Page 21 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate

“Yup.”

“And that’s the chapel where people get married.”

For some reason the room heats, and I jerk my gaze away. I land on the minibar and hurry toward it.

I find a bottle of vodka, then pour some into two glasses. I hand one to Noah, and our fingers briefly touch. “Here you go.”

He takes it from me, giving me his happy smile, the one I saw the first day we met, the one I’ve missed ever since.

I take a long sip, then watch as Noah does the same. He throws his head back, and I watch his Adam’s apple move. There’s a space between the collar of his shirt, and his neck, a space that the average tailor might find irritating, but which for some reason I find fascinating.

I move my gaze to the floor-to-ceiling windows that take up three panels instead. Las Vegas glitters below us.

The tension swirls in the air again. Noah must wonder why I dragged him up here. Maybe he did want to go dancing with the rest of the team. Maybe I’ve kept him from having a good time on one of the rare days when we can let loose.

The thought makes me sad for some reason, and I pour more vodka into my glass, then fill Noah’s.

“So you, um, wanted to talk?” Noah asks.

“Yes.” I give an authoritative nod, the kind my dad makes all the time.

Noah waits expectantly, and I sigh.

“I wanted to rant about Evan and Vinnie. But they are cool dudes, even if I hated what happened.”

A ruddy color descends over Noah’s cheeks. He lowers his gaze, and I notice how long his lashes are. Madison would be jealous. I shake my head, because there’s no reason for me to think about Noah and Madison, because Madison is my neighbor who might become something with me, and Noah is obviously completely different.

“Coach shouldn’t have called us in to speak to HR,” I continue, because I’d much rather focus on that outrage than why I keep glancing at Noah or why I’m happy to be alone inmy room with him.

“I’m not homophobic,” Noah says.

“Of course, you’re not,” I say, feeling a thrill move through my body. Post-game elation probably. There’s no other reason that statement should feel important. “You were surprised.”

“Yeah.” Noah downs his drink, and I top both of ours.

It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be drinking so much, but we don’t get these nights off with no games the next day that often.

Giddiness fills me. The world sparkles below.

“Vinnie and Evan didn’t even speak to each other for years,” I confess.

Noah’s eyes widen slightly.

“Your eyes are very green,” I tell him.

His lips swerve upward. I want to tell him they’re very pink, but there’s some reason I’m not supposed to tell him that. I frown, wondering what it is.

“They shouldn’t criticize you,” I say. “And they shouldn’t have gotten Coach involved.”

“Coach happened to be there,” Noah says.

I shrug. “Whatever. The point is that we’re not homophobic.”

Noah nods.

I glance at the sparkling buildings below, and the bright, neon-light adorned chapel.

“We could get married,” I say. “Because we’re not homophobic.”