Me: I’m sure this will all blow over. There’s bound to be another scandal any day now. Have you seen the piece on Xavier Henry on ESPN.com?
Heaven: Are you sure? I’ll have it pulled.
Me: Leave it alone.
In frustration, I toss my phone to the end of the bed, only to dive for it a moment later. I open Instagram and search for Hannah. The content here is totally different. This appears to be her personal account.
There aren’t tons of pictures of her in there, but from the few selfies I do find, she looks good.
There’s also nothing about soccer on her Instagram, which is odd because her ClikClak account is all sports. Or sports parodies.
The Dog Park Games is some genius material. I watch them all again. And again.
She smiles at the end of one of the videos and instantly I’m transported back, the feeling punching me in the gut.
“You know what, I don’t think you’re the hot shit you seem to think you are. In fact, I’d bet money you go home alone tonight.” Hannah took a step closer to me, her finger poking my chest.
“You wanna bet?” I licked my lips, looking at hers. They were mere inches from my own. I wanted to taste them. I’d wanted to for a long time. She’d never given any indication the feeling was mutual, so I wasn’t going to make things weird by hitting on her.
“Yeah, I do. I don’t think you get laid all the time. I think you’re too focused on soccer to waste time on women, but you also don’t want anyone to know that. You’re not going home with anyone tonight, Cally.” I didn’t realize there was any space left between us until she closed the distance, her body pressing into mine.
I was on fire and instantly hard.
“You want me to put my money where my mouth is?”
She nodded.
“So it’s a bet?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.
Hannah nodded again.
Her head had barely stopped moving when I lifted her chin with my hand and captured her mouth with mine. That’s all it took.
I drop my phone and cover my eyes, trying to press the images of her out of my memory. No matter how hard I try, they all come rushing back.
I look at the clock. Damn, I’m going to miss my PT appointment if I don’t get moving. I’m not the type to run late. I can’t afford the hour I just wasted watching Hannah on ClikClak.
This. This is why I don’t have relationships. I can’t afford to be distracted. Losing in the semifinals means I’m going to have to work that much harder to get named to the National Team. Harder training. Harder diets. Harder ... everything.
But thinking of Hannah and our night together all those years ago, there’s another part of me that’s hard.
Dammit.
I don’t have time for this.
I jump in the shower, blasting the water on cold. It’s the last thing my muscles need before what’s sure to be a grueling workout and therapy session.
Right. That’s what I need to focus on. Getting stronger. Jumping higher. Moving faster.
Block the shot.
Go to the Global Games.
I just need to put Hannah out of my mind, like I did when I left for Nevada. As my phone dings with another text from Heaven, I have a feeling that’s going to be easier said than done.
