Page 11 of Goal Line
“You going to tell me what happened?”
I look back at her, noting the way her dark hair contrasts with her porcelain skin, the way her dark eyes, framed in long lashes, focus on me, searching for any sign that I’m not actually okay.
As I consider how in the world I can explain what happened without making her feel responsible, a light flush creeps across her cheeks, making me wonder if she interprets my pause as annoyance over the question.
“Yeah. I choked. I wasn’t expecting to play, and I guess I wasn’t in the right headspace.”
“You didn’t look like yourself out there,” she says. “At all.”
“Didn’t feel like myself.”
“Luke,” she says with a sigh. “Was it because you were worried about me?”
“Pfft. You flatter yourself.” I roll my eyes as I use the phrase we both constantly employ to remind each other that this is a friendship, and no one is catching feelings. It started as a joke before our senior prom, and it’s stuck with us all these years.
“Do I? I’d hate to think I was the cause of you losing that game.”
“Then don’t. Because you weren’t.” The only thing morehorrifying than her thinking that I lost the game because I wasn’t prepared to play would be her knowing the truth: I was so busy worrying about her that I didn’t take care of my team. It’s not a fact I’m proud of and it’s not something I can share with her or anyone else, especially not my family or teammates.
From how her shoulders tense, I can tell she’s frustrated that I won’t say more. I’m wondering if I should give in and at least tell her how worried I was when the waitress returns with my beer and Eva’s water. “Do you, by any chance, have any decent mocktails?” I ask.
“Not on the menu,” she says, “but I can ask the bartender if he can make something. What were you thinking?”
I glance at Eva and raise an eyebrow. “What sounds good?”
She shakes her head, but her lips part in a small smile. “Something fruity? I don’t know, surprise me.”
“See,” I say as the waitress heads inside to the bar, “that wasn’t so hard.”
“That’s what she said,” Eva says with a little smirk. I roll my eyes, refusing to dignify the barb with a response—because talking about how hard my dick gets isnotsomething I do with my best friend.
“Imeantthat asking for what you want isn’t hard.”
Eva licks her lower lip, pulling it between her teeth. I witness her face changing as multiple thoughts travel through her head. “I’m working on it, okay?”
I’ve always given Eva shit for not being demanding enough. While the world may take one look at her cool exterior and assume she’s a diva, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Eva knows her job is to perform at an elite level,and she’s been so busy doing that since high school that I frequently worry she’s forgotten how to actuallylive.
“Hey!” Tucker’s booming voice comes from behind our table. “If it isn’t Baby Hartmann and his sidekick.” I groan at the nickname I’ll never grow out of.
“Hey, boss,” I say as I stand to give my brother a one-armed hug—the kind that saysHey, I like you, but we’re notthatclose.It’s the same greeting my brothers and I have always given each other, but out of all of them, I like Tucker the most.
For nine years before I came along, he played the part of the amiable middle-child who knew how to placate our rigid and demanding oldest brother, Preston, and keep his little brother, Tristan, in line. By the time I was born, my brothers were already the Hartmann legacy triumvirate, and I became Baby Hartmann.
“Don’t be a dick to Eva,” I mutter to Tucker. He pulls back and gives me that lazy smile, as if to sayI’m never a dick.It’s amazing the conversations we can have without uttering a word.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, turning toward Eva and bending down to give her a kiss on the cheek.
I have to remind myself that, of course, he’s going to kiss her hello—she’s practically family. He’s not doing it to piss me off. Or at least, I don’t think he is.
“So,” Tucker says, reaching behind him to pull up an empty chair to our table. “What are you kids up to?” And when he plops down in that seat, leaning back and crossing an ankle over his opposite knee, I know that our private dinner—our chance to catch up—just ended.
Next time, I’m insisting we get out of our hometown.
Chapter Six
EVA
Sitting on the top level of the Boston Rebels parking garage in my dad’s Jeep with the top down, I soak up the late-afternoon sun. It’s shockingly pleasant for mid-June—not dry heat like Los Angeles has, but not oppressively humid like Boston can get once July rolls around.
