Okay fine, maybe he doesn’t know we had a connection—and maybe she doesn’t know we had a connection, but how the hell am I supposed to find out for sure if he won’t give me her fucking phone number?

“Did she tell you not to give me her number?” There. I said it.

He hesitates, weighing his words. “I just told her I wasn’t going to.”

“So…does that mean she was asking about me?”

“No, jackass, it means I told True you wanted her number, then I told her I wasn’t giving it to you.”

What the fuck? “What did she say?”

Was she as outraged as I am? Did she want my number? Maybe I should tell him to pass it along, put the ball in her court instead of randomly messaging her out of the blue. I thought about dropping into her inbox on LinkedIn—the one place I haven’t tried contacting her—but that feels so juvenile, and I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake.

Maybe I should write it down for him just in case.

Wait, he has my freaking number—he used to text me all the damn time.

“She didn’t say anything.”

“But you asked her, so she had to have said something.”

Buzz spins around again. “Dude! Why do you care? You don’t even know my sister!”

Oh, but I do. In the biblical sense, if you catch my drift, but saying that out loud is going to get me punched in the face—I can see it in his eyes.

Anyway, he’s not behaving any more irrationally than I’ve behaved on behalf of my own sisters, so I try to cut him some slack.

I’m a patient man like that.

Mostly.

“We shared a moment,” I explain vaguely, doing my best not to sound like We shared a moment, wink-wink.

Buzz doesn’t look amused. “You shared a moment—what the fuck does that mean?”

Exactly what you think it means. “All I’m saying is we were able to talk at your wedding, and I think she’s cool. I’d love to get to know her better.”

“You think she’s cool? Cool,” he deadpans, uninterested. “Any guy who uses the plebian term cool to describe my sister isn’t getting her number.”

Did Buzz Wallace just use the word plebian?

But shit, he’s right—using cool to describe True did sound douchey and way too casual, and I don’t blame him for refusing me or getting pissed. That’s what brothers do.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” I’m trying to be casual about this, alright man? Cut me some slack.

I need to know why she bailed on me. Was it something I did? Was I horrible in bed? What scared her off? What if I do it to someone else? If it’s something I can fix—something I have control of—I want to know about it.

Also, it’s driving me insane that she ghosted me.

I need closure, dammit!

Every insecurity that comes with making yourself vulnerable only to find out you’re not good enough is rearing its ugly head. Did True not find me attractive once she saw me naked?

Did she only sleep with me out of pity?

On second thought, True Wallace wouldn’t have to pity-fuck anyone; she’s gorgeous and the sister of two of the most celebrated athletes in American history, for fuck’s sake.

Crap. I just swore twice.

Mi madre would have a fit. Probably smack me on the back of the head good and hard if she heard the voices in my head cussing a blue streak.

For good reason—but still.

She don’t fuck around.

There I go again…

The long, cold hallway comes to an end and we enter the team meeting room. I pause in the doorway, waiting for Buzz to take his place at a desk—normally we sit together, but he isn’t in the mood to play nice with me, and I instinctively know he wants me nowhere near him.

Surreptitiously, he glances my way, scowling, no way to avoid me considering we’re one of the first few to grab seats.

He looks over his shoulder as I pretend to mull over my seating options, acting as if I’m unsure where I want to sit, putting on a big show to make him think I’m not going to plunk down behind him so I can whisper in his ear while our coaches are talking.

I wait it out, let a few of our teammates meander in, throwing out greetings and head nods to men I haven’t seen in a few weeks, the holidays having broken up our routine. Gave our brains and bodies plenty of time to recharge and repair, our families time to spend with us.

Welp. Play time is over, and we’re back to the grind.

My ass falls into a chair in the second row directly behind Buzz so I can stare at the back of his head.

He twitches.

I smirk.

“Don’t talk to me,” he grumbles, still facing forward.

“I will.”

“I said don’t.”

I’ve known Buzz for five years—met him in college during a championship game in Florida where I was attending school on a scholarship during a night out after his team had won. Packed bar. Lots of beer.