Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

Our eyes cling.

I drop my gaze.

Dammit.

He’s still amazingly hot.

I sneak another glance from behind Topher’s shoulder. Jack’s face has that scruffy look, and maybe those are dark circles under his eyes, but it’s dim in the gym. We need new overhead lights too. Half of them work, half don’t.

“Finer than frog hair,” Topher murmurs with awe in his voice.

“Traitor,” I mutter.

“And those eyes. They glitter like topaz. No wonder you rode that stallion.”

I elbow him hard.

He grunts. “Sorry. I hate him—for you. I’m team Elle all the way.”

Unhappiness at those words washes over me. “No, don’t hate him. Too many people do, and he . . . he doesn’t deserve it.” I think about that story he told me about his scar. How hard it must have been to have lost his mom and then take the life of another person. I can’t imagine the violence of it, the anguish, the aftermath that came with it. I grew up with stability and so much love—he didn’t.

Topher puts an arm around me, watching my face. “Regrets, Elle?”

Yeah. I wish I kissed him one more time—one of those breathy make-out kisses he does so well—so I could play it back in my head for the next few years.

“No. He stuck to his guns. And I did too.”

“Hmm.”

I shoot him a look. “I have principles. He reduced sex to a professional transaction. He wants a regular hookup without giving anything of himself. I can’t do that. I’d be the one crying when he got tired of me.”

“Nobody gets tired of you.”

I lean on him, emotion clogging my throat. “Topher, the men I fall for always leave.” I dart a look at him. “Not that I fell for him or anything.”

“Mohawk has entered,” Topher adds as we see Devon come in the door behind Jack. He’s wearing a black shirt with a skull on it, a studded belt, and dark jeans.

Realization dawns, the enormity landing hard on my chest now that the shock has worn off. “I’m going to be seeing a lot of Jack for the next few weeks.”

“Yeppers. Close proximity. Kissing bits. Lovemaking scenes. Death scenes. Crying. Lot of star-crossed-lovers romantic shit.”

“This is going to be hell,” I mutter as both men stalk toward us.

“Feels like fate to me,” he murmurs. “I mean, have you actually thought about the odds of you meeting him at his restaurant, then the club, plus the Timmy connection? Destiny is pushing you together.”

I sigh. “Destiny is a bitch. I want to slap her. You need to lay off the romance novels, Topher.”

Devon jogs over to me, outpacing Jack, who is hanging back to talk to Timmy.

He runs a glance over my Chucks, high ponytail, leggings, and baggy NYU sweatshirt. “We meet again, pretty girl. I sure have missed you. When are you going to come back to my club? VIP is always open for you.”

I adjust my white glasses and smile. He was sweet to me at the club, and he totally reminds me of Topher, only straight.

“Oh, shut up, and give me a hug,” I say, and he grins and swings me around. “Guess I still owe you for that bet.”

“You can make it up to me some other way soon.” He winks.

“I’ll thump you.” I punch him on the shoulder, and he rubs it like it hurt, grinning.

After I introduce him to Topher, they shake hands briskly. “Nice to meet you,” Devon says. “I play with Jack. Wide receiver. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

I roll my eyes.

“Oh, I know who you are. This one doesn’t watch TV”—Topher points at me—“but I catch a game now and then.”

Jack approaches us, and I can’t help but eat him up, the way he moves, the grace of his body.

He stops just outside our little circle, and for a moment, I see uncertainty on his face.

Devon turns to him. “Dude. Found your Juliet. Yeah, Timmy told us.” He flashes me a smile. “Guess you know who Romeo is. My number one man is going to rock this play.” He slaps Jack on the back, getting a grimace in return.

Jack looks at me, those golden eyes holding mine until I can’t look away. I feel pinned by the intensity of them, caught and entranced.

I convinced myself we were done, and now here he is, making me feel things I shouldn’t. Damn those butterflies. I squash them down.

“Elena. How are you?”

The rumble of that cool, husky tone slides over me. I take a deep breath.

He’s being polite. A little standoffish.

Fine, that’s how we’ll play this.

“Super. You?”

He smiles faintly. “Super.”

He takes in the room, unease on his features. “What do we do now?”

Topher points to the front of the stage. “You missed auditions, but this is where the magic happens. We’re doing a modern version of Romeo and Juliet. More Baz Luhrmann than old-school Shakespeare, gangsters with guns and black outfits. We won’t get to wear tights, and I’m a little disappointed.”