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Slater walks back into the room. “Stop interrogating Ellie,” he says to his sister. He tips his head toward the door and looks at me. “I’ll be back in a few,” he adds to Celeste.
We don’t speak as we exit the apartment and walk down the hallway. He pushes the button for the elevator.
“You don’t have to walk me out.”
“I want to,” he says simply as the elevator doors slide open and we step in. “I’m sorry about Celeste. I don’t know what’s going on with her. And I didn’t realize she was back.”
“Back from where?”
He shrugs. “She showed up last night and threw her stuff in the guest room. When I refused to go out, she stomped out of the apartment. I didn’t hear her come back.”
I didn’t get the sense that he’s an asshole, but?—
“Your sister came to visit, and you wouldn’t have a drink with her?”
He completely ignores the question. “Where’s your car?”
“I took the metro,” I respond as we exit the elevator and head into the lobby.
“I’ll walk with you.” He shoves a pair of sunglasses on, tugs his Nationals cap a little lower, and pulls open the door, so I follow him onto the street. We’re halfway down the block when he speaks again. “If I want to stay anonymous, I can’t go out with Celeste. She’ll tell everyone who I am. She likes to make a spectacle.”
My brows pull together. “You’re protective of your privacy.”
My research suggested the opposite. He’s photographed so frequently—restaurants, sporting events, celebrity fetes, and tons of charity-related events. He courts fame rather than hides from it. Doesn’t he?
He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Not always.” After a few beats, he continues, “You know how many professional athletes choose to spend their offseason here?”
I shake my head, although I’ve got a guess. DC is a nice city, but January isn’t its finest month, and the famous people here are politicians, not celebrities.
“Zero. Everyone jets off to Cabo or Europe or LA.”
“But not you.”
“Not me. I like it here.”
I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Why?”
“My rookie year, about two months after we lost, I was back in my hometown, and I took my mother for lunch. She’d taken about three bites of her burger when this guy approached us with his five—maybe six-year-old—son in tow. I assumed they wanted an autograph.” The bleakness on his face makes it easy to see that they didn’t.
“What did he want?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head. “Nothing, really. He blamed me for losing, so he took the opportunity to yell at me. I don’t remember what he said, but it doesn’t matter. He was comfortable shouting at me in front of my mother and his son because I lost a football game—a football game that he seemed to believe meant more to him than it did to me.”
“You can’t take responsibility for his behavior.” I know I sound like a therapist, but I can’t not say it.
“I don’t. But I need a break sometimes. I need a chance to breathe. I need a few minutes where I’m not Slater Jones—the guy famous for losing when it matters. So I come here and lay low.” We walk in silence for a few steps. And then he says, “Sometimes, I think I should buy a fancy house in a gated community—some place swanky—and spend my downtime there.”
“Why don’t you?” Sounds like a nice life.
“Because in that house, I’d still be Slater Jones.”
“And you aren’t here?” I’m not sure I understand, but it isn’t important for me to.
“I’m nobody here. Just a guy who lives in apartment five-oh-five.”
“You aren’t lonely?” It’s a silly question, and I immediately wish I could take it back.
Of course he’s lonely.
