Page 22 of Chasing Clouds

Rolling to my back, I throw my arm over my face and think about all the shit that happened yesterday. I still can’t believe I married a girl I don’t know, and part of me expects film cameras to jump out and say, Just kidding!

The thing about marriage is I’ve always considered myself allergic to it—like, break out in hives at the mere suggestion of it—but today, I don’t really feel itchy, just more uncomfortable about the unknown. Maybe it’s because this marriage is fake, or maybe it’s because deep down I know I have nothing to lose . . . like my heart.

Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I see there are four missed calls from the team’s PR director and a ton from my agent.

Shit.

Sitting up, a sense of dread fills me. Despite the fact that I had an out-of-body experience yesterday when I willingly volunteered to be in this position, it never occurred to me to think about how bad the ramifications of this might be for other people in my life. I was singularly focused on her, and now that reality has set in, I know the hammer is about to fall.

A huge part of our team mission is “keepin’ it real.” We pride ourselves on setting ourselves apart from others in the league by no drugs, no arrests, and no scandal. This definitely has scandal written all over it, and suddenly I feel like this is the walk of shame times a thousand.

Swinging my feet over the edge, I crack my neck and mentally prepare myself for whatever is coming. I tap my agent’s name, and he answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Derek,” I say, my voice chipper. He knows I know why he’s been calling, but I refuse to lessen what yesterday meant to Camille, nor will I bow my head like a child being scolded.

He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound friendly—more sarcastic, with an edge to it—and I cringe. “So, I hear congratulations are in order?”

“Good news travels fast,” I say with a pleased and upbeat tone. There’s no need for him to make this more than what it is, and I will not feel bad about it.“Want to tell me what’s going on?” He sips from a drink and there’s a clunk as he sets it down.

What’s going on? That’s very similar to the question I’ve been asking myself for the last two days, and if I had a solid answer I would give it to him, but I don’t. I don’t feel like explaining myself, and I also don’t want to make things worse for her. The expression less is more is the best approach here.

“Not really.” As much as being shoved into the public eye comes with the territory of playing a sport on a professional level, this is nobody’s business, end of story. I rub my free hand across my thigh to shake off some of the uneasiness this conversation is provoking in me.

“Is she pregnant?”

A laugh breaks free and echoes around the room. Kids are great and all, but since I never planned on getting married, I’ve never really thought about them. In fact, I’ve spent years making sure all precautions were in place to prevent them.

“Not that I’m aware of.” My eyes skip to the wedding dress hanging on the back of the door and then to the one she wore last night, which is draped over the back of a chair. Both dresses fit her like a glove, and she looked incredible.

He lets out a sigh. “Well, that’s good. I’m not going to lie, I’m shocked.”

This is the reaction I’m going to get from most everyone. Yes, I’m shocked, too, but I can’t help but wonder if their shock is because they’ve not heard of us together, or because they have a hard time believing we’d end up together—someone like her with someone like me.

“You and me both,” I mutter.

“You’re aware of the organizational policies, Reid. They don’t make allowances, as you know.” Although the ink is barely dry on my five-year contract, that doesn’t mean much if they view me as a wildcard and a liability to the team. There’s always someone waiting in the wings, ready to prove how hungry they are and how replaceable we are.

“I do.” It’s the second time in two days I’ve said these words, and whereas yesterday was spontaneous and all for her, today feels leaded with expectations and is all about me.

“Here’s what’s going to happen: I’ve spoken to your publicist and the organization’s PR department, and everyone is in agreement on releasing a statement about you and your new bride. We are very happy for you both, and we respect the privacy you’ve requested since the very beginning of your relationship and encourage others to do the same. We wish you and Mrs. Jackson a long and happy marriage.”

“We appreciate that, Derek.” We. I’ve never been a we with anyone in my life. “If you need anything, you know how to find me.”

“Will do.” He hangs up.

Fuck me.

What the hell do I do now?

Think, Reid. Think.

Pacing the room, I run my hand over my face and shake my head. People are going to blow this situation out of proportion, and instead of viewing me as some type of chivalrous hero, they’ll paint me as a public embarrassment. I did a good thing for her, but somehow it has already turned into a bad thing for me.

That’s when I see it: a five-by-seven framed photograph sitting on top of the nightstand on her side of the bed.

Picking it up, I study the two girls in the picture. Both are wearing dance clothes, like they’ve just come from practice, and they’re both the same height and shape. This has to be Camille with her sister; they both look young, but that’s where the similarities stop.

Camille’s hair is pulled tightly in a bun on top of her head, her feet are in a dance position, and she’s smiling at the camera with that expression she wears to play the proper part. She looks a little different, but it’s still her; it must be the age difference. The other girl, however, has her hair dyed cotton candy pink, it’s in a sloppy ponytail, she’s not standing any way in particular except her arm is thrown around Camille, and her head is thrown back with her eyes squeezed shut as she’s laughing. Camille is gorgeous—she can’t help but be—but my eyes keep drifting to the sister. Whatever she’s laughing at, I find I want to laugh with her.