I almost crack right there in the concrete corridor, surrounded by the smell of nachos and spilled beer and sweat. "The story already got away from me," I say instead of crying, hating how small and tired I sound. "It always does."
He hesitates, as if he wants to say something reassuring, but his phone is still pointed at me, the red light blinking.
I spin on my heel and walk as fast as my legs will take me, past security, past the lines of people waiting for food, all the way out to the parking lot.
Only once I'm by myself, walking past a row of locked cars, do I let the tears come.
This isn't what I want.
It isn't who I am.
I fumble for my phone to call an Uber, trying to hold it together just long enough to get home. I can fall apart there, where no one will see, and plaster it across the fucking internet for the whole world to judge.
It takes five minutes for my ride to appear. I slump in the backseat, my forehead pressed to the glass. The driver is mercifully silent. He doesn't recognize me, or maybe he just doesn't care.
Once we're heading away from the stadium, I fumble for my phone again, texting Austin.
Me: This was a mistake. We aren't going to work. I'm sorry.
Tears slip down my cheeks, blurring the words, and for the first time in my life, I think I know what heartbreak feels like.
It feels like this.
It's after midnight when someone knocks on my door hard enough to rattle it in the frame. I think about ignoring it, because I already know it's Austin. But…I owe him an explanation. I know I do.
I haul myself from the couch, stumbling toward the door to unlock it.
I barely have it open before he's barging through, breathing hard. His eyes are wild, his expression thunderous. He looks so damn good in a navy suit and tie, I want to cry all over again.
I expect him to demand answers or ask what the fuck happened.
He doesn't.
Instead, he practically tackles me, hauling me into his arms like he can't go another second without feeling me pressed against his chest.
I'm so damn weak for him, I go. Iwhimper, burying my face in his throat to breathe him in.
"I'm so goddamn sorry, princess," he rasps, his voice a harsh pant in my ear. "I should have put you in a box with the other wives and girlfriends, not out there with the crowd. I'm an asshole."
I peer up at him, feeling small and miserable. "You know what happened?"
His jaw clenches so hard, I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. "I saw photos. What'd they say to you?"
"Nothing that the rest of the world isn't saying." I know that for a fact. Somehow, they got ahold of my email address. After reading through the first three, I just deleted the rest without even opening them. You can only be called so many variations of desperate and pathetic and see so many dicks before you're just done.
He crooks a finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "What'd they say, Serena?"
"They were talking about the photos," I mutter reluctantly. "And then one of them asked if I was going to blow you during halftime. He offered to give me something to do with my mouth in the meantime. Some girl called me a desperate slut. And then a photographer rescued me, only to shove his phone in my face as soon as we were alone. I…" I blink at him. "I've never seen your face that red before."
"I've never been this pissed before."
"I'm sorry."
His hands fall to my waist, wrapping around it like he's trying to anchor himself. "What are you sorry about? You did nothing wrong."
"I…"
"This isn't on you, baby," he murmurs, dipping his head until his lips brush mine. "This is on me."
