"What’s that supposed to mean, ‘Had it covered?’What did you do?" I cross my arms over my chest, staring into the depths of his soul, but he doesn’t flinch. He isn’t afraid of me at all.
"I did what I had to do." He rises from his seat. Turning his back on me, he looks out the window and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "People think you’re an asshole Ave. But basketball? Everyone knows you’re a weapon on the court. You were the best in the league once upon a time."
Once upon a time.
"But the fans are bored, brother. All they see from you these days is aggression. Fury. Fight. They’re over it. They want to seemorefrom you. And as your best friend,Iwant to see more from you."
I ignore the last part, because it’ll sting a little too much to know that I’m letting him down in ways I’d never considered.
"They don’t care about anything that isn’t basketball," I remind him, but he shakes his head.
"People want to see you as a family man. Hell, you’ve never had a girlfriend that lasted more than three months." He laughs as he turns to face me, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You’ve become a liability, skating on thin ice. Imagine how the world would react, seeingyouwith someone like Olive Herring."
"So you planted the seed? About her and me? You want everyone to believe that I’m seeing some girl who sings sad songs and is half my height?" Not overly accurate, but close enough. I’d guess she’s just over five feet, but compared to my six two, she looks…tiny.
"Exactly. Show that you have a softer side. You would be surprised at how much people actually care."
They don’t, they’re just nosy. They need celebrity gossip to survive their day-to-day.
"So, what? You want me touseher?" I hate how that makes my insides churn.
He shakes his head. "You’ll useeach other."
"What’s in it for her?" I ask, purely out of curiosity, not at all because I care. "Has she even agreed to it?"
There’s a knock at the door before he can answer.
Instead, he says, "I guess we’re about to find out."
"What do you mean?" It comes out like a hiss. This is the thanks I get for just wanting to live my life alone.
Going by the smug expression on his face, I don’t think I’ll ever be rewarded that particular luxury ever again.
"Come in," Orlando says, and I hurry to one of the three vacant seats in his office.
I look over my shoulder and freeze. Big, hazel eyes meet mine, wide and unblinking. Suddenly, I’m stone. Like my body forgot it ever belonged to me.
The betrayal I feel toward myself for letting it get this way is embarrassing.
I’ve seen her three times now. At the game, where she sat next to Akira, and I obsessed over the tiny smile she gave me. After her show, where she was sweaty, overwhelmed with meeting new people, and pissed at me. Then the YBAGB, where she looked absolutely breathtaking. That dress, with those heels giving her extra height, and a natural glow about her face.
Today, though, on day four of ever seeing this woman? Her chocolate hair is messy, in a bun on top of her head. Her oversized, gray hooded jumper is a lot cleaner than mine, black leggings hugging her thighs like they’re painted on.
And I cannot look away.
It’s by far the most attractive she’s looked to me, and I can tell she barely even tried. I oddly find myself at peace while looking at how relaxed and comfortable she seems.
Sculpted to total perfection.Those four words drip, drip,dripin my mind, but the closer to me she gets, the more I have to shove them back where they came from.
She isn’t perfect.
Nobody is.
I scrunch up my nose at the reminder I like to give myself, and go to turn away, but her sarcasm rips through me like a freight train, and I realize I’m staring.
"You’ve got a little bit of drool on the corner of your mouth, Jones," Olive says, and even though I know she’s lying, I wipe it with the back of my hand to be sure.
Unsurprisingly, it comes up dry.
