“Can I buy you a drink, Claire?”
“From an open bar?”
His smile grows. “Unless you’re ready to leave with me and go to a bar that accepts my card?”
He’d have trouble finding one, is my guess. I’m sure he drinks for free wherever he goes; the allure of being able to say,Brady Simmons was here, is better than any marketing campaign.
“I can’t leave,” I inform him. “I have to give a speech.”
“What for?” Brady asks, looking intrigued.
“EmpowerEd is establishing a scholarship for female athletes. My coach asked me to announce it.”
“Miss? What would you like?”
I turn to face the bartender. “Club soda with lime, please.”
The man nods, then turns to the fridge to pull out a can.
“You’re not drinking?” Brady questions, sounding surprised.
“I’m giving a speech,” I say. “So, no. Public speaking and I don’t pair well together under sober circumstances, so I’m trying not to make a fool of myself in front of the entire city by talking into a microphone while tipsy.”
Brady laughs again as the bartender delivers my drink, ordering a whiskey for himself. “If you’re nervous, just picture everyone in their underwear.”
I shake my head. “Has that line ever worked for you?”
He grins. “One, it’s not a line; it’s commonly shared advice. Two, you tell me. I’ve never used it before. I’m not exactly in the habit of asking my dates to give speeches when we go out.”
Brady’s whiskey gets delivered. We move aside so that the next person can order.
I’m expecting for him to move on to talk to someone else, but he sticks by my side, heading toward one of the raised tables that’s been set up around the periphery of the ballroom.
“Have you worked with EmpowerEd before?” Brady asks.
I take a sip of my soda and then set it on the crisp tablecloth, shaking my head. “I hadn’t heard of them before,” I admit. “You?”
He nods. “I’m on their board of directors.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s great.”
I pegged Brady as being boastful and superior and now feel guilty about that presumption of a swaggery quarterback stereotype. I don’t know anything about him really, aside from his profession.
“Guess I should have led with that.” He winks. “Historically speaking, mentioning my house on Nantucket or?—”
“Caldwell.”
That’s all he says—my last name—and the rest of the room blurs around me. I spin, staring at Otto.
He’s with Nicole—Coach Green—but I barely register her presence. He’s wearing a tux, the stark black fabric contrasting his tan skin and golden hair. I saw him a few hours ago in the Siege locker room. I’ve seen him hundreds of times in the past few months. Yet I’m still not immune. Some part of me has always been aware that our time together is limited, that hispresence is finite, and so I’m still greedy. Still soaking the sight of him in, even though I have his features memorized, to the extent that I could draw them in the dark, blindfolded.
“Hi, Coach Berger.” I glance at Nicole. “Hey, Coach Green.”
She smiles. “I think you can get away with calling me Nicole here. Eliza mentioned you’d been selected to announce the scholarship. That’s a huge honor. Congratulations, Claire.”
“Thanks.” I smile back, battling the urge to look at Otto.
I reach for my glass, swallowing a large sip.
