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“So...what?” John sounded implacable.
“Nothing.” I felt more awkward by the second. “I just...don’t think we’re going to have...a thing. Anymore. Just to—put that out there.”
“Oh, come on.” John reached out and caressed my hips. “I like you. You’re hot, you’re smart—why throw what we have away?”
Because I already felt sick about last night. “I think it would just be better if we...just...”
“Be friends?” he finished when I trailed off.
I smiled weakly. “Yeah. Let’s just be friends.”
I left, embarrassed and disappointed in myself. Why was John so at ease with his relationship with Caroline and also sleeping with me? What was wrong with me? I didn’t like John, so I shouldn’t feel ill and hot and disappointed. Why couldn’t I just have sex like a normal person and not care about it? Damn, Ryan had been right. I did have issues. I wanted a hot shower.
John lived in the 40s, and when I left his building the morning light pierced straight into my brain, while the Manhattan traffic and construction yammered away at my ears. I skulked in the shadows, digging through my purse for my phone. It wasn’t yet nine; I could call in sick with no hard feelings, and hide in my room watching disaster movies online. What had ever made me think sleeping with someone I didn’t respect was a good idea?
And where was my phone?
As I pawed through compartment after compartment, dread slowly built. Oh, no. I had taken it out at the football game to check the time, and then I had tossed it back under the seat, hoping it would land on my purse. But I hadn’t seen it since then, had I?
...Damn.
I trudged back downtown. At least in the subway the light wasn’t as bad, though the noise and stench hurt my over-delicate senses. I sat down in a corner seat, tucked my purse tight against me, and closed my eyes. I had a ways to go until I reached my stop, which was a massive, hellish muddle of tunnels and exits.
Once I’d navigated the station, I entered into the stadium, and then paused. Last night, we’d gone straight through to the stadium, but now I was lost with a thousand different directions to choose from.
I followed signs to the Team Pro Shop, figuring that at least had to have staff I could ask about lost and found. I didn’t even make it to the desk, immediately distracted by a hundred themed knickknacks. There were baby clothes with the Leopards insignia emblazoned across, salt-and-pepper shakers, pink helmets with leopard spots, nightlights, and a million racks of clothes. I stopped by the poster rack, and flipped through until I found one of Ryan. It was a really great shot of his butt.
“Can I help you find anything?”
I blushed and turned around. The saleswoman’s voice was a little too loud. “I was actually wondering if there’s a lost and found somewhere.”
“Of course. From yesterday?”
I nodded.
“That’s with Guest Services. Let me get you their number.”
I twisted my face apologetically. “I actually lost my phone.”
Guest Services hadn’t found my cell in their post-game sweep of the stadium, but once the shop lady put me in touch with them, they sent a helpful man down, who let me into the stadium and directed me toward my seating area. Down below, at the edge of the field, I watched a twenty-person group get a tour of the stadium.
I poked around under the seats. Maybe I should have asked the Lost and Found guy to stay and actually call my phone for me. That would have been a lot faster than peering into the dark spaces. Of course, peering into dark spaces was preferable to peering into the bright blue sky. Seriously, New York. Three-quarters of the time you’re bleak as houses, and now the sun was bright enough to scar my retinas? How unfair.
I was on my hands and knees, scrutinizing the underside of a seat, when a familiar voice rang out. “Rachael?”
No. Freaking. Way.
Ryan Carter walked up the stairs from the field, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked pissed off, and far too good in sweats, but I was concentrating on not noticing that. Especially since I just couldn’t handle him this morning. “Ryan. Hi. What are you doing here?”
He looked insulted. “This is my stadium. I actually work here. What are you doing?”
“Your stadium? Oh, okay.”
“Rachael...” His voice was low and rumbling.
“I lost my cell,” I said stiffly.
He reached back to massage his neck. “Tell me another one.”
