I hummed in disagreement. I stroked the inside of her thigh with my thumb, loving the way it tensed and flexed.
A server approached our table, and my hand lingered on Scarlett’s leg for an extra beat before I discreetly, reluctantly pulled away. Brooklyn and Vincent broke off their conversation to place their orders with the rest of us.
Beer, burgers, and chips. The dinner of champions.
Most pubs didn’t have servers, but we were seated in the dining area and it was the weekend. The Angry Boar only supplemented their bar service with waiter service during the busiest nights.
“So what’s your beef with Pessoa?” Vincent asked after our server left.
My glass paused halfway to my lips. “What?”
“Pessoa. Why did you shove him on the pitch? Even before he grabbed Scarlett, your vendetta seemed personal.”
Carina finally looked up from her phone while Scarlett stiffened. Waves of tension rolled off her rigid shoulders and white knuckles.
I finished taking a sip of my water and used the time to think.
I didn’t have a publicly known problem with Rafael. Should I respond with an edited version of the truth and admit I knew about Scarlett’s past with Pessoa? Or was their relationship too intimate a part of her history for her to have shared with a casual friend?
Because that was what Vincent assumed we were after Scarlett called him about the charity match on my behalf. Casual friends.
I settled for a vague yet believable answer. “He’s a wanker,” I said. “And he dives too much.”
Vincent snorted. “Yeah. He could win an Olympic gold medal in it.”
Scarlett’s tight-lipped mask splintered into a smirk, and I knew she was remembering the time when I said almost the exact same thing.
I squeezed her leg again, this time in warning.
“What about you?” I asked as she choked on her water. “Why do you hate him so much?”
Vincent hesitated and glanced at his sister before replying. “It’s a personal issue, but you’re right. He is a wanker.”
Unfortunately, my estimation of him inched up another notch. We’d overheard Rafael harassing Scarlett, but he didn’t know if I was privy to the details and he didn’t spill them without her explicit consent. His consideration for his sister was one of the few unimpeachable facets of his personality.
“Enough football talk. It’s boring,” Brooklyn said when our server returned with our drinks and food. “Let’s play a game. How about Truth or Dare?”
“No!” Scarlett and I shouted at the same time.
Carina coughed into her fist while Vincent’s eyebrows skyrocketed.
“I mean, I don’t want to do anything embarrassing in public,” Scarlett said. She pinned her friend with a hard stare. “You understand. Right?”
The last thing we needed was to inadvertently slip up during a drinking game.
“Uh, right.” Realization unfolded across Brooklyn’s face. “Fine. Let’s play something else.” Her smile returned in all its dazzling glory. “How do you guys feel about King’s Cup?”
Two hours and one deck of borrowed cards later (Brooklyn managed to charm even the uncharmable Mac into lending us the deck), we were drunk off our asses and laughing like we were longtime friends.
It was amazing how beer and the high of winning could smooth even the rockiest of histories.
“I asked around and found out how Simon injured his foot.” Vincent leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Guess.”
“He kicked a wall too hard.”
“No. It’s even stupider than that.” He lowered his voice. “He was assembling a bookcase and the thing toppled over onto his foot. He has to miss the first few matches of the season because of furniture.”
I burst into laughter. “Shut up.”
Simon played for Liverpool, so it was easy for us to make light of his situation. Part of me sympathized because injuries were nerve-wracking, but…his came from a bookcase, for Christ’s sake.
“I swear to God. That’s what I heard.” Vincent held up one hand, his grin wide.
Honestly, he wasn’t that bad. He was almost tolerable.
Or maybe that was the five pints of ale talking.
I finished my current pint and caught Scarlett watching us with a small smile. We’d shuffled seats an hour ago, so she was sitting in between Carina and Brooklyn while Vincent and I remained on opposite sides of the table.
Her rosy cheeks and glittering eyes betrayed her tipsiness, but her smile was pure, authentic Scarlett.
See?Best friends, she mouthed.
I shook my head. Just because Vincent and I sort of got along when we were drunk didn’t mean we were or ever would be best friends.
“That girl is looking at you like you’re a fucking Sunday roast.” Vincent’s observation dragged my attention away from her.
