Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

I turn to her and point the tongs at her. “You have to answer. It’s your thing.”

“I can’t.” She crosses herself.

My eyes narrow. “Giselle Riley, you aren’t even Catholic. What happened? Did it hurt?” Somehow I don’t think pain makes her squeal. She fell to her knees at the club and barely complained; she climbed down a flimsy ladder in the middle of a thunderstorm and never thought twice.

I turn the bacon while she pours the eggs into a hot pan, her face blank. “Hard or soft? I like them soft, but I can cook yours a little longer.”

Oh no, she won’t get out of this that easily.

“I like them any way you want. Now . . . why did you get half a butterfly at the base of your spine?”

She shoots me an evil eye. “You’re horrible, you know?”

“Tell me, or no bacon for you.”

“Fine! Earlier that year, in January, I was kind of seeing this guy, nothing serious. Big football fanatic. One night I went to his place to watch the national championship game between Ohio State and Georgia—”

I freeze and face her, realization dawning. “Holy shit. That was my game, my senior year. I caught three passes and won that game.” I preen a little, flexing my arms for her. “Did you like my tight body, little college girl?”

She rolls her eyes. “My date did. Quoted your stats from memory—whatever, he had a hard-on for OSU. I didn’t know who you were, just some player in a red-and-white jersey.”

“Number eighty-nine. Write that down. You’re coming to a game this year.”

“I know your jersey number.” Her face flushes a delicious pink color.

“So what you’re saying is you took one look at me, saw my ink, fell in love, and went out to get a matching tattoo.” I chuckle when she throws a piece of bacon at me, and I catch it in my mouth.

“I was inspired by your ink, okay, just a little, and it stuck with me when my birthday rolled around in August.”

I make her a plate, then make mine, and we sit at the island across from each other. “Why didn’t you finish it?”

“I had to push my pants down more than was comfortable so the artist could get the right spot. Then my friend left the room for a few minutes.” She shovels a forkful of eggs in and chews while I frown.

“What happened?”

Her silvery-blue eyes hold mine as she pushes up her glasses. “He set his tattoo machine down, put his hands on my ass, and squeezed so hard I saw stars. He held my arms down and tried to bite me there. I fought, elbowed him, fell out of the chair, and ran out.” Her lips twist. “You’ve got your mad face on. Told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“How far is Memphis? Three hours?” I calmly eat a slice of bacon, chewing hard. First the lacrosse dude from high school, and now this prick? I, Devon Walsh, swear to never hurt Giselle Riley.

“I hope you got your revenge,” I mutter.

“Went to the cops and filed a report. I didn’t want him assaulting anyone else, especially since most of the clientele were college kids.” She gets up and puts her plate in the sink, rinses it, then arranges it in the dishwasher. Pookie whines at her feet, and Giselle gives her a piece of bacon. “He got six months’ probation but lost his license in Tennessee. His defense was it was consensual.” She chews on her lips. “Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

She moves to walk past me, and I grab her hand. “Hey. We’re not all jerks.”

“I know,” she says, her face softening as we stare at each other. “Just some bad early experiences.”

“Did it mess with your head?”

“Maybe. I’m sure it added to the list of reasons not to date much, but we don’t have to worry about that much longer. Mike.” She gives me a thumbs-up. “Looked him up on Insta this morning. All his hair. Nice physique. It’s on.”

And just like that, I’m ready to rip heads off. “Yeah, well, what about caring for someone? Huh? Getting to know them before you bang them?”

She blinks. “This is your advice? You.”

I stiffen. “I just want the best for you. You deserve . . . love or whatever.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“So do you.”

I frown, shoving that sentiment away. I don’t let anyone close enough for love. Not anymore. “You just need a good guy.”

“He can be a bad boy—in bed.” She eases out of my grasp and walks to the den to grab her heels, leaving me uneasy. This Mike topic needs a serious conversation.

She stops at the mirror in the hall to let her hair down, only to finagle it into two plaited braids, tying them off with string she must have found in my kitchen junk drawer. She looks at herself for several seconds, frowning.