Pretty sure it’s not that she’s more famous than I am. Richer than I am. In better shape than I am too.
I get paid to stand around for ninety percent of every game, run hard to first once or twice—three times a game if I’m on fire—and chase grounders maybe a dozen times in any given game, and while I work out hard regularly so that I can do all of that, she can get up on a stage and singand dancefor two solid hours.
Okay, yeah, maybe all of that is part of why I’m nervous.
But the other part?
You don’t get past Waverly Sweet’s entourage unless she thinks you’re worth it.
For the first time in my life, Iwantto go to the trouble. I want to be worth the trouble.
And for the first time in eight years, I’m wondering if I can measure up.
The bodyguard holds a key card to a door. “If she screams, I won’t knock. I’ll come in ready to do whatever I need to do.”
“Ah—thanks.” Mental note: find the balance between my A-game and Waverly screaming loudly enough that her security team decides to investigate.
And there go my balls, retracting the rest of the way back into my body.
Awesome.
Probably a good thing she only wants totalk.
Is this fear of rejection?
Is this why I’ve exclusively stuck to one-night stands with women who give off seriousI do not want a relationship but I do want to have funvibes?
Because no other woman will ever measure up to what Waverly was in my memories, or because I’m afraid I can’t live up to what the woman I really want to date deserves to have in a long-term partner?
Or both?
The bodyguard pushes the door open and gestures for me to enter.
I slip into the suite and let the door shut behind me, taking quick stock of the textured ivory walls, the massive television, the upscale white sectional centered around it, the Turkish rug under the coffee table, and the gilded mirror over the entryway sideboard.
But what really catches my eye is Waverly’s reflection in that mirror—baggy black sweatpants, short pink hoodie, her light brown hair tousled, feet bare—dashing across the room before the bathroom door slams shut.
I blink at the closed white door.
Do I say hi?
Do I follow her?
Do I—oh.
Oh, no.
I recognize that noise.
“Oh, god,” she whimpers, her voice echoing behind the door.
I angle closer. “Hey, you okay?”
“Go away. Go away, pretend you weren’t here, and never, ever,everspeak of this toanyone.”
I won’t tell you how she punctuates that statement, because I’m not here, I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m never ever,everspeaking of it.
As directed.
