Wow. “Just my mate”? A stabbing pain shoots through my chest, like someone just used a machete on me.
Just. My. Mate.
I can’t bring myself to speak so I do what any self-respecting girl would do, I shut the lid of my computer, then decide shutting down the computer is the best bet, so I open it back up. He’s still there. Well, his leg or something like his leg is in the picture, along with the red sparkly skirt. It’s pressed up against his pants. If I had to guess, I’d say they were kissing. But his hand, at least the one holding the phone, is down at his side.
Screw it. I quickly shut down my computer and crawl into bed. I don’t have to be up for another hour, so I pull the covers up over my head, and do my utter best to fall asleep––anything but think about Cooke andher.
A while later, maybe fifteen minutes, I hear a chiming sound. “My phone.” I flop out of bed and grab my bag to search for it. When I find it, I stare at the screen. Should I answer it? Should I just shut the phone down? “Screw it.” I jab at the button and watch as his face appears. He’s alone.
“Love—”
“Mate. You mean mate.”
“Quinn—”
Ignoring him, I say things I never thought I could or would ever say. “I can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” I point at him, then at me. “My self-esteem is fragile, Cooke. But I’m not stupid. I know whatever this thing between us was… well, it was going to be short-lived.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I sniffle. “Because you’re Cooke freaking Thompson, international rugby star. You’re model gorgeous, you live in another country, and I’m….”
“You’re what?”
“I’m… I’m just me. A boring, awkward Iowa girl. I can’t compete with gorgeous women in red sequined dresses.”
“Look—”
“Whatever excuse you’re about to make, save it, Cooke. I know I’m easy prey for you.”
“Prey?” he says loudly. “You’re not bloody prey.”
“I just mean you should be with someone like her.”
“She’s the club sponsor’s daughter.”
I stare at the phone, expecting more. When he says nothing else, I shrug. “So she’s perfect for you.”
“I can’t bloody stand her. None of us can. But I can’t tell her that.”
I sniffle again. “You said I was nobody. A mate.” A tear slides down my cheek.
“Because it’s none of her fecking business who I talk to. She’s a shit-stirrer. If she thought I had an American girlfriend….”
“What? She’d what?”
“She’d push harder.”
Push harder? “To what? Pursue you?”
He nods, his mouth set in a grim expression. “Blokes have been left off the roster after rejecting her.”
I stare at the phone, at him. Do I believe him? Yes. Am I disappointed? Yes. I mean, Cooke Thompson’s the best fly-half in the world. If they “leave him off the roster” because of the owner’s daughter, I’d think his fans would want to know that. “But you’re the best.”
“Right now I’m the best. But not forever.”
