Page 98 of Triple Play
The next two hours are torture.
Teddy insists on cooking while interrogating all of us about school, hockey, my grades, whether I’m sleeping enough, eating enough, studying too much, going out too much. He’s in full protective brother mode and it’s suffocating.
The guys are trying. They really are. But Jordie keeps making eyes at me from across the kitchen. Wyatt’s fingers brush mineevery time he passes. And Grant won’t look at me at all, which is somehow worse.
By the time we sit down for dinner, I’m wound so tight I might snap.
Teddy’s at the head of the table—of course. I’m on his right. Grant across from me. Jordie and Wyatt on either side of me.
“This looks great, Teddy,” I say, cutting into my steak with more force than necessary.
“Mom’s recipe.” He’s watching me like he’s cataloging every micro-expression. “So, Ellie. How’s the pre-med program treating you?”
“It’s fine.”
“Just fine?”
“It’s good. Great. Challenging but good.”
Under the table, someone’s foot finds mine. Jordie, based on the angle. He’s smirking into his beer.
“And you’re staying focused? Not letting anything distract you?”
“I’m very focused.”
Jordie’s foot slides up my calf. Slowly. Deliberately.
I kick him. He doesn’t stop.
“Because med school applications are coming up,” Teddy continues. “You need to keep your grades perfect. No room for error.”
“I know, Teddy.”
“No partying. No drama.” His eyes flick to Grant, then away. “No complications.”
Grant’s grip on his fork tightens. “She’s an adult, Teddy. She can handle her own life.”
“I’m just making sure—”
“I’m fine,” I interrupt, my voice sharper than I intend. “Can we please talk about something other than my GPA?”
Jordie presses one hand between my thighs, and I’m going to murder him. I widen my legs slightly—permission or warning, I’m not sure which—and his eyes darken.
Wyatt notices. His hand finds my knee under the table, squeezes once. Grounding. But then his fingers start tracing patterns on my inner thigh and I realize grounding isn’t his intention.
I take a long drink of water. Try to focus on Teddy’s story about work. Something about a client and a contract. I’m not processing words.
Because Wyatt’s hand is sliding higher. Slowly. Testing.
And Jordie’s still got his hand pressed between my legs, adding pressure that’s making it hard to breathe normally.
I’m going to kill them both.
Or come at the dinner table in front of my brother.
One or the other.
I reach under the table, find Jordie’s thigh, dig my nails in hard enough to leave marks. He doesn’t even flinch. Just grins wider.
