“Holding,” I respond with gritted teeth.
Nathan’s hands are on my back after a few seconds, fingers delicate. The sensation is oddly calming, soothing my racing heart, but I don’t let my mind go there.
He’s getting a creepy crawly off my back. There’s nothing sexy about this at all.
On instinct, I lean back again, trying to get this spider as close to Nathan as possible so he can quickly swipe at it.
He gulps from behind me.
“Please…” I take a deep breath. “Have you got it?”
No reply.
Only silence.
“Nathan,” I say firmly.
Then, his fingers are gone from my spine, and I’m straightening myself and turning around to see him cupping his hands together.
“I assume you don’t want to see it?” he says, already turning around, body standing tall.
“No, thank you. Please just take it outside, but don’t kill it.”
“I’m not that heartless,” he tells me as he turns left towards the bushes beside the shed.
I don’t like spiders. Don’t want them on me. So why the hell am I hoping for another one to crawl onto my back so I can bend over for Nathan again?
10: Nathan
The flash of a camera makes me cringe, so I pull the brim of my cap further down to help cover my face, shielding myself from the array of desperate reporters in front of us who are keen to get a money-worthy shot.
We’re at a press conference to discuss our thoughts on our upcoming game, but nobody really wants to talk about that. All these frenzied reporters want is the gossip in our personal lives.
Who we’re dating. What cars we drive. Celebrities we’ve partied with. Family issues we have.
It’s what makes them the big bucks.
I hate these things, but Peter says they’re compulsory. He wants to keep the team relevant. That way, he can make as much money as possible. It doesn’t matter to him that we get eaten alive every single time.
“Evan, is the rumour that Ella Baxter is the mother of your child true?” a reporter asks, and I glower, opening my mouth to defend my friend. But Evan gets there before me.
“Does anyone here actually want to talk about football? Why does my son concern you?” He looks fed up. People are always making ridiculous assumptions about who Leo's mother is, and Evan has made it abundantly clear that he will never reveal her identity.
He doesn’t want the drama. Or the lawsuit she threatened him with if he were to sell her out.
“Is that a yes?” the reporter presses, and Evan glares at him—eyes so piercing you’d think the reporter would shrivel up and make a run for it, but he stays put, a slight smirk on his lips. He knows if Evan doesn’t actively deny it, then he can sell a story on the pop singer, Ella Baxter, being the possible mother of Leo.
Coach Darrell shoots Evan a look from down the conference table, silently telling him to deny it if he wants to avoid another story.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, his dark hair falling in front of his eyes. “No, Ella Baxter is not Leo’s mother. I’ve never even met the woman, so I don’t know where you’re getting that from. But unless anyone actually has a question about football—which is what we’re here to talk about—I won’t be wasting my time.”
The tidal wave of news reporters erupts into low hums, scribbling down in their notebooks and flashing their cameras.
The heat of the overhead lamps sizzle my skin, and I squint my eyes as they pulse, wishing I’d brought my glasses with me.
I hate wearing them, though.
Whenever I do, news reporters focus on me, latching onto the fact that women love it. Their photos sell for more.
