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“It’s been a while,” she says. “I haven’t seen you at the bars. You hanging somewhere new these days?” Her desperation isn’t attractive.
“I haven’t been going out as much.”
She pops a hip and pouts. Her lips are red like cherries, or blood, or Satan’s ball sac. “That’s too bad. I think some of us are going to the club tomorrow night. You should come.”
“I’m out of town. Maybe another time.” I step out of the way so she can get to the bathroom. “I should, uh . . . give you some privacy. The fan doesn’t work in there.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, but I don’t care. I need to get away from this mostly naked chick who I evidently have a brief history with. I leave her to do her thing and head back to the pool. It’s no better.
A few girls have gotten in the water. Two of them are latched onto Randy, their hair pulled up in ponytails. More of them are losing their shirts and shorts, so it’s skin, skin, and more skin. Some chick hands me a beer, and I take it, since it’s the polite thing to do.
Unwilling to get back in the pool with all the half-naked girls in there, I drop down in one of the lounge chairs on the patio.
“Oh my God! You’re Buck Butterson! But your real name is Miller, right?”
A curvy brunette is standing right in front of me, and her friend, a skinny blonde, looks horrified. I’m shocked she knows my real name.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—God, I can’t—you’re amazing. I love you. I mean, you’re an awesome player. Chicago won after you got traded! And that was bogus on Miami’s part. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. The media can suck it. Anyway, you were outstanding during the finals. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can stop myself.”
I smile. She’s a real fan—the kind who gets genuinely excited about the game, and not just about my dick.
“It’s cool.” I extend my hand.
She grabs it and squeezes, shaking harder than necessary. “Jessabelle.” Her cheeks go a vibrant shade of red. “But my friends call me Jellie.”
“Like peanut butter and jelly?”
“But with an -ie on the end. Is that weird? It probably is. Is it okay for me to call you Miller? I know you go by Buck, but if it’s okay—”
“It’s cool. You’re cool. Take a breath.”
“Wow. Great. Awesome. You’re so blond. You’re like a real-life Ken doll, but your hair’s not plastic. Who’s the girl who always posts stuff about you being a yeti?” She glances at my arms. “You don’t have that much hair.”
Fucking Vi and her comments on Facebook. “I only turn on the yeti moon.” When all I get is a blank look, I say, “My sister thinks it’s hilarious to post that BS.”
She nods like she understands. “She’s funny, right? Do you think I could get a picture with you?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I don’t consider her outfit—she’s in a pair of booty shorts and a bikini top that barely covers her nipples—or that I’m only wearing a pair of swim shorts.
She pulls her phone from her back pocket and hands it to her friend. Then she drops down in my lap and wraps herself around me. Before I can stop her, Jellie’s friend starts snapping pics.
“Whoa! Hold up!” I raise my hands in the air so I’m not touching her anywhere. Well, except for where she’s touching me with all her bare skin, which is a lot of places. “You can’t post those.”
Her friend stops clicking away and once again looks like she’s about sink into the cement. I move Jellie off of me, touching as little of her as possible. “I have a girlfriend. My lap isn’t your chair.”
“Oh! Oh shit. I thought that was a rumor. I mean, God. You’ve never had a girlfriend, and I thought maybe since there weren’t any pictures in the last few weeks you were done . . .” she trails off.
“We’re not done.”
“Not even after last night?”
What would she know about last night? “I was out with the guys.”
She gets this weird look on her face. She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I just . . . you’re an awesome player.” She snatches the phone from her friend and starts deleting pictures, or that’s what I assume she’s doing. I don’t want to be a creepy asshole and stand over her shoulder to make sure she deletes them all.
“It’s cool. I just don’t want problems. You know?”
“Sure. Right. Of course.”
I let her friend take another, far less problematic picture of us standing next to each other, somewhat awkwardly, while smiling. “Well, if you ever break up and you’re looking for someone to make you feel better, you can always hit me up on Facebook.”
