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“Do you want me to come?” she asks.
Yes.Because Etta is who Van respects most in the world. Her being here might change the tide. “No. I need to handle this. I can either make it work or it wasn’t meant to be.”
“I’ve got faith in you.”
Those are nice words, but I don’t believe them about myself. I think I’m just running on borrowed luck, and it feels like it’s running out.
CHAPTER 9
Van
Ifollow Boonethrough the parking lot of Mario’s, nervous as fuck. It’s my first time out in the public eye after a game and I have no clue if I’ll get accosted by reporters. I’m still getting daily requests for interviews through the PR department and they show no signs of letting up. I guess they’re not getting the hint thatno commenttruly meansno comment.
It’s the lesser of two evils, though—accepting my teammates’ request to come out and celebrate with them or go home to Simone where we’ll either fight or I’ll break down and fuck her.
It almost happened last night. When she pressed her body into mine, it was sensory overload. My dick got so hard it was painful and then when she pushed my hand between her legs, my knees almost buckled. It took every bit of willpower to pull away from her, and I’m not sure I can do it again. I want her too much. I fucking jack off every day to the hundreds of memories I’ve built with her over the years and I’m resolved that’s all I’ll ever have.
“Van,” a man calls out as we approach the door and I immediately tense. That’s not the tone of someone who knows me personally but rather of someone who’s trying to get my attention. There’s most likely a camera poised, ready to take a picture, and I hunch my shoulders and keep walking behind Boone.
“Van,” the man yells again and he sounds closer. Definitely a reporter judging by the eager inflection in his voice.
“Oh, fuck this,” Boone snarls and whips around. I almost run into him, but he stomps past me and yells, “Don’t you people have anything better to do? How many times do this team and Van have to say no comment?”
I turn to see that it is indeed a reporter and he’s standing there with wide eyes, taken aback by Boone’s attack. I clap my hand on his shoulder. “Come on, man. Let it go.”
Boone grumbles in frustration but we pivot toward the doors to Mario’s. On game nights they have extra security and when we enter, Boone points through the glass doors to the reporter still standing out there. “He doesn’t get in.”
The bouncer nods.
“No press gets in,” Boone adds.
“Yes, sir.”
I’m not sure Boone has the authority to tell them who can and can’t come into an establishment, but it seems to have worked.
“Thanks for that,” I say.
“Got your back.” He then pushes past me, glancing over his shoulder as I follow him. “They’ve got a sectioned-off area back here for us.” We wind through the crowd. “You can hang in there and keep a buffer between fans or mingle with them. They’re usually super chill and respectful.”
He says this to me because he knows I’m on edge about being in the media spotlight, not for being the newest addition to the Titans, but for being the son of a notorious serial killer.
“I’m good,” I assure him. I’ve been practicing in my head what to say to the first person who asks about my dad or the book.
I would like to say “Fuck off,” but pretty sure PR would frown on that. So instead, I’m going to be genial and just say, “We can talk about anything but that.”
Some of the players and their significant others are already inside the area cordoned off with red velvet ropes. I ignore the sharp stab of guilt that Simone is banished to the house simply because I didn’t invite her to the game, and the even sharper stab of longing to have her by my side. My line in the sand has been etched so deep it’s a fucking chasm and I’m not going near it for fear of falling in and losing myself completely.
We step over the rope and come upon Hendrix and his girlfriend, Stevie, talking to Liam, Anders and Foster.
“Dude,” Foster exclaims holding his fist out. “You made it.”
“Figured it was time to hang out with you bozos,” I drawl.
A waitress appears and I order a beer. Boone melts further into the crowd of players and their women, but I hang on the fringe. I’m more of an introvert and while I’ve become very at ease talking to my mates while on the ice, idle chitchat is still a bit uncomfortable.
I listen with half an ear as Anders complains about a bogus call that was made against him for hooking in the first period. It was indeed bullshit but he needs to let that stuff go. No sense in continuing to stress about it.
I should say that to him.
