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or disappointment—but then he moves to the center of the bed and lies down on his back.

I shift to kneel beside him, placing my hands on his hip to assess the tension. It’s only when I lean forward to apply pressure that I realize I’m not wearing a bra under my tank top. The loose fabric gapes slightly, and I can feel his eyes on me.

I should be embarrassed, should probably grab a sweatshirt or something. But I’m a professional, and this is what I do. I continue the stretches, working through his hip flexors.

After a few minutes, he sits up.

“Friends, huh?” he says, and there’s something sharp in his voice.

“Friends?” I repeat, confused by the sudden shift in his mood.

He stands and heads for the door without another word, leaving me sitting on the bed with my hands still positioned like I’m treating a patient who’s no longer there.

The door closes with a soft click, and I’m left staring at the space where he was, not knowing what to do with myself.

Is he mad? Did I say something wrong?

I finish my lunch alone, replaying the conversation over and over, trying to understand what just happened and why my chest feels tight with something that might be disappointment.

If we can’t be friends, then we can’t be anything.

Chapter 26

Friends?

The word echoes in my head like a fucking curse as I storm down the hotel hallway to my room. She wants to be friends? What the hell have I been doing to make her think I only want to be friends?

Or is this her way of friend-zoning me?

I slam the keycard into the reader harder than necessary and push into the room I’m sharing with Mitchell. He’s sprawled on one of the beds, scrolling through his phone.

“You look like you want to murder someone,” he observes without looking up.

“Maybe I do.”

One thing about me—I make my intentions very clear. I don’t play games, I don’t hint around, I don’t do subtle. When I want something, I go after it directly. So, the fact that Sage issomehow misreading everything I’ve done for her pisses me off beyond reason.

I’ve brought her into my house, my bedroom, my sanctuary. I’ve let her see parts of me that no one else has access to. I’ve been protective, possessive, territorial—all the things that should make it crystal fucking clear that I want more than friendship.

And she calls me her friend.

“You getting ready for the game or just going to stand there brooding?” Mitchell asks.

I grab my gear bag and start pulling out my equipment with more force than necessary. “I’m going to play like hell tonight.”

“Good. We need it.”

Mitchell has no idea. I’m going to channel every ounce of frustration, every bit of rage at being friend-zoned by the one and only woman I have ever felt anything for, and I’m going to take it out on Chicago.

The bus ride to the stadium is torture. Sage sits up front with the coaches, professional and untouchable, while I’m stuck in the back with the team. Every time I catch a glimpse of her, that word plays on repeat in my head.

Friends.

Fucking friends.

She has no idea what she’s unleashed. The demons I keep locked away when I’m around her? They’re out to play tonight, because I’m not about to let her think she can friend-zone me and walk away unscathed.

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