He lists the last four digits of his phone number and I shoot him my contact information.

“Ah, I see how it works,” says Tobias. “Steal from the lady. Start a fight during the orgy and still be the one to win her number. I’ve been going about this all wrong.”

“Apparently we both have,” Banks tacks on, dryly.

“See you all tomorrow,” I toss over my shoulder, not quite able to stop the smile that blooms on my face. But it fades in degrees when I find Karina watching me from the opposite end of the hall. She doesn’t look angry. No. Although she does raise an eyebrow at my askew clothing, not to mention the bickering male voices coming from the kitchen behind me. And while she doesn’t say it out loud, I can hear her reminding me about the article she suggested I write, instead of the deputy mayor/union boss exposé.

A week in the life of a woman in a quad.

After emerging from the kitchen looking like I bumped into a tornado, it’s going to be very hard to deny that I am in some kind of entanglement with them.

But a relationship?

No way. Nah. Never.

Chapter Seven

Banks

I’m not one hundred percent focused on practice. Closer to forty.

That much is obvious when I find my players breakdancing in the middle of the pitch when they’re supposed to be running a long passing drill. I fumble my whistle slightly on the way to putting it in my mouth, my clumsiness unusual. I issue the two, shrill staccato blows that my team is well acquainted with. It means I’m not happy.

“If you’ve got so much energy,” I shout across the freshly manicured grass. “You’ll have no problem running stadiums. Last man back runs it a third time.”

Another blow of the whistle cuts through their groans, but they waste no time sprinting off toward the stands, running up and down each row of stairs in a haphazard line. Truthfully, it’s not their fault I can’t concentrate enough to run a decent practice session today.

It’s her fault. Elise’s. Theirs, too.

Might as well get used to Gabe and Tobias. They are clearly as invested as I am.

And Jesus, I am very invested. It’s Saturday. Tonight is the mayor’s reelection gala. I’m attending as a designated fifth wheel. I should be exasperated or humiliated by my willingness to attend a date Elise is having with someone else, yet I find myself checking the time on my phone every eight minutes, approximately. Anxiously waiting to see her again.

My players hit their second round of stadiums, drawing my eye to the stands. Normally, the steep collection of royal blue seats is something I avoid. When I emerge from the locker room at the beginning of a match, I peruse the family section to determine who is there. After that, I refuse to glance at the crowd, whether they are cheering, sitting in silence or jeering the referee. There is no one there for me. I don’t need to be reminded of that when I’m trying to focus on winning the match.