Mitch flashes me a wide smile, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Look who I found outside. Isn’t it great that Ollie could join us?”
I clap Mitch on the back and give his shoulder a good warning squeeze. “A delight.”
“I’ll just go get settled in,” he says to Oliver. Then he turns to me and mimes tipping his hat.
Soon as he’s out of earshot, Oliver says frantically, voice low, “I tried very, very hard to tell him no, but he’s—”
“A goddamned bulldozer when he sets his mind to something.”
Oliver nods. “I was just weeding out back, and he shows up in my yard, starts small-talking, which, you know, I’m cool with. He’s a nice guy, easy to talk to. Then he pulls some wizardy conversational sleight of hand, and next thing I know, he’s saying he’s so glad I can come play poker with you guys. I kept trying to politely decline, said I had yardwork, and then he gets down on his knees and starts weeding with me,” Oliver hisses. “Said ‘With two of us working, we’ll be done twice as fast, so you can join us!’”
I sigh. “Sounds like Mitchell.”
“Who’s this?” Jorge barges in, clasping Oliver’s shoulders. He looks him up and down. “He is lovely.”
“He,” I tell Jorge, plucking his hands off Oliver’s shoulders, “is a person who you are treating like a doll.”
Jorge wiggles his eyebrows. “Well, look at him. He is a doll. Hello.”
I roll my eyes. “And he’s here. Behave yourself.”
Oliver clears his throat, then flashes his usual, megawatt smile, as he offers his hand. “Oliver Bergman. Nice to meet you.”
“Jorge Delgado.” Jorge crushes him in a hug instead. “So good to meet you, Oliver! Ollie! Oliverio! What a perfect name for a perfect man. Come in! Come in! Jim, make yourself useful and grab a chair.”
“Already on it!” Jim calls, wedging a chair between his seat and mine. Of fucking course. I glare at Jim, who throws me an embarrassingly obvious wink.
Once Jorge’s finally released Oliver and hurried off to rearrange the table so there’s room for another, I tell Oliver, “You really don’t have to stay.”
He scrubs the back of his neck, eyes down on his dirt-stained sneakers. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
God, if only it were that easy. I should tell him that I want him to leave. That it’s best if he goes home and we keep our lives as separate as possible, even if in only these small ways, given how much practice, training, matches, co-captaining puts us together. I should tell him that what we did yesterday was a mistake that I regret and that we will never repeat. I should see him out, shut that door behind him, and shut out the memories of last night, the longing they unlocked, once and for all.
But I can’t fucking make myself do it. I can’t make myself keep pushing Oliver away when finally drawing him close last night felt so fucking good after months of nothing but pain and misery stretched together. I can’t turn away someone who gave me comfort last night, even when I was snarling and snapping, who I’ve held at arm’s length for so long, fixated on the parts of him that are easy to resent him for—his youth, his health, his carefree happiness—instead of seeing what lies beneath—someone who battles anxiety’s crushing pressure, who tries so hard to be good and helpful and hopeful and generous toward everyone yet is so mercilessly hard on himself.
Staring at him, I tell myself what I told us both last night—Just this once. Then tomorrow, we’ll reset boundaries. Neighbors but not neighborly. Co-captains but not confidants. Civil. Tidy. Safe.
Just tonight, only tonight, I want to be reckless.
“Stay,” I tell him. “If you want. But I’ll warn you, we’re a cutthroat bunch.”
Oliver’s head snaps up. His eyes sparkle as he smiles. “Duly warned.”
“Get over here, Ollie!” Mitch calls. “You ever played poker? Need us to teach you the ropes?”
Oliver shrugs as he toes off his dirty sneakers and sets them aside. “It’s been a while,” he says, tugging his hair back into one of those tiny sunshine spurts of a ponytail as he walks through the kitchen. “I could probably use a refresher.”
As he sits and joins the guys at the table, smiling and shaking hands, I have the most unnerving feeling that I’ve just made a very big mistake.
“Goddammit!” Jim throws down his cards. “What is this shit? He won again?”
Oliver rakes in a massive pile of chips, a coy smile on his face. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Beginner’s luck, my ass.” Lou snorts, sitting back in his seat as he folds his arms over his belly. “If you’re a ‘beginner’ poker player, I’ll eat my shoe.”
Oliver’s smile deepens. He shrugs. “Beginner-ish.”
Mitch slaps his thigh and wheezes a laugh, downright delighted by this turn of events.
Jim reaches around Oliver and slugs my arm. “A little warning that I was about to get hustled out of my retirement would have been nice!”
“Honestly, Jim.” Itsuki rolls his eyes. “We play for pennies.”
“Pennies add up,” Jim grumbles.
Oliver leans his way and says, “Don’t worry. I’m a pretty reckless player. I’m sure I’ll lose it all soon in spectacular fashion.”
When he straightens, his thigh brushes mine for the eight millionth time since we all sat down, making a rush of heat blaze across my skin and settle low and hot in my groin. I fist a handful of chips and grit my teeth.
Mitch smiles across the table like he knows exactly why I’m suffering. I glare at him.
“Last hand?” Lou asks.
“Why, old man?” Jim says, accepting his cards as Mitch deals. “Past your bedtime?”
Lou throws him a colorful gesture. “Unlike you, I have a social life outside this vagabond crew. In fact—” He riffles around the trail mix I set out, then plucks an M&M from among the nuts and dried fruit. “I have a date.”
Jorge’s eyes widen. He smacks Lou in the chest. “And why are we just hearing about this?”
Lou shrugs. “It’s just a first date. A cup of late-night decaf and a piece of lemon meringue pie at Betty’s Diner. It may be a train wreck.”
“Or it could be the start of something wonderful,” Itsuki says encouragingly.
Lou shrugs again. “Could be.”
“Well, at least someone here is living it up as he should,” Mitch says pointedly, staring at me. If I wasn’t worried I’d break his leg, I’d kick him under the table, right in the shin.
“Awfully fine talk coming from a man who refuses to date, himself,” I remind him.
Mitch sniffs. “Who says I’m not?”
All our mouths drop open. For as long as I’ve known Mitch—and that’s nearly two years now—he’s only ever spoken of his late wife, Janie, in frankly reverent terms. He’s never flirted with a soul, never given the faintest hint of interest in another person.
“Mitchell Thomas O’Connor.” I set my elbows on the table. “Spill the beans.”
“I have a pen pal,” he says primly, adjusting his cards.