Page 79 of The Games We Play

I’ve become what I despised.

And I hate myself for it.

I will myself to tell him the truth. To confess. Spark’s the only person besides Michael who loves me as I am. And once I tell him, he won’t look at me like I’m precious anymore.

Despite the storm whirled up inside me, I take his hand. It feels solid. Like a lifeline. Something to hold on to. An anchor to my storm.

I force a smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Two hours later, we’re sitting outside the clubhouse, the scent of barbecue fills the air, and my mood hasn’t lightened. Sure, I’ve got a good mask on. It’s the one I wear at school when the kids I love dearly have been little shits. I’m sitting with a group of old ladies, but the three beers I’ve drunk haven’t even begun to take the edge off.

“So, how do you enjoy teaching?” Gwen asks. It’s hard to believe she’s the twin sister of King, the president, whose tongue is currently three feet down the throat of a lithe, tall woman.

“I love it and hate it. Time with children, teaching those little fingers and hands and minds and bodies to be excited about learning, is incredible. But the politics and contracts and lack of funds and the occasional entitled parent drive me bonkers at times.”

Tessa smiles. “I remember when I had three kids under five. Made me bow down to anyone who chose to spend so much time with kids on a daily basis.”

Marlie sighs. “We would have loved kids. We just couldn’t have ’em. Decided we’d just be the best aunt and uncle we could be to Rubble’s nieces and nephews. What about you, Iris? Do you want kids?”

I can’t help but look over at Spark as she asks. He’s in a huddle with Bates and Halo, who called me “Irish.”

Saint told me it took balls to enter the clubhouse.

I think they like me, but there will always be distance between us because of who I am.

They don’t trust the Irish with good reason.

I don’t belong here.

Yet. The word is a whisper, but I dismiss it.

“Spark does,” Gwen says. “I’ve seen him with the kids when there are family days.”

“Remember how Spark put Wrinkle’s kid to sleep by laying the kid out over his forearm, head in his palm? That baby slept for two hours like that, and Spark just went about his business with the kid in tow.”

I don’t want to think about Spark as a father. I don’t want to think about what a good man he is. Or how friendly these women have been to me. I don’t want to be around the other women who throw themselves at the men, including Spark, even though he appears to be brushing them off. They don’t have the same boundaries I do.

I want to tell them,You don’t hit on someone else’s man. But Spark isn’t really mine.

Shit. He is. My head’s a mess.

I’ve never felt so trapped. So terrified that my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. Maybe this is what a silent panic attack feels like.

If I tell Spark what is wrong, I risk the trust of his club.

If I tell Cillian I know about the accident, I risk Michael’s support.

“Would you excuse me?” I say, before making my way to the rear door of the clubhouse. My knees wobble as light spins in my peripheral vision.

I pass Spark, who playfully reaches for my hand and twirls me into his arms.

“Pussy,” Bates mutters.

“Brave thing to say in front of Irish,” Halo says.

Bates shrugs as they walk away. “Fair point.”

“You okay?” Spark asks, kissing the side of my neck. He’s leaning on the edge of a picnic table and draws me between his legs. The move is sweet, his lips hot against my skin.