I shake her hand, keeping my grip loose, my smile fixed. "Nice to meet you, Chelsea. Always good to run into a football fan."
"Soccer," she corrects with a wink, as if we're sharing a private joke. "When in Rome, right?"
"Right." I take another sip of my scotch and look around, hoping she'll take the hint.
She doesn't. Instead, she slides onto the empty barstool beside me, crossing legs that seem to go on forever. "So what brings a European football legend to The Apex on a Tuesday night? Slumming with us ordinary people?"
I chuckle because it's expected, though the joke falls flat. "Just meeting some friends."
"Anyone I know?" She leans forward, suddenly very interested. Of course. This is how it always goes. First, they recognize the athlete. Then they wonder who else in my orbit might be worth knowing.
"Just some old mates." I glance pointedly at my watch.
"Well, they're clearly running late, so their loss is my gain." She signals the bartender. "I'll have what he's having."
Christ. I've dated women like Chelsea before—gorgeous, wealthy, social climbers. In my twenties, I collected them like trophies. The footballer and the model. The athlete and the actress. Relationships built on mutual superficiality, both of us too busy admiring our reflection in the other to notice there was nothing beneath.
I'm thirty-nine now. Retired. Rebuilding. Not interested in being anyone's status symbol or story to tell at brunch.
"So," Chelsea continues, oblivious to my internal monologue, "have you tried Lucien? It just opened in SoHo. Impossible to get a table unless you know someone." She says this with the particular smugness of someone who clearly does know someone. "The chef trained under Alain Ducasse. The ceviche is phenomenal."
"Haven't had the pleasure," I reply, scanning the room for any sign of Alex or Tristan. Nothing. Shit.
"We should go sometime. I could make a call." Her knee brushes mine—not accidentally.
I shift slightly away. "That's very kind, but my schedule's a bit packed at the moment."
"With what? Are you commentating now? Most athletes go that route, don't they?" She sips her newly arrived scotch, grimacing slightly. It’s obvious she ordered it only to create connection, not because she actually enjoys it.
"No, I run a foundation. We build athletic facilities for underserved communities." I feel a flash of genuine pride saying this—the work matters in a way scoring goals never did.
"Oh! Charity work. That's so... noble." The pause tells me everything. She's already mentally filing me under "no longer relevant."
I should be relieved. Instead, some perverse part of me feels compelled to clarify. "It's not charity. It's community investment. We're creating spaces where kids can be safe and mentored."
Her eyes glaze slightly. "That's really wonderful. Speaking of wonderful spaces, were you at the Met Gala last week? Absolute disaster. Caroline Herron wore this atrocious Givenchy that made her look like a deranged peacock."
And we're back to the shallow end of the pool. I nod and make appropriate noises while she dissects New York's social scene with surgical precision. Chelsea is attractive—objectively, undeniably so—but watching her talk about who snubbed whom at what party makes her beauty seem like packaging: shiny, expertly crafted, and ultimately disposable.
"—and then of course there's the Winterson’s' benefit next month. You simply must come as my plus-one. Everyone who's anyone will be there."
I blink, realizing she's now actively planning our social calendar. "I appreciate the offer, but I really can't commit to anything right now."
"Playing hard to get?" She smiles, touching my forearm. "I like that."
Jesus. I'm not playing anything. I'm trying to escape.
"Actually, if you'll excuse me for a moment—" I stand, collecting my phone from the bar.
"I'll be right here," she says with a conspirator's wink.
I nod and thread my way through the crowd toward the restrooms at the back of the rooftop. My phone buzzes in my hand—a text from Tristan.
Just arrived. Where are you?
Thank god. I type back:Men's room. Save me when I come out. Socialite situation.
His response is immediate:Why does this shit always happen to you?
