“Oh, I had,” Delaney said, kicking off her shoes. “I was happy with my time, but Sloane got me thinking. I don’t want to settle for midfield. I want to win races.”
“The great Sloane Foster got to you, too?”
“How could she not?” Delaney raked a hand through her hair. The light streaks in the dark strands popped nicely tonight. Reese was jealous. “She’s an effective speaker. For someone who comes off kind of contained. I didn’t expect that. But, fuck. I gotta get it together.”
Reese groaned and covered her face with her hands. She felt her filter falling away. She was too exhausted not to be honest. Especially with Delaney. “Pretty sure I hit on her.”
“I’m sorry. What did you just say?” Delaney blinked. “You’re definitely not talking about Sloane Foster.”
“I am. I’ve hit on her twice now.” She winced. “I have a problem. And her name is Sloane. She does things to me.”
Delaney opened her mouth, then shut it. “I have too many questions to form words.”
Before she could recover, there was another knock at the door. Reese dropped her hands and stared, wide-eyed. “What’s happening right now?”
“It’s Cassidy and Marissa,” Delaney said, heading that way. “I invited them before I knew this was a VIP teammate-only party full of unbelievable confessions. I didn’t know those were a thing.”
“They’re not. Let them in. We have that pact, remember? The grid thing that Cassidy said.”
“Right, right, right. Excellent, because at this point I need backup—and witnesses.”
“Witnesses? I didn’t murder anyone,” Reese called after her.
Delaney swung open the door. “Yeah, well, this is equally shocking.”
Marissa frowned, holding up a grocery bag. “What is? I brought snacks. Good ones.”
“Our friendship continues to improve,” Delaney said, grabbing a bag of Doritos as Marissa passed.
Cassidy followed with a grin, carrying two sacks of what looked to be sparkling water, cold brew, and Gatorade Zero. “And multiple hydration options.”
“You’re both hired,” Delaney said, stepping aside. “Grab a spot. There’s news.”
Cassidy flopped down on the couch beside Reese, eyeing her. “Why do you look like you can’t decide whether to nap or host a rave?”
“It’s been a lot,” Reese said.
“What’s the news?” Marissa asked, already unloading her spoils onto the kitchenette counter. Pop-Tarts spilled forth in every flavor known to humankind—chocolate fudge, strawberry frosted, cookies and creme, peanut butter and jelly—like a pastry rainbow had just unfolded in Reese’s hotel room.
Reese blinked. “Did you rob the convenience store? What in the world is happening over there?”
“It’s a whole thing. I get ridiculously hungry after driving,” Marissa said, utterly unapologetic. She tossed Reese a box of Brown Sugar Cinnamon, the best one, obviously. Reese tore it open and pulled out a silver-wrapped pair like it was a sacred treasure.
“The news,” Delaney said, raising her voice over the crinkle of foil, “is that Reese apparently hit on Sloane Foster.”
Silence fell. Even the air vent seemed to pause.
Reese froze midbite. “What? Is that … awful?”
“Only you would wonder that,” Delaney said, arm outstretched in mystification. “You have such absurd luck with women that I don’t think you even recognize the concept of ‘out of your league.’ You’re completely unmoored from dating reality.”
“I dispute that,” Reese said, chewing. “I know she’s out of my league. But I’ve had, what, four or five encounters with her now, and each time I’m more and more attracted to her.”
Cassidy nodded thoughtfully. “That’s understandable. She’s beautiful.”
Reese squinted at her. “Wait—are you gay? I don’t mean to pry, but considering we’re eating Pop-Tarts in an underwatertheme park of a hotel, it feels like the right moment for radical honesty.”
“Valid,” Delaney said, biting into her own Pop-Tart.
