“Huh?”
“Between you and Ulrich,” he clarifies.
“Oh! Let’s see. We started dating a few months ago. He told me he and Monica, his ex, had broken up. I believed him, but then I found out after the game tonight, he lied.”
“Damn,” he says.
“Yeah, it was pretty mortifying getting blindsided by her and her pack of friends after the game.”
“What did he say when you ended things?”
“Nothing yet. I texted him when I got here, and he hasn’t responded.”
“Are you okay?”
“At first I was hurt, but it only took the walk here to get over it and for the anger to settle in. I think I’m more upset about how I found out than about losing him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You would think by now I wouldn’t have to deal with mean girls. When I was young, I thought that, eventually, that behavior from other girls would stop. Like we would evolve or something, but apparently we haven’t.” I take another sip of my coffee. “I’m twenty-nine, and tonight I might as well have beenfifteen, being embarrassed by the popular girl in the middle of the high school cafeteria.”
He nods and sips his Coke.
“And I get it to some extent. She’s hurt because her boyfriend cheated on her with me, and I wouldn’t like me either. But…” I shake my head. “Calling me a whore and concocting a plan where someone pretended to be my friend just so they could mortify me was a new level of mean girl, and that’s saying a lot because I’ve encountered plenty of Monicas in my life.”
“You’re not a whore.”
“I know, and I don’t know why I’m venting to you about this. I’m sure you don’t care. Men don’t have to deal with this shit.”
“I care,” he says. “And I think the fight at the end of the game tonight says otherwise. Men deal with that stuff in a different way.”
“Right, men just punch one another and go about their day, while women are over here experiencing full on emotional warfare against one another. It’s definitely the same thing.”
He chuckles.
“Sorry he punched you,” I offer.
“It wasn’t the first fight I’ve been in, and it won’t be my last.” My eyes follow his hand as he rubs it along the hair covering his face, and a memory of him between my legs, peering up at me, assaults me from out of nowhere.
Shit, I need to get it together. It might feel like no time has passed, but it’s been over four years. Raph and I just broke it off, but what I wouldn’t give to let Everett help me forget all about him.
“You got a little bit of drool on your chin,” he says, chuckling and pretending to wipe drool from his.
I grumble at his cockiness, diverting my gaze to one of the TVs hanging above the bar. It’s a replay of his post-game interview.
Looking in Everett’s direction, there’s a noticeable change in his body language. His confidence seems to disappear as he zones in on the television.
We both sit in silence, watching. The clip of him cuts to a group of reporters sitting behind a table. We can’t hear what they’re saying, but the closed captioning on the bottom of the screen shows that one of the men is talking about a possible career ending shoulder injury.
“You mind changing the channel,” he calls to the bartender, who looks up at the screen before nodding and switching it to some othersports channel. An image of Raph leaving the arena hand in hand with Monica flashes on the screen, and my heart sinks.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Maybe just turn it off.”
“How perfect.” I look away, trying to hide the embarrassment that’s creeping up my neck and covering my face.
The bartender lifts the remote, and the screen goes black. Sipping from his drink, he turns to face me again.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
