Houston.
Phoenix.
Las Vegas.
Four states. Twelve shows combined.
And no free days in between.
No time to come see him, and none for him to see me.
I don’t let it get to me.
"Good game," I tell Avery. The two of us sit side by side in his car.
Discomfort is looming its way over both of us, rearing its ugly head in places we don’t want.
"I’m not sure you actually watched the game that I just played. But thanks, I guess," he replies, smile lines deepening on his cheeks.
"I did," I say, more defensive than I meant to. "You got to shoot like ten free throws, completely unguarded."
I fold my arms and stare at him, but he stays focused on the road like I’m not even there.
"If you’re going to be mywife, I need to teach you the rules of basketball."
My whole body stiffens.
That wordwifesounds too loud to ignore. It’s fake. A performance. A glossy lie to patch up his public image. And we both know it.
But somehow, it’s starting to feel different.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
"Lesson number one," he continues. "It’s called a free-throw line. Or the foul line—because I got fouled at least ten times while taking my chance at a shot." He shakes his head.
"But you still won, right?"
"Wrong again, Olive. Our first loss of the season. And by the way, if you’re going to be supporting me in the crowd atmygames, you need a jersey with my name and number on it. Not someone from a TV show with some basketball player who isn’t even real." He rests his hand on my thigh, squeezing it firmly before removing it altogether.
I miss the feeling of his calloused touch instantly.
"Firstly, Nathan Scott is the only player I’ve ever cared to know about. Secondly, fine. You’re just lucky blue and white go well against my skin tone." I huff, collecting my phone from my lap, opening the teams website to buy myself a jersey. I pause mid scroll. "I don’t know where to have it delivered to. I don’t exactly have a home base for the next few months." I lock my phone, and place it into the center console feeling a little defeated.
He reaches into the backseat of his car, and I hear the sound of a zip, followed by clothes ruffling as he grunts. Avery pulls his blue gym bag over from the back seat, nearly hitting my head,and dumps it in my lap. "Here. Go through this. I think I have one in here that I wore at training this week."
The stench of sweat burns up my nostrils and into the back of my throat as I look down. "Just what every girl wants. An unwashed, sweat-filled item of clothing from her pretend husband that she has no choice but to wear to his games."
"Don’t act like the thought of a sweaty man doesn’t get you excited. Don't think I didn't notice your thighs clenched while watching the game."
"Okay, okay," I say loudly, raising my hands, accepting that he’s right.
I’m a woman with needs, and it just so happens my bodyneedsthis man in ways she’s never needed anybody before.
Sue me.
Taking the blue and white jersey out of his bag, I throw it at my feet, zip the duffle back up, and toss it over my shoulder into the backseat.
"Where’s your ring?" he asks, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of the music drifting through his speakers.
