Page 42 of Wild Card 13

“Sorry.” She wasn't. Not even a little.

I tore off a piece of sticky bun and immediately understood why Lo had become emotionally attached to baking. Butter might genuinely solve problems.

Not all problems. Definitely not the six-foot-two blond disaster currently ruining my week.

But some.

“Apparently repeated missed obligations now require additional accountability measures,” I explained.

“Translation?” Freya asked.

“Translation,” Bea said dryly, reaching for her tea, “Buzz keeps forgetting he is a professional athlete.”

“It’s not fair,” I griped loudly into my coffee.

Both women looked at me.

I immediately regretted speaking. Because that had come out far too fast. Far too automatic.

Bea's eyebrow lifted. Dangerous. Knowing.

“Okay,” Freya said slowly.

I hated that tone immediately.

Her eyes narrowed. Then narrowed further. “Wait. You know him.”

“No.”

“That's a lie,” Freya giggled, tipping her coffee in my direction. “What was it? One-night stand? Did he ghost you or something?”

Bea stayed quiet.

I focused very carefully on my coffee. Cowardly and effective. Neither woman bought it. “Ty was my first boyfriend,” I said quietly.

The arena noise beyond the glass seemed to disappear.

Freya blinked. Then blinked again. “Buzz Burns?”

“There is only one in this building.”

Freya stared at me. Then at Bea. “You knew this?”

“I knew they dated in high school.” The smile that had appeared on Bea's face lingered for a second before she reached for another sticky bun. “Honestly,” she said, tearing off a piece, “this explains so much.”

My stomach immediately tightened. “Don't.”

“I'm not saying anything.”

Freya looked between us. “I feel like I'm missing so much context.”

“You are.”

“Rude.”

“Protective,” Bea corrected.

I shot her a look. She met it calmly. Just letting me know she understood the difference.