“Do you want to come inside?” she asks, making room for me.
“Why?” I ask with more force. The question has haunted me for so damn long.
She leaves the door open as she backpedals inside, and asks me over her shoulder, “You want to do this now?”
My chest pants, heavy with frustration. “Yes, because I need a clear head and guess what? I’m thinking too much about you, replaying our night and all these fucking what-ifs.”
She sighs, the sound ringing with sadness, but there’s something more I can’t pinpoint.
“It was supposed to be a one-night stand.”
Closing the door behind me, I lean against it, needing to leave some space between us for this conversation.
“I told you I wanted more. I’ll leave and won’t bother you again if you tell me it meant nothing.” Her answer might butcher me. But I need an explanation, fucking closure. Not knowing has been driving me insane, but her reason might fuck me up either way.
“This is crazy. Freaking magnetism,” she mumbles more to herself.
“Answer the question. Why?” I demand.
She crosses her arms over her chest, jerking her chin in challenge. “And then what?”
“We’ll see.”
“I found out who you were.” She says it as if she found out something despicable.
I wrack my brain to find out what could have possibly turned her off, but I come up empty. “And that would be?”
She bites her lip, appearing unsure. “A football player.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded.Is she fucking kidding me right now?
“Because I’m a football player?”
“Yes, and I don’t date football players. Period,” she says, voice cracking at the end.
While I am still trapped in incredulity, she adds quickly, “I don’t have to justify myself.” She sticks the tip of her nose in the air, trying to appear more in control than she actually is.
I slump against the door, not fucking knowing what to do or say—my head is a jumbled mess. I am incapable of forming my thoughts into a coherent sentence.
“Ian, that night was the most special night of my life, but it was just that. I wanted an adventure, and you gave it to me.” There’s a fleeting look of regret crossing her face, but it’s gone just as quickly, making me wonder if I imagined it.
A self-deprecating laugh bursts out of me. Turning, I grip the door handle. “The girl who mesmerized me was an illusion. Because you’re a coward.”
“I’m not a coward,” she cries out. “I was there for a weekend getaway with my best friend. I wasn’t there to hook up or to find a guy.”
Inhaling deeply, I yank the door open, saying over my shoulder, “Next time we meet, have the decency not to look at me like you want me.”
I slam the door behind me, but not before I hear her deep sigh.
Women have wanted me for my status, for my looks, for my money. It’s better if they come to me. It spares me the fucking headache and heartache of wanting a woman who left simply because I am who I am.
My crime: playing football and loving the game.
There are two types of athletes. Those who get lost in fame, money, and women, and those who stay focused and determined. I am in the second category. Lilly would have found that out if she were brave enough. Instead, she labeled me a hazard, and that sucks. She’s not interested in me. Like she said, it was a one-night stand.
She was meant to be the one that got away.
Fine. I can now stop searching for her, seeing her face in every woman, and picturing introducing her as my girlfriend to everyone.
