“I don’t care. I don’t have to quantify anything to anyone.” He shrugs, as his fingers find my cheek. “He should know. Everyone should know.”
I can’t say I love Noah, because it’s a little early for that, but I adore him. Hearing him proclaim all that without even so much as a hesitation, I am done.
Gone.
My gaze falls to his lips, and I allow myself a moment to pause and let the newness sink in as anticipation fires in my chest. I deserve that fleeting pause before I rise to my toes and press my lips to his.
I can tell by the urgency in his lips that Noah isn’t going anywhere. If Noah can stand up to Bill Baker, I can certainly handle my dad.
I hope.
Taking a final lap around the arena as a way of saying goodbye, I walk slowly, a heaviness settling on my chest by the time I make it to the parking lot. I didn’t do anything close to what I set out to do, but somehow, I’m prouder. However, that pride doesn’t conceal the niggling in my gut that pings harder when my phone rings and I see my dad’s name.
I could silence it and let it go to voicemail.
That might make him worry, and I would hate for him to panic and reach out to someone at the magazine and cause a scene. Remorsefully, I accept the call and tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I continue to stride across the parking lot. “Hey, Dad.”
“You’re all done, huh?” His voice is boisterous, void of the upset I was suspecting.
“Officially, yes.” I dig into my pocket, pull out my car keys, and take a moment to unlock my door before I get in. It’s way too cold to stand outside to chitchat. “I accepted an invitation to their banquet tonight. That will get over sort of late, so I’ll check out of my Airbnb tomorrow, and head home.”
“That’s nice the team invited you.”
I can’t tell by his tone if he’s fishing, but I also know there’s no point in delaying conversations that need to be had. I’m not embarrassed by Noah, and the more I ponder this, I think it’s better to break the news slowly . . . and over the phone. That will give him the chance to get used to the idea. “It wasn’t the team who invited me; it was just one guy. He’s invited me to be his date—Noah.” I shut my lips tight, as that might be enough of a hint for now. He doesn’t need to know Noah is related to Bill. I’m not trying to give him a heart attack.
“Is the date part of your undercover sting?” Dad’s voice is even, unreactive.
It will be so easy to say yes and be done with this conversation, but that isn’t going to help me in the long run. I swallow and offer only, “No. Since my article is published, I’m done with that. This is a date.”
“I don’t understand.” His breath is getting heavy, evident by how I can hear snippets of it through the phone, and I decide that’s enough information for now. Easy does it.
“It’s okay, Dad.” I soften my tone, hoping to slow his heart rate. “It’s just a date.”
“Well, be careful not to get attached. It doesn’t make sense for you to be spending time with anyone when you live in New York. Not to mention, these guys aren’t what you see. They may be all charm to you, but they’re not anybody you want to get involved with.”
First, it’s a little too late for that.
Second, you’re wrong about Noah.
Third, I didn’t ask for your advice.
The words I’m able to speak are at war with my thoughts and I only manage, “I know.”
“Well, text me tomorrow when you get on the road.”
“I will.” My finger is already on my phone, ready to end the call when I add, “Love you. Bye.” I can’t think about my dad right now. I need to get to the banquet, and dwelling on all the what-if scenarios is only going to stress me out. At least for tonight, I want to enjoy my time with Noah, while he celebrates with his team.
I start my car, and I shift it into gear. I’m about to pull out of my parking space when a small envelope on my windshield catches my eye.
How did I get a parking ticket?
I shift back into park and open my door enough to stick my arm through the crack to retrieve the envelope. The girth of the envelope surprises me, and my brows dip as I study the package. There are no markings of any kind. When I flip it over, the only thing I see is the flap to open it. I slide my finger in, ripping it gently, and pull out a small stack of printed photos.
I see a zoomed-in image of Axl punching a player.
Another image shows Axl with his face so close to a ref, he looks like he’s about to headbutt him. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve seen these images before.
I took them.
