Chapter 3
Kady
There have been times in my life when I’ve been less than supportive of my brother’s basketball career.
My disinterest is simply this: Cade’s achievements in sports drew away the attention from me – which I abhorred. If there’s one thing I am, it’s an attention whore. I enjoy being the center of attention.
I began to hate my brother’s involvement in the sport at an early age when it became all that my parents talked about. It was as if the entire focus of our family was Cade’s game. Every weekend when we were younger and didn’t have a life of our own yet, my sister and I were carted off to one of his tournaments. Kylah would dutifully watch and cheer from the stands, one of her trusty books in hand to read during the games. I didn’t enjoy books or basketball and was bored silly.
We didn’t have phones or iPads back then to keep us entertained, but as we entered our teens, I soon realized how easy it was to grab the attention of and collect cute teenage boys’ hearts by using my feminine wiles. Finding ways to flirt with boys became my favorite pastime and getting them to fall all over me became an obsession. A sport of my own, if you will.
Not much has changed since I was fourteen. Now I’m just a bit older and wiser, and a little more selective in who I’ll spend my time on to charm. Basketball is still one of my least favorite activities, and lord knows I haven’t gone to a game since Cade was in his first NCAA tournament, but I must admit that I’m thankful for Cade’s basketball connections. Otherwise I wouldn’t have a place to sleep tonight.
Cade somehow worked a miracle in less than twelve hours from my initial call. Right now, my older brother is my hero. I take back all the nasty names I’ve called him over the years. Well, almost all of them.
When Cade called me back last night and told me he had someone for me to stay with, I about bowed down and worshipped at his feet. He’d apparently contacted Christian’s brother, Gavin Lancaster, who just so happens to live here in Florence. A U.S. basketball player, of all things, playing for a Florence team. A guy whom I’m meeting in a matter of minutes.
At least until I figure out what the hell I’m going to do from here.
I don’t know anything about Gavin – except his name and that he’s presumably tall because, well, he’s a basketball player. I’m surprised Kylah and I don’t have neck problems from craning our necks all these years when hanging with Cade and his massively tall friends. They tower over our five-foot-three stature.
Other than the few things Cade divulged, I’m blissfully unaware of who he is. All I know is the dude has offered me a place to stay for a few days. I guess not all basketball players are egotistical assholes.
I’ve never been interested in dating basketball players. Hot, poetic musicians? Absolutely. Bad boys? Oh, hell to the yes. Tortured, broody artists? Bring them on. I’ve dated my fair share of guys with no agenda of falling for them or trying to change them. I like fun flings where no one gets hurt. And no strings attached.
I guess it might be the thrill I seek. The challenge of winning a guy over. Getting him to lose focus on everything else and making him go gaga over little ol’ me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a man-eater or anything. There’s no deceit or dishonesty in my approach to hooking up with a guy. And I never steal a guy who is already taken. I learned the hard way and that shit doesn’t happen in my book.
Unfortunately for me and my philosophy on love and men, there is a very unfair, socio-stereotype that is typically given to women like myself. My reputation started in high school and I couldn’t shake it in college. And then the bottom fell out this past spring when I was caught in, let’s say, a compromising position that made its way across campus Facebook pages and Twitter accountsfaster than you can say lickety-split.
Aidan was my Philosophy 101 TA. He was young, hot, smart and treated me with the utmost respect. We started hooking up in late March, right after spring break. The only person who knew about us was Izzy. Unfortunately, the world and all the gossip mongers and twittering opinionated assholes seemingly have a problem with students having sexual relationships with instructors who hand out grades.
Oh, Aidan graded me all right. He professed that if he had to grade my oral skills, I’d receive an A plus on merit alone.
The time I spent with Aidan was an intense affair. But it ended the minute I found out he had a fiancée.
Had I had any idea he was engaged or in a relationship, nothing would have ever happened. But by then, it was too late and word leaked around campus. I’d be lying if I said the behind-the-back whispers and hateful posts didn’t bother me. They were unfair and hurtful and didn’t accurately represent who I was.
That’s part of the reason I came to Europe – to escape. I wanted to get away from the drama and the slut-shaming that seemed to follow me. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see a woman who was sleazy or a homewrecker, like they labeled me. I was just a girl who liked a guy. And because I’m a young woman, I’m automatically deemed a loose girl with even looser morals.
I don’t see it like that at all. I enjoy flirting and fucking. With guys, even though I did have a make-out session earlier in the semester with a girl. It was hot, but it wasn’t something I’d gravitate toward in a relationship.
Even as I sit in the back of this trattoria waiting for Gavin, sipping on my perfectly roasted espresso, I’ve observed several types of romantic coupling happening between all sorts of people. To me, it’s so obvious.Love is just like the coffee we drink. Some like it straight up, strong and unadulterated. Others enjoy different flavors and variations. Straight, gay, bi, trans, ménage – none of that matters to me. So why does it matter so much to other’s what another person is into sexually? And what makes it their right to judge my love life?
As I mull this over and continue making love to the espresso in my cup, my phone on the small wood table pings with an incoming text, at the same moment I hear a hushed roar of excitement rattle through the front of the shop. I lift my head to see what all the commotion is about, but due to the glare of sunshine, I only see a very tall silhouetted feature in the doorway, surrounded by several people, all speaking fast, exuberant Italian.
I know nothing about the sports culture in this country, but it becomes quickly apparent to me that the person walking into the café must be Gavin. I’m a bit surprised to see the type of reception he’s receiving and had no idea they consider him to be some sort of sports idol.
Great, another one like my brother.
It’s impossible for well-known sports heroes not to own huge egos. My brother had the biggest ego – and still does – when he played for ASU. Anytime he was out in public, he was mobbed by adoring fans – young, boys, girls, women, cougars – you name it. They all wanted to see, touch and get a piece of Cade “Griff” Griffin.
I glance back down at my phone and the incoming text. It simply says, “I’m here. Where are you?”
When I shift my gaze back up, I see Gavin is now chatting amiably with his enthusiastic admirers, signing coffee cups and napkins as he bestows practiced smiles. Part of his face is shadowed, so I’m only able to make out a portion of his profile. He’s close to six-foot-five, if I’d have to venture a guess. He wears a baseball hat on top of his head, shielding his eyes for the moment, but I can see the dark hair that’s buzzed on the sides, accentuated by a dark scruffy beard outlining his square jaw.
An adorable smile lights up the side of his face as he listens intently to a young boy, who’s maybe close to ten-years-old. It’s clear this boy reveres Gavin in a way only young fans do.
A few minutes pass and the crowd begins to clear, as Gavin’s eyes scan the room in search of me. Since I noticed him when he first walked in, I know he’s trying to locate me. When his gaze finally lands on me in the back corner of the room, I give him a little wave to beckon him back to my table.
