Page 24 of Forbid It

“Right,” I announce, shaking my head before I do something stupid like blurt out if she needs a ride home. “Do you need a ride home?” For fuck’s sake.

“Hmm?”

I take a deep breath. “I can give you a ride home. If you need one.”

She glances back at the corner of the room where her dad is still holding court.

“Yeah, a ride would be great actually.”

10

CASSIE

They have these really nifty inventions in LA called taxis. I even have a contact in my phone that’s an exclusive car service, not to mention the number of assistants who would drop everything to pick me up and drop me off wherever I want on the West Coast. I have all these options, but for some reason the only ride I want to take is the one Robbie King is offering.

As I follow him out of the stadium to the parking lot, we don’t say anything. There’s a tiny part of me that doesn’t want to remind him that I’m following him, just in case he changes his mind. Thankfully, the walk isn’t far and it’s not long before he’s pressing the button on his keys. I head towards the passenger side, but before I can open the door, Robbie’s one step ahead and pulling it open for me. His scent overwhelms me, still fresh from his post-game shower.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. I don’t look at him again as he closes the door behind me, and I pretend to be looking for something in my bag to avoid watching him as he jogs around the front of the bumper and slides in next to me.

The radio springs to life as soon as he starts the engine, a sports podcast filtering through the speakers.

“Uh, where are we going?” He asks as he turns his head to check his mirrors, pulling out of the garage. I tell him my address.

“Plug it in the satnav.” He gestures to the center console, and I type it in.

I settle back in my seat and watch the city fly by. We’re still a few hours from sunset, but I’m already itching to race it, maybe take my board out if we make it back in time.

“So uh,” Robbie starts. “What did Pip mean back there about firing your stylist?”

I snort. “It’s an inside joke we like to say to each other. Sometimes my fans get a bit intense.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Most of the time they’re harmless, but once I had a DM from this girl saying “Hey hun, I just want you to know that that shade of yellow looks really bad on you so you should really fire your stylist because they hate you. Love and light xoxo.”

“Wait, really?” Robbie asks. “This was just a random person?”

“Yeah.” I lean my head against the headrest. “And the worst part was, it was my dress! I didn’t even use a stylist.”

“Ouch,” he laughs.

“Right? I sent it to Pip. We thought it was absolutely hilarious,” I laugh. “And I happen to think I look great in yellow.”

“You look great in every color.” Robbie says, shifting in his seat.

I bite my lip to stop the smile. “Well, tell that to this girl.”

“Do you get that a lot with fans?”

“Oh yeah, I don’t even post on my socials anymore. It’s not worth it. I don’t mind when they’re listening to my music or liking my work, but sometimes they overstep and it’s just weird for everyone.They think because I offer them up a little piece of myself with every album that they’re automatically entitled to the rest of it. It’s scary. So it’s nice to make light of it when I can.” I love my fans and I’m so privileged to even have them, but there was a time when I couldn’t leave the house on my own or look at my phone without anxiety. I’m past that now, and I like to think I have a slightly better handle on things. This particular fan is lucky she hit me at a time where I found it funny rather than totally devastating.

“I get that,” Robbie says, his hands sliding on the wheel. “Probably not to the same extent, but if I play badly, the internet will let me know for sure.”

“Okay.” I turn in my seat. “Would you rather get a hundred messages telling you your playing was trash, or twenty people telling you to your face that you should never wear shorts again because they make your legs look weird?”

He laughs. “Are you saying my legs look weird in shorts?”

I can’t help but glance at his legs where they’re spread in his seat, the hem of his shorts riding up to expose most of his thigh, the muscles flexing as he moves.