Caleb Bradley is Iris’s boyfriend? It couldn’t be worse. I hated the idea of the guy lucky enough to have Iris before. Now I hate the actual guy. The one everyone calls “the golden boy” is, from my experience, an asshole. He certainly doesn’t deserve the girl I met last night. I’ve never envied his family’s money or all the attention the media showered on him. I’ve never envied the advantages he’s had, but now he has her. I envy him that. It boils under my skin and churns in my gut.
“Good game.” I fix my eyes on his face so I don’t have to look at Iris.
“You, too.” Stony blue eyes collide with mine. Bitterness twists his lips. “Congratulations.”
It’s the most grudging congrats I’ve ever heard, but I can’t blame him. No one wants to see the winner so soon after losing.
“You know my girlfriend?” His eyes connect dots between Iris and me, suspicion laced tightly into the words.
When I finally look at her, the guard over her eyes that dropped so quickly last night is back. I’d almost forgotten it ever existed. Is it back because of me? Or because of him? I have no idea how she wants to play this. Nothing happened last night. Not because I didn’t want it to, but because she stopped it.
For him.
For a moment, I want to ruin it. To wreck their relationship by planting doubts in his mind. It’s a passing thought I won’t follow through on. That’s not how you win a girl like Iris.
“We met last night at a bar.” Her voice is even. Her eyes, when they meet his, are clear.
“At a bar?” A frown jerks his eyebrows together. “What the hell?”
“I wanted to see the Lakers game,” she says with measured patience, “and the hotel wasn’t carrying it. So, I went to the bar around the corner to watch.”
“We ran into each other there,” I finish for her. “Just talked for a little while. No big deal.”
“Right. No big deal.” Her eyes meet mine for a charged second before swinging back to Caleb. “I hadn’t had a chance to tell you.”
“Well, you won the game, West.” There’s a phony lightness to Caleb’s voice while his eyes remain flinty. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to win my girl, too.”
“Oh, you’re not that insecure, are you, Bradley?” I deliberately relax my posture, sliding my hands into my pockets and rocking back on my heels, laying a wide winner’s smile on him. “If she doesn’t want to be won, she won’t be.”
“She doesn’t want to be.” He strips all the lightness from his voice, and if his eyes were stony before, now his whole face is granite. The arm around her waist stiffens to steel.
“Both of you, please stop.” Iris exhales sharply, her words, soft but firm, refereeing the tension snarling between Caleb and me. “Caleb, we just talked.”
His face broadcasts his displeasure. Seeing his hand spread over Iris’s waist, mine might, too. Asshole.
I’ve known him since the eighth grade. Most guys don’t just stumble into an NBA career. They pursue it relentlessly for years. We started attending the same preparatory camps and tournaments years ago, and though everyone’s fawned all over him, he and I have never clicked. Dirty plays when he thought no one was looking, jockeying for positions, whining when he lost and boasting when he won—those are things that have kept us from being friends. Even though the press constantly compares us and pits us against each other, the hostility has never been open . . . until now.