Page 7 of Line Change

He’s alone, one hand in his pocket, looking through the leaves at the room.

I should leave him there. He said something nice because he has media training and a functioning sense of self-preservation. He doesn’t need me following him into a corner to make it weird.

I’ve been on my best behavior for several hours, though, and it’s starting to chafe worse than the suit.

A waiter passes before I reach the trees. I take two flutes of champagne and hold one out to Pope.

He looks at the glass, then at me. “What do you want?”

I smirk. The glare should make me want to bother somebody else. Instead, a quick spark of attraction catches low in my stomach. Bad.

Pope is straight, and I don’t get involved with teammates. That’s a sure recipe for blowing up a line, a locker room, or both. It doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun.

I push the champagne closer until he takes it. “That was touching.”

Pope takes a drink without looking away from me. “What was?”

“Your speech about how great I am.”

Pope lowers the glass. “That’s not what I said.”

“You used my name. I heard the important part.”

His eyes stay on me as he drinks again. “Did the press office write that for you?” I ask. “You sounded almost sincere.”

“I was sincere.”

I had another answer ready. It disappears.

Pope lowers the glass. He’s close enough that I can see the blue mixed into the gray of his eyes. I knew they were blue-gray. His player photo is six feet tall outside the arena now. I didn’t know the blue sits near the center.

“We’ve won one game,” I say.

“You can still play.”

I know I can play, and I don’t need Ben Pope to tell me. I like that he did anyway.

“Careful,” I say. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was.”

I step closer. Pope doesn’t move. The corner isn’t big enough for both of us unless one of us gives up some space, and apparently neither of us plans to. His tie hangs between us, perfectly centered against his shirt, so I catch the end of it between my fingers.

I expect him to jerk back. Maybe tell me to fuck off. At the very least, he should look annoyed. He goes completely still.

His eyes drop to my hand. I rub the fabric between my thumb and forefinger, then slide my fingers up an inch. His throat moves above the knot.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was into this. But Pope is straight, so he must be waiting for me to finish being an asshole.

“Are you always this stiff?” I ask.

A low sound comes out of him. Not a word. Almost a growl. It goes straight to my cock.

Someone at the nearest table bursts out laughing. The whole group joins in, loud enough to cut through whatever the fuck just happened behind the trees.

I let go of Pope’s tie and step back. His fingers are tight around the stem of the champagne flute.

I walk away before I do something stupid. Halfway back to the poker table, it hits me that Pope won that round.