"How long have the two of you been together?"Not very long. But when you know, you know.
"Will she be at more games, and will you follow her on tour when the season is over?"Yes, and yes.
"Is your new wife pregnant?"No. And even if she were, it would be none of your business.
"Do you have any questions for me about basketball, or is my private life the only thing you guys seem to care about?"I’d asked them, which got me a warning look from Coach. Orlando shook his head at me from the corner of the room.
"We just never thought of you as the type of person to settle down."I never met the right person until now.
I answered everything the way Orlando told me to. But just because I was expecting questions like that, it didn’t make them any less grating.
I’m an athlete, yet all people seem to care about is my personal life. Like having someone secure on my arm is the only fucking thing that’s important.
I guess my manager’s plan is working.
My phone chimes in the background, and I realize I left it in my gym bag that’s still full and sitting on the floor at my front door.
I’ve been too wrapped up in replaying the game on my TV to see exactly where my fouls were genuine, or when the ref was making calls out of his ass.
So far, I’ve spotted zero mistakes on my end and multiple on the referee's.
Groaning, I turn off the TV and press an ice pack to my ribs, letting the silence and darkness settle over the room.
After a minute, I roll off the couch to grab my phone, dump the contents of my bag into the laundry basket for tomorrow-me to deal with, and head for the bedroom.
I ignore the notification and open Instagram. My feed is filled with nothing but the game, and snaps from the press conference with quotes directly from my mouth, typed into the caption right below it.
Olive is tagged in the photo, too, even though she isn’t in it.
It’s only then that I realize I don’t follow her.
I posted a video from her show the other night with the crowd completely in awe.
I didn’t tag her. Didn’t follow her.
And so, I do what any newly-married man would do: Follow her account, and go through her feed, liking every piece of content she’s posted.
Every single picture gets a double tap, or a comment with a fire emoji or the simple heart eyes.
My phone pings, and at first I think it’s just a reminder of the message from Orlando that I ignored earlier, but it’s not.
It’s Olive’s name on the screen. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes looking at pictures of her, like some obsessed husband.
And now, she’s reached out.
It hits me harder than I want to admit.
Because whatever this is—whateverweare—I’m already in too deep. And part of me doesn’t even care anymore.
I just want more of her.
Olive Herring
Stalking me, are you?
Shouldn’t you be asleep?
You’re right. Goodnight!
