“Yeah?” Vincent’s eyes narrowed. He obviously didn’t appreciate getting bossed around. “How are you going to make us leave?”
Her smile dripped with sugar. “Stay and find out.”
They stood toe to toe, their expressions stamped with defiance. The air sparked with challenge, but after a tense, drawn-out stare down, Vincent jerked his gaze away from her and stormed down the hall. He didn’t say a word as he left.
“That’s what I thought.” Brooklyn arched an eyebrow at me. “Your turn, lover boy.”
I didn’t argue—I owed her for telling me about Scarlett’s hospitalization and for slapping some sense into us, figuratively speaking.
I headed down the hall after Vincent, and we walked in silence until we reached a quiet alcove next to the vending machines. The bulky black boxes blocked us from view of the main hall and afforded us a small degree of privacy.
We leaned side by side against the wall, our bodies vibrating with lingering resentment.
“I can’t believe you’re dating my sister.” Vincent stared straight ahead, his jaw grinding. “I knew you would try to pull that shit while I was gone. I was a fool to think otherwise. I never should’ve left her alone with you.”
“You think I wanted this to happen when I first found out who she was? She’s a DuBois. I thought you all sucked.”
Vincent snorted.
“I told you, none of this was planned,” I said. “It just happened.”
“Right. You just happened to fall into bed with my sister.” He turned to face me, his cheekbones taut with suspicion. “Did you do it to get back at me? So you could rub your relationship in my face?”
My temper ignited again. “First, we didn’t just fall into bed. Second, not everything is about you,” I snapped. “If I wanted to rub it in your face, I would’ve told you the second you were back in London. Hell, I would’ve sent a carrier pigeon to break the news to you while you were gone. That would make sense. Trying to hide it from you doesn’t. Of course, I can’t blame you for not connecting those dots considering your brain is the size of a peanut and your common sense is floating at the bottom of the Seine somewhere.”
Vincent’s nostrils flared. “Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!” I was so tired of his shit. I felt bad about fighting with him in front of Scarlett, but she wasn’t here right now. “You might think the world revolves around you, but Scarlett is her own person. She confides in you because she respects you—God knows why—and she cares about you, not because she has to. And I think you’re doing her a great bloody disservice to insinuate I’m only interested in her because she’s your sister and not because she’s incredible on her own. She’s smart, beautiful, talented, funny…believe me when I say her relation to you is her biggest con.” I paused. “That and her cooking.”
Vincent stared at me, at a loss for words.
Several beats passed before he finally responded. “She is a shit cook,” he muttered. “That’s why we always order takeaway when we eat together.”
I allowed myself a tiny scoff as we lapsed into another brooding silence.
My pulse pounded from the force of my rant, but now that I’d gotten it off my chest, I could think more clearly. Our arguments were great for blowing off steam, but they weren’t getting us anywhere because they didn’t address the root of the issue.
“Look,” I said. “I know I’m not your first choice when it comes to boyfriends for Scarlett—”
“You’re not my second, third, or fourth choice either.”
I ignored his petulant grumble and continued. “But I care about her more than anyone else in the world, and I don’t want you to blame her for any of this. She hated lying to you, but she was so worried about your career that she didn’t want to just drop the news on you.”
Vincent’s brows drew together. “What the hell does your relationship have to do with my career?”
“She was worried that if you found out, it would make things worse between us and affect our game. She knows what Coach said about benching us if we couldn’t work together. She didn’t want to add to the problem.”
He huffed out a long breath. “Right.”
The initial thoughtless, instinct-driven flames of our wrath had died down, leaving us drained. Brooklyn had basically sent us to time-out, but we’d needed it.
“I don’t doubt you care about her,” Vincent said. “The fact you skipped a match against Holchester to be with her proves that. But this isn’t about your feelings toward her. It’s about honesty. You both lied to me.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “When we were at the Angry Boar after the charity match, you let me go on and on about how I appreciate you not hitting on her, and you didn’t say a fucking thing.”
“I know.” Guilt seeped through me. “I’m sorry.”
It was my first time apologizing to Vincent. It was easier than I thought it would be because I meant it. If I were in his shoes, I’d be upset too.
“We were going to tell you the week you returned to London,” I said. “But you and I were starting to get along, and after your speech at the Angry Boar, I was even more worried that you wouldn’t…handle the news well. I was the one who convinced Scarlett to postpone our talk. I didn’t want to ruin our truce so close to the start of the season.”
Looking back, we could’ve handled the situation better. Communicated better. But these things were clearer in hindsight, and it was hard to make the right decision in the moment.
“You should’ve just told me,” Vincent growled. “I’m the captain of our team. I care about the season and about winning as much as you do, if not more. I would’ve handled it better if you told me to my face like a man instead of letting me figure it out myself while my sister’s in the fucking hospital.”
“I should’ve,” I admitted. “But it’s too late for that now.”
He let out another snort. “You think?”
More silence.
The hum of the vending machines buzzed through the air, muffling the faint voices and footsteps from the main hall.
“Did we win?” I asked after several minutes of wordlessness. “The match.” I hadn’t checked the final score before he showed up.
Vincent shook his head. “Draw. Two-two.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
