“Nice of you to join us,Sir Lucas.” Coach K glanced at his watch, then fed me a death glare. “Your tardy-to-the-party ass has caused the team forty-five extra minutes of sprints.”
Seemingly more brutal than normal, practice—the sprints, defensive tackles that knocked the wind out of me, offensive plays—grabbed me by the balls. My headspace, my thoughts, were in New York. Not hearing a peep from Macy fucked with me. I knew she was fine, alive, breathing, thanks to the never-ending slew of pictures posted on UCChat. But goddammit, she could’ve called, texted back.
After practice, a few of us went to Pancake Shack before our first class, and AJ’s wisecrack candor only escalated my irritation toward Macy.
“You get a look at Macy’s pics?” He shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Bro, it sure looks like she’s met someone in New York.”
As usual, he seemed oblivious to the fuck-off scowl I launched.
“Guy’s not bad looking either,” he babbled on as if enamored by the sound of his own voice. “I mean, for anyone into Thor look-alikes.”
“Oh, you mean Kirk The Dreamboat?” Levi, the team’s center quipped, fist over mouth. “That pic of him and Macy has been all over UCChat.”
“Really?” I shrugged, cramming pancakes into my mouth. “Haven’t noticed.”Liar.“Been kinda busy mentally preparing for our game tomorrow,” I added, the bold-faced lie larger than the long-standing rivalry between UCLA and Oregon State.
Truth is, my insides were ripped to shreds; visions of Macy meeting someone made me want to punch holes through walls.
“Guess you didn’t tell Macy about you and Harper?” AJ poured ketchup over his hash browns, the smug told-ya-so grin on his face typical for someone who specialized in talking shit.
“Haven’t had the chance considering she can’t be reached.” No longer interested in food that usually provided comfort, I tossed a handful of napkins over my plate.
“Wait. So, Mr. Lucas Almighty Stone’s been ghosted?” Levi’s shoulders quaked with laughter, and more teammates—Matt, Carter, Danny—joined his fist-over-mouth ha-ha bash.
Shaking my head, I shot up from the booth, ready to leave instead of smashing someone in two. “Whatever, shitbags. Y’all better be ready to beat the crap out of Sherlock Benson and his Ugly Ducklings Saturday.”
12
“You’ve got quite the impressive academic résumé and the fact your mother is an investigative journalist and your dad a screenwriter, writing is definitely in your DNA.” Chin tilted up, Kat Agassi, editor-in-chief ofHot Shotmagazine blinked, her scarlet-stained lips pursed.
I swallowed, head bouncing up and down since, apparently, a simple phrase like “thank you” required a GPS guide to find its way out of my mouth.
Even though I knew I’d have a sappy fangirl moment during a face-to-face encounter with the periodical goddess, I didn’t expect to sit there looking like some hybrid, deer-in-headlights-cat-got-your-tongue meme. Behind that ivory-colored desk, she resembled royalty perched on a throne. Chic. Intrepid.Badass. I swear,the queen bee of one of the world’s most-read online magazine—second toCosmopolitan—secreted the kind of confident swagger that would probably make someone like Beyoncé bow down and kiss the marble-tiled floor she floated on. An undeniable cross between Samantha Jones fromSex and the Cityand Miranda Priestly fromThe Devil Wears Prada,Kat rocked the hell out of her blond power bob, defined cheekbones, and flawless makeup.
Biting down on my lip, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the frantic drum of my heartbeat while feigning composure.Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Four days spent bouncing from department to department, surviving multiple panel interviews, it surprised me to learn I’d made an impression great enough to earn a place on Kat’s list of candidates summoned for one-on-one time. Reaching this point in the interview process had felt like an eternity, and I wasn’t ready to succumb to nervous defeat.
Kat’s mocha-colored eyes crawled over me, narrowing into what seemed a lot like judgmental little slits. “Tell me, Ms. Sinclair, why is it I can’t find any of your social media profiles?” She leaned back in her high-back chair, hands folded on her lap. “Here atHot Shot,we scope out a candidate’s Facebook, Insta, Snapchat, and Twitter accounts to make sure their posts, photos, hashtags don’t in any way clash with our diverse and inclusive culture.”
I swallowed, mouth dryer than the Sahara. “Actually, those profiles were deleted about four years ago under the advice of my academic advisor.”
Kat’s pencil-thin brows traveled north the same time her mouth curved into a kittenish smirk. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Well, UCLA devised its own social media platform, UCChat. It’s a blend of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter. The university highly encourages students to use that instead of any of the other four.” I sat up tall, legs crossed, an unexpected boost of self-confidence morphing me into Chatty Cathy. “This way, should we share or post something foolish during our crazy college years—I’m sure you can relate—they don’t come back to haunt us later, like when we’re busy trying to score a good-paying job, putting our hard-earned degrees to use.”
Kat said nothing at first, her inexpressive gaze steamrolling my confidence. “Smart of you to heed their advice. We turn away more than qualified applicants every day after coming across something they’d deemed trivial at the time of posting. Even trivial things could end up being detrimental toHot Shot’sbrand if discovered.”
I smiled timidly, feeling there must’ve been something she was leading up to. Did she come across something from my past?
Avoiding her unreadable assessment, my eyes roamed the larger-than-life office, cruising past its floor-to-ceiling Park Avenue view, walls adorned with blown-up cover photos ofHot Shot’sissues, before landing back on Kat’s evaluating perusal.
My phone bleeped, an all-too-familiar tone I meant to mute that morning.
Lucas.Stone.
He’d been calling and texting me nonstop, obviously failing to read the big-assI’m-ignoring-the-heck-out-of-youmemo that should have been clear as day. I figured he’d probably caught sight of pictures Sage posted of me and Kirk—the hottie Chris Hemsworth clone. Turned out, theotherhottie with him was actually his partner. Those photos? Staged. All orchestrated to make LucasassumeI’d met someone. He needed to focus on his fiancée, while I needed time to let my heart breathe, slowly ease out of love with someone it had no business falling for in the first place.
“Sorry,” I tittered, rummaging through my purse, determined to strangle the phone that just kept on beeping. “It’s my roommate—”
