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“I’d love to do a real sit down with you, though— to hear what you think. Sebastian did one—“
“That wasn’t a sit down, you people put a recording device in the locker room.”
“Ha, well, with you we’d do a legit sit down and—“
The door slams.
The room goes still. I can hear the reporter outside, still talking, but the words are muffled and pointless. I suppose I could open the door now, but I don’t. I sit in the silence, in the dark, tears running down my face, nose scrunched and jaw tight with hurt. Tyson’s feet finally walk toward me, and he swings open the door. His face is relieved— until he sees mine.
“I just didn’t want them to see you—“
“Of course not,” I interrupt, voice cracking. As shocking as the news about his father is, the hurt over being shoved into a closet is more powerful for me, and the silent tears I’d been fighting escape in full force. My words are stuffy and I know my cheeks are turning red, and I can’t stop either.
“Anna,” Tyson says, reaching toward me. I smack his hand away. Tyson is stunned, staring at me like the impact truly wounded him. I shake my head and shove past him, out of the closet, into the room that’s now flooded in bright white daylight. I’m still fully naked, a realization which only makes me cry harder.
“Anna,” Tyson says more urgently as I grab for my clothes, my purse, my things, and frantically begin to put them on.
“You should have chosen Trishelle. Or if not her, some girl just like her, someone you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with,” I say through tears, pulling my inside-out shirt on over my head.
Tyson’s eyes widen and his jaw goes tight. “I am not embarrassed to be with you.”
“You introduced me as your minder to your mother. You sneak me into and out of buildings. You rent a car so no one can see you bringing me here. You shove me in a closet rather than risk someone seeing me,” I say as I nearly fall down stepping into my panties.
“That’s because of my father and all his drama, not because of you. I’d have done the same with literally any girl, cheerleader or otherwise.”
“Maybe,” I say with a tearful shrug, finally sliding my feet into my shoes. “I don’t know, maybe. But it’s one thing to keep a relationship private, and it’s another to shove a girl you just slept with into a closet.”
“Anna, stop, don’t go like this—“
“Why? Because there’s still a reporter outside, and he might see me?”
He presses his lips together, hard, and it’s the exact answer I feared— Yes, that’s why. Don’t leave like this because you’ll be seen.
I nod, fears morphing to raw anger. “You’re trying to avoid being defined by your father, but you’re letting his actions run your entire life. You only play football because of him, then you step back from leading your team because of him, then you treat me like this because of him. You’re a coward, Tyson. You’re a coward hiding behind muscles and talent. You were right about one thing, though— I’m strong. And I’m way too strong to let anyone treat me like a dirty little secret.”
“Anna, that’s out of line,” Tyson says, voice hard. He’s furious, and I thrive on it— I want him as angry as I am. I shake my head at him, tuck my purse to my body, and stomp to the door. He could stop me, I know. He could physically restrain me and I’d be unable to stop him. He doesn’t, though, allowing me to fling the door open. I crash into the reporter, then unapologetically negotiate around him, gunning for the elevators.
“Ma’am!” the reporter calls as I sprint away. “Ma’am, do you have a moment? I’m with the—“
“Leave her alone,” Tyson’s voice growls.
I think he’s intentionally saying it loud enough to reach my ears. I bite my tongue and punch the elevator call button like it’s personally wronged me. I don’t care if he tries to make it up to me now.
It’s too late.
The elevator chimes, and I jump on, partly hoping that he will chase after me and get here before the doors close.
But he doesn’t chase after me, and the doors shut and then I’m alone.
And I’m crying again.
I hope Tyson regrets everything, from kissing me to shoving me into the closet— because if I have to live with this awful, gnawing sense of regret, then I want him to as well.
I regret it all. I should have known better. I should have known that someone like me and someone like Tyson Slate wouldn’t work out. I should have paid attention to the warning signs, to Trishelle’s bitter claims, to my own hesitation. I gave him everything, and now I’m never going to speak to him again.
