“As I thought,” Hardaway said. “You shouldn’t be standing. You should rest.”
“You done groping me?”
Hardaway removed his hand. “Groping you? I thought I was hired to help you recover from a grade three groin injury. Go inside and sit down. You shouldn’t be standing if a simple touch is still painful.”
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m fine here, thanks.”
“That wasn’t a request,” Hardaway said.
Heat rushed to Tristan’s cheeks. No one ordered him around. No one.
Behind him, Lydia snickered—little traitor—and quickly started coughing.
“You’re fired,” Tristan gritted out.
“Tristan, I’m sorry—” Lydia started.
“Not you,” Tristan said and looked at Hardaway. “You.”
Hardaway didn’t look concerned. If anything, something like amusement flickered in his eyes. “You can’t fire me for doing my job. Actually, you can’t fire me, full stop. You aren’t the one who hired me: the football club you play for did. Now, go inside, Mr. DuVal.” Hardaway’s lips curled slightly.
God, Tristan wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. He glowered at the guy, but before he could say anything, Hardaway turned to Lydia.
“Zach Hardaway,” he said with a nice smile, shaking Lydia’s hand.
“L-lydia Esmond,” she said softly, licking her lips. Was she actually batting her eyelashes at the guy?
“Stop drooling and put your tongue back in your mouth,” Tristan told her. “It’s disgusting.”
Lydia flushed to the roots of her hair and glared at him.
Tristan just lifted his eyebrows and smiled.
“Are you always such a mean, tactless brat?” Hardaway said.
Tristan widened his eyes and gave him his best innocent look. “Me? I think you’re confused.”
“Yes, I’m confused,” Hardaway said, studying Tristan. “You have the reputation of a nice, down-to-earth guy. I’m still wondering where he is.”
Tristan smiled. “You’ve heard of me? Wait, are you a fan?”
Hardaway’s lips twisted. “Hardly. I support Arsenal.”
It figured. Loser.
As if he could read his thoughts, Hardaway let out a laugh. “Even if I liked your team, I wouldn’t be your fan. I think your brother is the better player and should be the one playing on the left wing for Chelsea.”
Paling with fury, Tristan balled his hands into fists. In his peripheral vision, he could see Lydia cringing at Hardaway’s remark. She knew it was a very bad idea to even imply that his adoptive brother was a better player than him—because Gabriel wasn’t the better player, dammit.
Screw good first impressions. That prick didn’t deserve any niceties wasted on him.
“Oh yeah?” Tristan said, stepping closer to Hardaway. Their faces were inches away now. Up close, Hardaway’s gaze was kind of unsettling. Not that Tristan let it show. And it was annoying that the guy was half a head taller than him—and Tristan was of perfectly normal height, thank you very much.
He locked his eyes with Hardaway’s and said softly, “It takes very little to ruin one’s career, you know. A few words to the wrong people would do the trick. If I were you, I’d be a little more respectful. I’m surprised you aren’t starving on the streets if that’s your usual attitude toward your clients. Be careful.” He smiled sweetly. “Just a piece of friendly advice.”
Hardaway’s eyes narrowed, all traces of amusement disappearing from them. “It would take a lot more to ruin my career than some spoiled rich boy’s words.”
“Really?” Tristan said, cocking his head. “So sure of yourself?”
“I think you’re misunderstanding something,” Hardaway said slowly. “I don’t need this job. My services are normally booked months in advance. I agreed to do this only as a favor to Jared Sheldon. So it’s not me who should be careful, brat. If you don’t like that I don’t suck up to you like everyone else does—”
“How do you even know that?” Tristan said, curious despite himself. “That people ‘suck up’ to me?”
A smile appeared on Hardaway’s lips. “I’ve heard of you. I’ve been warned about you.”
“By whom?” Tristan asked, but a suspicion was already forming in his mind. Now the guy’s attitude was starting to make a lot more sense. “Not by my brother, by any chance?”
“Yes. By Gabriel.”
Tristan laughed.
“Care to share the joke?” Hardaway said when Tristan’s laughter died down.
“My so-called brother just hates that people like me more.” Tristan lifted his hand and petted the guy’s clean-shaven cheek. “You poor, naive thing. Gabe’s just jealous of me, has always been. I’m more talented, good-looking and intelligent.”
“And more humble,” Hardaway said.
“Humility is overrated,” Tristan said with a smile, looking at him from under his eyelashes.
Hardaway’s face remained impassive. He caught Tristan’s wrist and pushed his hand away. “You can cut it out. Your baby blues don’t work on me.”
Tristan blinked, only now realizing what he’d been doing—attempting to do. He was so used to trying to make every person eat out of his hand that he barely noticed when he did it.
“Habit,” he said with a scowl, averting his gaze. “And are you color blind? My eyes aren’t baby blue. They’re more green than blue.”