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“Chop chop boys!” Lila’s grating voice burrows right under my skin and starts crawling around like an army of ants.
I yank up my trousers, spinning around to see her smirking.
“Fucking hell, Lila! I’ve told you to bloody knock on the fucking door before coming in.” I am so sick to death of her shit. Because I won’t speak to her most of the time, she’s taken to trying to catch me naked or semi-naked before or after shows while I’m changing.
“Sorry, Daxey,” she pouts, her eyes shining with lust and her skin flushed pink.
“Lila, get out!” Adam takes her shoulders and spins her towards the door.
“No. Wait!” I walk over and put myself between Lila and the exit, giving her my best angry scowl.
“Need something, Daxey? You know what I can give you,” she purrs, sliding closer.
I hold a hand out to keep her from advancing. Over her shoulder I see Adam’s eyes widen. He knows me well enough to predict what’s about to go down, and he knows it isn’t going to be pretty.
“Gavin, hand me the magazine.” My hard gaze never leaves Lila’s. She shifts uncomfortably, the dents in her armor showing.
“Here you are,” Gavin says gleefully, smacking the rolled up magazine into my outstretched hand.
“Daxey, I really need to get going,” Lila cries in that whingy voice of hers.
“You’re not going anywhere until you explain this.” I hold out the magazine article from the club in Chicago. “Girlfriend, Lila? Really?”
She blanches, but holds her ground. “They put whatever they want in those things, Dax. That’s not my fault.”
It doesn’t escape me that she didn’t call me Daxey. “This shit is going to stop, Lila. I’m not your boyfriend. You’re not my girlfriend. I don’t want the media thinking it, photographing it, or reporting on it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Lila’s face twists into a sneer so powerful that it would be intimidating to most people. I’m not most people.
“This is the game, Dax. I’m in promotions and getting you and the others recognized and talked about is my job. Tell Kate to get over her jealous whining and that this is the way it is in the big show. You too Daxey. Public perception is everything. Your fans don’t want to see a hot stud like you hanging out with boring Miss Nobody. You’ll thank me when you see your album sales increase.”
Lila pushes past me and stalks out of the room leaving me wondering what the hell just happened.
Kate
Three weeks later
“Good job everyone!” Coach Russo high fives us as we leave the pitch, giddy after another win at home.
“Thanks Coach,” I say as I slap his hand.
“Great game, Campbell. Great game.”
Smiling, I hit the locker room to change out of my kit and grab a shower. Dax is back from his tour and supposed to come over later. I took Abby’s advice and gave in, finally speaking to Dax on the phone. He confirmed that Lila set the pictures and article up for promotional reasons. He claims he had no idea she was standing next to him when the photos were taken.
I have no reason not to believe him, but my low self-esteem rears it’s ugly head. Why wouldn’t he prefer Lila to me? She’s rich and blonde and drop-dead gorgeous, with a famous father to boot. Even I was convinced that the photographs were real. They look perfect together.
Then there were pictures of Dax and some ginger slag cozying up in a pub in Seattle. After getting hysterical, eating an entire sleeve of Oreos, and getting ready to call Dax screaming, Abby talked me down by pointing out that there are going to be loads of similar photos in the future, and I’d either have to trust Dax to be faithful, or break up with him now.
Once again, Abby was right. I don’t have to like the photos, but they are going to happen. Plus, Dax promising he’d try harder not to be caught unawares by the paparazzi helped soothe things over.
Reaching into my locker for my mobile, I bring up a picture I took of Dax and me before he left for the tour. He’s as handsome as ever, gorgeous smile, angled jaw, and rugged good looks. Then there’s me, plain, no makeup, wearing athletic gear and a ponytail.
I drag my finger down the picture of Dax’s face.
“What’s got you all mooney-eyed?” my teammate Brittany asks as she tosses her filthy cleats into her bag. I quickly lock the screen and toss the mobile onto the bench.
“I am most certainly not mooney-eyed!”
