The rest of the flight, the PR team is bogged down in details, everyone calling different outlets and publications, chasing leads and hustling to rehabilitate our images. My shoulders bunch as I hear all the awful headlines they’re fighting, cruel things people are saying about me and Gabriel.
Desperate.
Liars.
Man-whore.
I try to block out the worst of it.
Over many years, Alyssa helped me craft a public image that worked. Something simple, easy to like, professional. And now I’ve gone and destroyed it in a single night.
We land and head straight to the hotel. Gabriel’s correct that our nighttime entrance is fairly easy. There are a few friendly photographers there, alerted ahead of time by our teams. But all Gabriel and I have to do is smile and wave as we walk through, a rote performance I’ve done at countless tennis matches and charity galas. Soon, we’re on an elevator to our private floor, occupied only by two suites, one for each of us.
We stand silently beside one another as the elevator climbs. I’m too exhausted to think of something to say. Gabriel pushes his hair behind his ears, and I see the flash of his knuckle tattoos, the phases of the moon.
It’s actually a kind of cool tattoo, but I’m definitely not ready to tell him that.
Right when he opens his mouth, the bell dings, and the doors open to the silver lobby that separates our units. I step out quickly, needing space so I can breathe. “Good night,” I say as I turn to rush into my room, but he stops me.
“Hey.”
I turn back. “Yes?”
“I watched one of your games.”
“What?”
“You said you listened to my music. I watched your game on the plane instead of taking my second nap. I usually hate sports. Fucking hate them.”
I sigh. “Wonderful. Good to know.”
Gabriel chuckles. His laugh is annoyingly endearing, warm with his musician’s baritone.
“You’re a fucking rock star, do you know that?” he asks.
“I believe that’s you.”
“No. I mean it. You’re all force and power. You roar when you hit the ball and muscle through every shot, but you play with remarkable precision, too. It’s artful. Reminded me of dueling guitar riffs. You’re a bold player, man.”
“Thank you.”
The compliment feels nice, as does the fact that he bothered to watch me play. Way nicer than it should, in fact.
I squirm, unsure what else to say, and my eyes drift up to the camera in the corner of the hallway.
“Oh, right,” he says, pushing a hand through his long hair. “Never know who might be looking.”
“The suites connect inside,” I say. “I guess we should enter and leave together. For appearances.”
“Makes sense.”
I nod toward my door. “Shall we?”
The inside of the suite is immaculate, a big open plan with sophisticated, modern design. I walk across the massive rug, my eyes darting out the windows that show Manhattan, the lights in the suite still mainly off.
Maybe it’s being in a hotel room. Maybe my brain is breaking. But my memory flashes back so hard to the night in Vegas, I almost think I remember the feel of Gabriel’s body, tight against mine.
“Here we are,” he says as he crosses by me, carrying his guitar toward the door on the far wall. “And don’t worry. I won’t walk in on you naked. I’ll always knock and wait until the count of two before I barge through.”
