“Please. Like I’m scared of you.” Wright rolls his eyes just as Smith reaches out and whacks him across the back of his head. For once, I’m not the guy getting hit, and it feels nice not to be picked on.
“Hey! Be nice, or I’ll tell Coach,” Wright threatens.
“Real mature, honey.” Harper pats her husband’s cheek.
“I’m mature,” he mutters, which doesn’t sound mature at all. “Whatever. I’m getting a drink.” He rises from his chair.
“Do they have beer at this thing? I can’t take any more of this champagne,” Rhodes gripes, following behind Wright.
Their wives exchange glances and then go after them.
“So, when did this thing happen between you two?” asks Emilia, the team’s social media director and Smith’s girlfriend.
Scout gestures from herself to me. “Us?” Emilia nods, and my date barks out a laugh. “No. We’re not… No.”
It’s not her words that sting, because they’re not wrong; it’s her laugh—almost like she couldn’t fathom dating me, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Do I want her to want to date me? Or am I just spending so much time with her lately that she’s in my head?
“That’s right,” I say. “We’re not together.”
“No?” Greer asks from across the table, rolling the bottom of his cup around in circles over the table. “Hm.”
I scowl, not liking the sound that just came out of him.
“In that case,” he says loudly, rising to his feet. He extends his hand across the table…right to Scout. “May I have this dance?”
“You dance?” She stares at his outstretched hand.
“I took ballroom lessons for my mother’s third wedding.”
She glances at his hand again, then at him, and back at his hand. Finally, she shrugs. “Why not? Just nobody tell my niece I danced with the jackass.”
Greer smirks at her. “It’ll be our little secret.”
I hate his smirk, and I hate the way Scout smirks back.
I really hate that they have a secret.
Greer pulls Scout out onto the dance floor and tugs her so close her body is snug against his. I know for a fact it’s not ballroom etiquette because I took ballroom lessons too.
He nuzzles her neck, whispering something into her ear while his fingertips play along the cutout in the back of her dress. Scout throws her head back, laughing at something Greer says.
They look good together. Scout looks happy.
I should be happy she’s having a good time, should be glad tonight isn’t a complete disaster for her.
But I’m not happy because seeing Scout in Greer’s arms is making my blood boil. I hate it more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life.
And I hate that I’m not sure what the hell that’s supposed to mean.
“Dude, Miller…” Smith says, and I feel his hand clamp over my own.
I look down and see that my knuckles are turning white against the glass of vodka I’ve been sipping for the last two hours.
“Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?” Emilia asks.
I hesitate only a moment before nodding my head. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“But…”
I swallow, not answering because, from the knowing smile on her face, I’m not so sure I need to.
There isn’t anything going on with us.
But I…I think I want there to be.
“Want my advice, kid? Talk to her. Tell her how you feel,” Smith says, reading my mind. He looks over at his girlfriend. “It’s something I wish I had done a hell of a lot sooner.”
I’m out of my seat before I can realize what I’m doing.
I’m crossing the dance floor.
I’m shoving Greer out of the way, and I’m taking his spot.
Distantly, I hear him laugh, but I don’t pay him any attention.
All I can focus on is Scout, who is staring up at me with wide eyes as I pull her against me—breaking all ballroom rules myself. She lets out a tiny squeak but doesn’t protest the interruption.
I like that she doesn’t.
We glide across the floor, not missing a single step, moving in perfect sync with one another.
“This is unexpected,” she murmurs quietly.
“I took lessons, too.”
She tries to hide her smile, but I see it anyway.
I know how ridiculous I sound, how petty, how childish. But dammit, I don’t want Greer to dance with Scout. I don’t want him to flirt with her. I don’t want him to know what she feels like in his arms because I want all those things.
I want Scout.
I…
“Date me.”
She rears her head back, completely caught off guard by my words.
The feeling is mutual because I can’t believe I just said them.
“What?”
“Date me,” I repeat. “I mean…” I clear my throat. “Would you like to go on a date? With me, I mean.”
We’ve stopped moving. I’m not sure when that happened, but we have. Now we’re just standing here staring at one another.
And it’s fucking unbearable. With every second that ticks by, I feel more and more like a total moron.
Date me? Really? Fuck, it’s no wonder I’m still a virgin with dating skills like this.
I should take it back, should tell her to forget it…but I don’t want to do either of those things.
I have to say something, though, because this is doing nothing short of killing me.
“Scout, I—”
“Okay,” she says, and the words die on my tongue.
Now it’s me who leans back, surprised. “O…kay?” I draw the word out, making sure she said what I think she did.
She nods. “Yes. I’ll go on a date with you.”
“I…” I swallow down the excitement. “Okay. We’re going on a date.”
“Yep.”
“It’s going to be a good date,” I tell her, pulling her back in.
“Okay.”
We begin slowly moving to the music. “The best first date you’ve ever been on.”
“That so?”
“Yep. It’s going to—”
“Miller?” she interrupts.
“Hm?”
“Don’t make me regret this already.”
I laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
I firmly believe the only reason Scout is allowing me to drive her home is that she’s still a little tipsy from the champagne.
Well, that and I only booked the limo service for one way, so it was either me or an Uber.
She chose me.
“This is my place.” She points up at the apartment building in front of us.
I can see under the yellow streetlights that it’s a little run down, but it’s not as if I was expecting to drop her off at a mansion or anything.
“It’s not much,” she says like she knows what I’m thinking. “But it’s home.” She fidgets with the small wristlet purse she brought. “I, uh, live with Stevie.”
“You live with your sister?” She winces. “Are you embarrassed by that? Because you don’t have to be. The first year I was with the Comets, I lived with my coach. Now that’s embarrassing. Talk about awkward when you have to masturbate.” Oh fuck. “I mean, not that I masturbate. I—”