Page 69

"Cap, what the hell got into you?" Destiny asked, grinning as she unlaced her shoes. "You were on fire out there."

"Just felt good," I said, which was both true and a catastrophic understatement.

"Felt good?" Trish raised an eyebrow. "You looked possessed. In a good manner. Like you remembered you're one of the best point guards in the league and decided to prove it."

I shrugged, peeling off my purple and teal RUSSO 4 jersey and trying not to think about whether Harper had noticed the plays, whether she'd understood the difficulty of what I was doing, whether she'd been impressed.

Whether impressing her mattered to me all that much.

(It did. It absolutely did.)

“Great game, guys. Group's going to Sidebar to celebrate," Isla announced, appearing in the doorway with her usual post-game congratulations. "Everyone's invited. Mandatory fun. No excuses."

"I have early practice tomorrow," I started.

Isla stared back at me, unimpressed. “Cam. You just had the game of your season. You're coming. End of discussion."

I looked at Trish. She nodded. "You're coming. I'm not letting you hermit your way out of this."

Which is how I ended up at Sidebar an hour later, showered and changed into dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt, nursing a whiskey neat at the bar while my teammates celebrated around me.

Sidebar was the kind of bar that catered to the after-game crowd—exposed brick, low lighting, good music that was loud enough to feel atmospheric but quiet enough to allow conversation. The Fangs organization had reserved a section in the back, and our group had taken over with that comfortable chaos that only came from people who spent most of their time together.

I stood at the edge of it all, content to observe, letting the noise wash over me without participating. This was my role in social gatherings: present but peripheral, there in body while my mind ran through game footage and tomorrow's practice schedule.

Except I kept scanning the crowd.

Looking for wild curly hair and intense dark eyes and a smile that made my carefully controlled world tilt off its axis.

Looking for Harper.

She arrived twenty minutes later with Mia and Laine, and I tracked her movement through the bar. She was wearing high-waisted black leather pants that fit like a second skin and a sleeveless black bodysuit tucked into them, the neckline dipping low enough to show the curve of her collarbones and the smooth expanse of her chest. Her arms were bare, showing off her skin, and I had to actively stop myself from staring at the dip of fabric between her breasts like I'd never seen a woman's décolletage before.

Professional. I was a professional.

A professional who apparently had the self-control of a teenager.

Harper caught my eye across the bar, and I watched her say something to Mia before making her way toward me, weaving through the crowd with a confidence that made everyone unconsciously move out of her path.

"Good game, Captain," she said when she reached me, leaning against the bar close enough that I could smell her perfume, a light citrus scent that made me want to lean closer. It took every ounce of restraint to stay glued exactly where I was.

"You were watching," I replied as casually as I could muster. And failing.

"I was watching." She ordered a vodka soda from the bartender, then turned back to me with those dark eyes that saw far too much. "Couldn't exactly scroll Instagram when you were playing like that. Though, to be fair, I've been paying attention at the last few games too. I even watched your away games on TV."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Turns out basketball is actually interesting when you understand what's happening. Who knew?" She took a sip of her drink, watching me over the rim. "Also, when the players are, you know… exceptionally talented."

I felt heat creep up my neck. "That's generous."

"That's accurate. You were incredible out there, Cam. Like, genuinely incredible. Even I could see that, and I still don't fully understand what 'help-side defense' means."

"It's when—"

"I'm kidding. Laine explained it to me last week. Along with pick-and-rolls and why you touching your necklace during interviews isn't just superstition."

"It's not superstition. It's routine."