I keep replaying our conversation over and over. The more I play it, the more I think maybe she's right. Perhaps I am being a coward. But…there's safety in cowardice. There's no safety in actually dating Austin, especially with the whole world watching.
"You are not dating him," I growl to myself.
"What's that?" my driver asks.
"Oh, uh…nothing," I mumble, my cheeks hot.
He meets my gaze in the rearview, his eyes narrowed. "You seem awfully familiar."
Great. Just great.
"I get that a lot. I model sometimes."
"Must be it." His gaze flicks back to the road, and I slink lower in the seat, praying he doesn't figure it out.
Unfortunately for me, my luck doesn't hold. As soon as we pull up in front of the practice stadium, he puts two and two together.
"Holy shit. You're the girl!"
Kill me now. Seriously. Just…put me out of my misery.
"You're the one fucking Austin Hawkes."
"No," I growl, clawing for the door handle like my life depends on it. "That's not me. Austin Hawkes is gay. He's even starred in a few ads for that one gay hookup app."
"Wha—"
I fling myself out of the car before it fully stops, cursing Austin's very existence. I mean, honestly. Satan himself could not have invented a more perfect demon.
I smooth my hands down my sides, trying to get my shit together. It doesn't help. My heart is beating a thousand miles a minute, and I'm still not entirely sure why I'm here.
To kill him? To beg him? To kiss him?
Who knows?
I stomp toward the same door I went in last time, hoping security is as lax today as they were yesterday. To no one's surprise, the guard stationed outside takes one lookat me and motions me in like he's not at all surprised to see me again. I guess there are perks to being infamous.
"They're in the weight room," he mutters, like I should know where that is.
"Uh…"
"Last door on the left," he sighs, his tone bored.
Jeez. How many hookups pass through here? Actually, scratch that thought. I donotwant to know.
I sail through the doors, my heels clicking on the cement floor. The hall is empty except for old equipment and the stench of stale sweat. I keep my head down anyway, hurrying toward the door to the weight room. And then I linger outside, unsure if I should just bust in like the police or wait for someone to come out.
After three minutes, I finally summoned the courage to bust in.
Big mistake.
Half of the team is inside. Shirtless. Dripping sweat.
No wonder football is such a popular sport. It's sweaty, Hot Guy Mecca in here.
I stand in the doorway, gaping.
Christ Almighty. It's a testosterone party in here.
