“On it,” I reply. “You smell incredible. I like it.”
“Thanks. It’s my favorite perfume. I borrowed a bottle from Mom a few years ago, and now she buys me some every time she’s getting her own.”
“Nice.”
“Did you listen to the TriPostal album?”
“I did. I put it on while I lifted.”
Her mouth twists in disbelief. “It’s not exactly workout music.”
She’s not wrong. The beats were decent, but the singer was crooning sadly over them the whole time.
Still, I want recognition for a job well done.
“I had a homework assignment,” I retort. “Shouldn’t I get something for doing what I’m told?”
The words are out of my mouth before I process what I’m saying.
We both make the connection at the same time, and she smirks. “Well, you’ll definitely be doing what you’re told tonight, right?”
If I wasn’t driving, I’d give her a kiss in response.
Sadly though, I am. Driving that also is being compromised by the thought of what she might demand I do while wearing that little skirt, which is starting to make my dick swell.
“I need a new topic,” I admit. At this point, she knows I’m affected by her when she makes innuendos, so no need to hide it.
She relents, asking me about my obligations before training camp starts in a month, and I tell her a little more about the trip to Oregon for Grace.
“You’ll be around for the Fourth though?” she asks.
“Yeah, for sure. Mainly I’ll just be working on conditioning and getting in sync with Johnson around then. The team isn’t allowed to organize anything official until training camp.”
“Okay, perfect. Sarah is having a Fourth of July party at the house since we don’t have a game that night,” she explains. “You’re my plus-one.”
“I’d hope so,” I respond, smiling at her.
“There won’t be any professional photographers there, but it’d be super weird if you weren’t with me,” she elaborates. “Plus maybe some people will post candids from the party of us together.”
Oh, yeah. Our fake dating campaign.
“Right.”
“It’ll be fun,” she says. “My teammates will be there.”
I nod, and we begin talking about our favorite songs on the TriPostal album. “Favorite” is a stretch for me with this kind of music, but at the end of the day, I’m here for other reasons.
Before too long, we’re pulling into the VIP parking area, and we follow Taylor’s directions on where to head.
As we approach the VIP entrance, hand-in-hand with smiles on, camera lights flash. At this point, we’re a well-oiled machine and don’t even have to talk about it in advance. Her hand just slips into mine, and our lips turn up.
A man named Arn is our assigned escort, and he brings us backstage. We’ll be visible from the VIP section where we’ll watch the band, but at least we have the benefit of some privacy before the show.
Once we’re situated in the back, Arn starts making small talk. Apparently he’s married to the organizer of the festival, and a huge sports fan. So he eats up snippets that Avery and I share about our experiences with the Surge and Waves so far.
I start to relax. Being with Avery and Arn, chit-chatting, there’s nothing awkward, and soon our only public obligation will be to dance. Not a taxing night, all in all.
And after that, I get to see what Avery has in store for us. Alone.
