The banter carried on, laughter loud enough to cut through the pounding bass, the drinks went down fast, and for the first time since landing in London, I felt almost normal. Almost. As normal as could be when a piece of me was missing.
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I turned.
Blonde, long legs, the kind of woman I’d met a hundred times before at places like this. She leaned in close, all confidence and too much perfume, ignoring the fact that I’d barely looked at her.
“Owen Wheaton,” she purred. “Knew you’d come back eventually.”
“You and every tabloid in England,” I muttered, taking a sip of my beer.
“Oh, don’t be like that.” She trailed a hand down my arm. “I’m just saying welcome home. Want to dance?”
I stepped back, shaking my head. “Nah, I’m good.”
“I’ll let you go if you say something in an American accent,” she teased, eyes playful. “It makes me weak in the knees.”
“Why don’t you go and rejoin your friends?” I said, dry as hell.
She pouted, but before she could try again, Dennis leaned in with a grin. “Oy, he’s spoken for. Off you go.”
The night went on, but my mood had shifted. The old version of me might have played along, flashed a grin for the cameras, let them run with whatever story they wanted. But that wasn’t me anymore. Maybe I’d never belonged in places like this. Or maybe I had—before Rio.
Didn’t matter, though. The next morning, my face was splashed across every bloody tabloid.
.
“WHEATON BACK TO PARTYING ON AND OFF THE FIELD.”
.
Of course.
I tossed my phone on the table and blew out an exasperated breath.
But my day wasn’t over yet. An hour after getting back from doing something I’d been planning since I left the U.S.—something that would keep a piece of her with me no matter where I was—the call came from management.
“Can you come in tomorrow? We’d like to talk about your future with the club.”
After I hung up, I stared at the darkened screen of my phone. My mind split—because what I hoped they’d say and what I feared they’d say were one and the same.
35
Rio
THE FIRST THING I SAWafter blinking against the sun filtering into my room and silencing my alarm, was a photo of Owen at a club. I squinted at it, reading the smaller print beneath the bold headline:
.
OWEN WHEATON IS BACK!
Training and Partying with Westbridge Players – #7 Is On the Scene
.
In clothes I’d once peeled off him, he smiled at the camera, surrounded by familiar faces—familiar from the few matches I’d watched or clips I’d caught in the news—and some unfamiliar ones, including women with legs up to here.
He was surrounded by everything I couldn’t compete with.
