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“You’re at a party?” Hallie asks.
Natalie and some of the other girls are still squealing in the background.
“We’re having some people over.”
Hallie laughs. “All right, I’ll let you celebrate. Talk soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply, then hang up.
Emma calls me over with a request to autograph the magazine as an honorary German. She’s drunk, and I drain my glass to make sure I’m close to getting there myself.
I take a perverse sort of pleasure in scribbling my name in black Sharpie over Beck’s gorgeous face, then head into the living room.
Two shots and a game of beer pong later, I’m dragging Drew upstairs. We stumble into my bedroom, and I slip on a stray sock. I laugh like I’m watching a sitcom as I pretend to ice skate the rest of the way to my bed, flopping atop it as though I’ve just successfully landed a triple axel. Drew watches me with a bemused expression and then walks over to my mattress, draping his muscular frame over mine. He kisses me, and it’s pleasant. Familiar. So is the way his hand wanders under my shirt to unfasten my lacy bra.
“Fuck, Saylor. I missed you.” His erection presses against my thigh.
He’s into this. And I’m…not. My brain won’t shut up. My mind keeps spinning like the inside of a washing machine, the thoughts an endless tangle.
There’s no desperation. No urgency. No eagerness.
It’s not like it was with Beck.
The thought of his name is a bucket of ice-cold water, and any pleasure dissipates.
I turn my head right as his fingers reach the edge of my thong. “I’m going to throw up.”
Yeah, subtlety? Still not my strong suit.
I push Drew aside and run down the hall to the bathroom, banging the door shut behind me. I hover over the toilet, waiting for my churning stomach to expel something, but nothing comes up. So, I lie down on the cool tile floor, grateful Anne cleaned it yesterday.
“Saylor? You okay?” Drew’s voice comes from the hallway.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m going to call it an early night.”
Silence. “Um, okay then. Feel better.”
Steps clomp back down the hallway. I sit up to lock the bathroom door and then lie down on the floor again, staring up at the ceiling. The bass beat of whatever pop ballad is blasting vibrates against my spine as I study the cracks in the plaster that crisscross in ribbons. I trace the patterns they make until I start to feel dizzy. Then I pull out my phone. The screen is covered with notifications I ignore. Instead, I pull up the web browser and type Adler Beck into the search bar. I disregard the first few articles that pop up, probably about the cover Natalie brought over.
I tap on Images and watch as photo after photo loads. Pictures of him on the field, at press conferences, ad campaigns. I keep scrolling and scrolling…until my eyes start to prickle.
I set my phone down on the tile and close my eyes, feeling alcohol and confusion course through me.
We won today.
I played the best game of my college career.
Everything I’ve worked so hard for is falling into place. I’m on track to accomplishing the lofty goals I set for myself a long time ago.
I should be downstairs celebrating with my teammates or in my bedroom celebrating with Drew.
But all I can think about is him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Nice face art” is how Emma greets me when I stumble into the kitchen the following morning. “That pattern looks a lot like our bathroom floor. Oh, wait…” She taps her chin with her index finger, making an exaggerated expression of confusion.
I pass her to fill a mug with steaming coffee. “Yes, I spent the night sleeping on the bathroom floor, and it was just as uncomfortable as it sounds. Can we please move on?” I hold my face over the mug so I can inhale the scent.
