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The logo embroidered on the towel makes me smile. “You took towels from the team?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll return them once I buy some more.”
“Not sure they’ll want them back now.”
It’s shockingly natural, talking with him like this after what just happened.
He smirks before tossing the towel toward the bathroom. He grabs his shorts, stepping back into them and covering up the dick I wasn’t done looking at, honestly.
“I could have done it,” I say, sitting up and reaching for my dress. Remaining naked feels strange when he isn’t.
I know he understands what I’m referring to when he replies, “It’s fine.”
Same thing he told me last time.
Some insecurity appears. He knows I’m inexperienced. Maybe he doesn’t think I’ll know what to do. Be able to please him. “I’ve done that plenty of times before.”
His lips press together into a thin line before he turns and starts walking toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”
I stand and head toward the bathroom. “Sure. Some water.”
Will’s nod is the last sight I catch before I close the door.
EIGHTEEN
WILL
Isip some of the vodka Sophia brought the last time she came over, barely wincing at the burn when I swallow. It feels like penance. And, yeah, I’m trying to erase the memory of what happened on this couch earlier. The more I think about it, the more I’ll want it to happen again. And it can’t happen again.
She’s a virgin.
She’s Adler Beck’s sister.
Most importantly, she deserves better than a guy who’s about to be in the midst of a media shitstorm. Shawn’s putting out a statement, just like I asked. And Cassandra’s interview probably would have blown up anyhow, based on the attention the first story about us received. But me calling her a liar this time will be like pouring gasoline on a roaring bonfire.
The bedroom door opens, and Sophia steps out. She’s no longer wearing the sexy dress at least, but the sight of her in my clothes isn’t much better.
“Your water is on the floor,” I tell her.
She was right; I should’ve bought a coffee table. Decisiveness can have the downside of forgetting things.
“Thanks.” She picks up the glass and takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch.
We sip in silence at our respective clear liquids.
Turning on music while she was changing would have been a good idea. Or a baseball game. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it’s noticeable. I feel like I should say something, but I’m not sure what to tell her.
I drink more vodka, hating that Cassandra has followed me here. Hating her for dragging this drama out to suit her own purposes. Hating myself for how I let her gain an advantage over me in the first place.
Finally, I speak. “You heard how I ended up here?”
Sophia doesn’t reply right away. “I saw a few headlines.”
A diplomatic answer that also sounds like she’s maybe giving me the benefit of the doubt. More than most people I’d known for years bothered to do.
“I went out to a bar with some teammates, which I did a lot. Got drunk, which I also did a lot. We’d play hard. Party harder. There were usually women around.” I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the glass I’m holding. “One night, this woman approached me and said her name was Katie. She flirted with me. We did shots, I think. Honestly, most of the night is a blur. Someone took photos that made it pretty obvious what happened between us later. They recognized me. The photos got shared on social media. And then someone recognized her, and it all snowballed from there. Covers of magazines, conversations on talk shows…voided contracts. Her name was actually Cassandra Owens, and she was married to the guy who owned my old team. His fancy lawyers found a loophole in my contract, and no other team wanted to touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
I take another swig of vodka.
