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“How are you?”
“How am I? If it wasn’t for this little scrap of lace in my pocket that I tore off you last night I might have thought you were the most beautiful dream I ever had. And now I’m wondering why you ran out on me.”
“I didn’t run out on you.”
His silence isn’t silent at all. He’s outside somewhere and there are people in the distance. He’s breathing sort of heavily. “Are you in your room?” he asks gruffly.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?” The question is so protective, so sincere, my yearning flares and my eyes sting with tears. Fuck this whole situation. Why does the perfect man have to be delivered to me in the form of the one thing I can’t have?
“I’m fine, Elias. Are you okay?”
He exhales an irritated laugh. “No, Zara, I’m not okay. I’m definitely anything but okay. I’m on my way to training, then classes, then practice. But I need to see you tonight.”
“I don’t…” I waver. Damn it, I have to be strong about this. For him. If I give an inch, I’ll totally crumble. So I steel myself and tell him what he has to accept. “No, Elias. I can’t see you tonight. I…I had a fun night with you—
“Zara—”
“It can’t happen again, Elias. You know that. I don’t want you to contact me. I’ll come to the game on Saturday but I don’t want you to come find me. I mean it. It’s better this way, we both know that. You have too much to lose and I refuse to be the cause of it. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Zara, don’t you dare—”
I end the call, powering off my phone.
Then, for the first time in two years, I cry my heart out.
14
I immediately call her back.
The little minx doesn’t answer. It rings ten times then goes to her voicemail. The sound of her banal little recording pisses me off even more.
Hi, it’s Zara. Please leave a message.
She sounds so fucking cute I want to punch my fist into the nearest wall. Don’t call me? I had a fun fucking night with you? I don’t want you contacting me?
There’s a beep. “Zara. I told you to leave it to me and I meant that. I’ll handle your dad. I’m coming to your studio tonight and I want you to be there. We can figure this out, Zara. I’ll figure this out,” I say again, like a fucking lunatic. “You have to trust me—” There’s another beep, cutting me off.
Fuck.
I call her again. “I know this sounds…intense. And it is. Last night meant something to me. It was the best night of my life and I fucking mean that. I need to see you again. Be there when I come to your studio tonight—” Beep.
Fuck!
I punch the call button. “Come on, Zara. Answer your phone. Don’t regret anything that happened last night. It was too good to regret. You know that. We both know that. You should have woken me up, baby. I would have convinced you not to run from me—”
Fucking fuck. I call her back.
“Zara, I’m fucking addicted to how good you feel. And the way you taste, holy fuck, Zara. I need to see you. Tonight. Please—” Beep.
I’m seriously about to smash my phone into smithereens. I just left a string of desperate messages on her phone, which is not only pathetic but also a stupid fucking thing to do. Not that Coach would have access to Zara’s phone, but still. I need to be smarter about this.
I grab a fistful of my hair. Shoving my phone into my pocket, I count to ten as I walk toward the stadium with ground-eating strides.
Calm the fuck down.
I know how to center myself. I mastered the art of self-control a long time ago—when it comes to fucking football.
