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“He didn’t fall for the infamous Saylor Scott charm? The one that makes men profess their love outside in the middle of the night?”
“That happened once,” I reply.
“Once more than it’s happened to the rest of us,” Emma shoots back.
I roll my eyes, then remember she can’t see me. “I’m in the middle of something. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I hang up before she can answer and start scrolling through some of my other notifications. Most of them are from friends back home. “I’ve got to go,” I inform Beck.
He’s got one elbow tucked back behind his head, lounging in the streaks of sunset that sneak between the half-drawn shades.
Ellie’s latest text asking where I am contained five question marks.
Beck sits up when I climb out of bed. “Who was on the phone?”
“A friend from back home.” I clear my throat before pulling my clothes back on. “She, uh, saw some photos from earlier. The camp.”
I’ve stared at the poster of Beck on her wall countless times. I spend more time in Emma’s bedroom than my own. I’ve totally lost the perspective of reality, thinking I could just casually mention who I spent the summer fucking to my best friend when I return to Lancaster’s campus. She’s freaking out because I was standing on the same field as him.
He pulls on a pair of shorts and follows me into his living room. “Is that a problem?”
“Nope. I’ll just have a lot of questions to answer when I get home next week.”
“Next week?”
“That’s when Scholenberg ends. When I’m heading home.”
An approaching date I’ve avoided thinking about. That I haven’t mentioned. I wasn’t sure if Beck knew when the program ends, but his startled expression now is telling me the answer.
There’s a knock on his door.
I scrape my hair up into a ponytail as I watch him walk over to answer it. He’s never had a visitor when I’ve been over here before.
There’s a woman with black wavy hair and perfectly proportioned features standing on the opposite side of the doorway. I’m pretty sure I recognize her. She’s a Russian tennis star who’s dabbled in modeling. I think she won Wimbledon last year.
“Alesandra.”
“Beck.” She practically purrs his name.
This is good. Great. Beck obviously wasn’t expecting her, based on the surprise on his face. But it’s a necessary reminder. This is a glimpse of what his life will look like after I leave. Maybe this is what it’s looked like this whole time.
“You’ve got a great backhand,” I tell Alesandra as I pass her and head into the hallway. Her pretty face creases with confusion, glancing between me and Beck.
“Saylor,” he calls out.
“Bye, Beck.” I wave a hand, but don’t look back as I walk down the carpeted hallway. My eyes remain fixed on the gleaming floor of the elevator as soon as the doors ding open.
Anything to avoid facing the fact that Beck being with someone else bothers me.
That’s a problem only denial can fix.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
This. This is perfection. The smell of freshly cut grass. The feel of warm sun saturating my skin. The sound of labored breaths as other players struggle to keep up with me.
I spin, elbowing Olivia as I fight to continue my progress up the field. She grunts as my arm makes contact with her stomach, but keeps pressing.
Finally, I break free—only to be stopped by the sound of Coach Weber’s whistle. Followed by a second long pull.
“That’s it,” she announces.
