“Not that kind of proposition.” He says it quickly, like he’s just realized how that sounded. “A… business proposition. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Canwe—” He glances toward the hallway, then back at me. “Can we talk? Somewhere private?”
My heart does a weird little stutter. Banks Callahan wants to talk to me. Privately. The same Banks Callahan who has spoken maybe twenty words to me total, most of them variations of “shut up” directed at other people.
This can’t be good.
“We’re alone,” I point out. “Everyone’s gone for the day.”
He nods once, then steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. The studio is dim; I usually like it with the overhead lights off, but now it feels almost too intimate—being alone in here with him. He looks around as if he’s casing the place for threats, then settles his gaze back on me.
“I talked to Dana,” he says.
“Okay…”
“About you. The situation.”
My stomach drops. “What situation?”
“The guys. The way they’ve been acting.” He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s affecting the team. Practice has been sloppy. Focus is shot. We have playoffs coming up.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I remain silent.
“It’s not your fault,” he adds, like an afterthought. “Just to be clear. None of this is your fault.”
“Thanks?” I’m so confused. “I still don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
He takes a breath. Lets it out. Looks at me with an expression that might be determination or might be constipation—it’s hard to tell with him.
“I have a solution,” he says. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“That’s a great sales pitch. Really compelling.” My mouth lifts into an awkward half-smile.
“Just—hear me out.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that’s annoyingly attractive. “The guys back off when something’s claimed. It’s like calling dibs. You claim a stall, a parking spot, the last slice of pizza—nobody touches it.”
I stare at him. “Are you comparing me to a slice of pizza?”
“I’m comparing you to—” He stops, frustrated. “That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is, if the guys think you’re with someone, they’ll back off. And if that someone is me, they’ll really back off.”
The words hang in the air between us. I wait for the punchline, for him to crack a smile and say “gotcha,” then walk out. He doesn’t.
“You want to pretend to date me,” I say slowly, ensuring I understand this correctly.
“Yes.”
I set down the mat I’m still holding because my hands need something to do. “And this would… make the guys leave me alone?”
“They won’t touch something that’s mine.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s explaining how gravity works. “They’re not that stupid.”
“Something that’s yours,” I repeat.
“Someone,” he corrects, though he doesn’t look happy about it.
