If she’s trying to deter me, she’s doing it the wrong way. I’m already calculating, deliberating if I should pull her on my lap or if I should?—
My phone buzzes. I ignore it, covering Claire’s mouth and exploring it with my tongue. I know exactly how she likes to be kissed, what will make her moan and beg and seek more friction, which is exactly what she’s doing now.
My mouth moves down her neck, headed for her breasts, when she repeats my name. This time, she sounds serious.
“You’re getting another call.”
I groan, rolling on my back and reaching for the vibrating device. I swear when I see it’s Beck calling.
I told him—fuck, I can’t remember what I told him. The call goes to voicemail, and I curse again when I see the time. “I have to go.”
I twist to give Claire a last lingering kiss, then sit up, sorting through the mess of clothes on the floor. “Have you seen my shirt?”
“No.” She’s standing, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her.
I pull on my pants, locate my hoodie, then resume looking for my shirt.
“Who was calling?”
“Beck,” I reply, tossing my favorite bra—black lace—toward the laundry pile.
“Is he upset you’re with me?”
“What?” I glance at her, frowning. “He does not know I am with you.”
“You’re still lying to him?”
“Well…yes.”
I give up on my shirt, standing and yanking my hoodie on.
We’re one match away from a gold medal. If I tell Beck I’ve been sneaking off to have sex every chance I get, he’ll lecture meabout prioritizing getting laid over winning. And I don’t need a lecture. I know what I can handle. Claire’s been good for my concentration. I haven’t gone out partying once since the night we met. I sleep, practice, and spend time with her.
When I finally do tell Beck, he’ll probably sayI told you so. He maintains his relationship with Saylor has helped his performance, which I privately considered unlikely.
“So, you haven’t told anyone about us?” Claire asks.
“Uh…no.” It’s the honest answer, but I’m suddenly not sure it’s the right one.
My closest friends are here in Paris, on the team with me. My teammates who aren’t here are busy enjoying their summers before preseason starts. My parents are gone, and I can’t have a civil conversation with Opa about the weather, let alone a woman. My publicist will say being single is part of my brand or some shit like that.
Who would I tell?
“Do you…normally?”
I still, unease trickling through me. Claire has never asked about other women. We had the exclusive conversation before we stopped using condoms, so she knows I’m not sleeping with anyone else. And I assumed she had some sense of my reputation, that photos of me exiting clubs with a woman—sometimes with women—get posted online and are speculated about by the press. I don’t share those sorts of details, so there’s never been anything to tell my friends or teammates.
If she’s not aware of my reputation, I’m not sure how to phrase that in any way that won’t lower Claire’s opinion of me.
“I do not normally do any of this.”
Also true. But once again, I feel like I’ve said something wrong. Neither of us has moved, but it suddenly feels like there’s more space between us.
I rub the back of my neck. “I just meant…” My voice trails.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to say.
“I know what you meant.”
