"Are you entirely sure that's the category you fit in?" Lydia asks, her smile wry. "Because I've known a few pro league assholes in my time."

(In some other part of the universe, Jackson suddenly feels a cold brush of air go down his neck.)

There's a very quick, sidelong glance at Roman, accompanied by the corner of her mouth quirking upward in a flirty grin. But it's also full of I know the game you're playing, sugar. Her gaze then tilts toward Peter, some concern coloring her tone. "You okay?"