Page 36 of The Wrong Game

Roy said I was an idiot.

Neither of them were wrong.

I knew it was stupid. I knew it had the potential to blow up in my face. But none of that mattered, because the one thing I knew more than anything was that I wasn’t ready to let Gemma go.

“You’re probably right,” I conceded. But then, I smiled, cutting open a box of Blue Moon with my cutter. “But sheissuper fucking adorable when she’s angry, so maybe this is a win-win for me.”

Doc laughed.

We fell into our routine then, stocking the coolers, pulling out the bar mats, setting up the old bar games, getting the televisions situated on the right channels. The entire time, Doc hummed along to Bob Dylan, and I thought of Gemma.

I’d never had a woman infuriate me so much within the first week of knowing her.

She kicked me out with a smile on her face, after a night where I knew for a fact that she’d had just as much fun as I had. Still, I kind of loved it.

Gemma was challenging.

She had a plan, and she proved to me the next morning that she was serious about sticking with it. When she sent me the screenshot of the guy she’dalreadylined up for the next game — less than twelve hours after I’d left her place — it took everything in me not to crush my phone in the death grip I had.

I didn’t respond, but that didn’t mean I gave up.

NowIhad a plan, too.

There was a fat chance in hell that I’d letBenjaminget my girl. Yeah, I’d only had one night with her but I felt that kind of possessiveness, anyway. I wasn’t done with Gemma. I was far from it.

And maybe she didn’t want to admit it, but she was far from done with me, too.

“Oh, hey, Doc,” I said once the citrus wedges were cut. “Didn’t you want to talk to me about something?”

He wiped his brow with a rag, chest heaving a little from pulling all the barstools down. “What?”

“At dinner,” I reminded him. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

Doc blinked, wiping the rag down his face this time. “Oh, it’s nothing that can’t wait. I’ll talk to you about it next week.”

“You sure?” I asked, watching him. “I mean, I’m here now. Doors don’t open for another half hour.”

“I’m sure. I’ve got some paperwork to handle in the back. Can you finish up out here?”

He wouldn’t look at me, and my stomach dropped to the floor at what that might mean. Doc was an honorable man. He looked you in the eyes when he talked to you — always.

I had a feeling that what he had to tell me wasn’t good.

I had a feeling it had something to do with my paycheck.

If he did have to let me go, it would be harder on Doc than it would be on me. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to do it yet.

“Alright,” I conceded with a nod. “Yeah, I can take care of this. Go ahead.”

Doc waved his rag in thanks, tossing it over his shoulder before he headed to the back office.

I wanted to know what he had to say, but there was no rushing Doc. He was like my dad in that respect, and I knew that when he was ready, he’d have the conversation with me — no matter how tough.

So, I filed those thoughts away, focusing instead on balancing the till in my drawer for the night. And as the pre-game show came on for the Thursday night game, the Kansas City Chiefs versus the Cleveland Browns, I couldn’t help but smile thinking about a different game that would come on Sunday.

Oh, Gemma.

I hope you’re ready to play.