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I expect him to deflect or shrug it off or pretend he likes being alone. Instead, he says, “I let my agent send a stranger to check up on me. I let her cook me lunch. A few days later, I let her make me breakfast. And then I insisted on walking her to the metro while I told her things I’ve never told anyone.”
His words scare me a little. It seems like he’s telling me he likes to hang out and wants to be friends. I assumed he was humoring Cam and tolerating me. Having him tell me he likes to spend time with me makes this feel deeper somehow—more meaningful.
Or maybe he’s just that lonely.
“I’m glad I could help. Since I’m not working, I’m happy to hang out anytime,” I say before I remember that his sister is waiting for him at his apartment, and she already has the wrong impression of me and him. “Once your sister leaves, of course.”
He sighs. “She’s mad at me.”
I hesitate, my gaze drifting down the street to the metro stop. “Why?”
“I guess because I didn’t want to go out. Celeste is much better at telling than asking. We had an argument and now she’s unhappy.”
“Did you tell her why you didn’t want to go out?”
“Not exactly. But she knows what happens. She knows I’m uncomfortable in places where people can say whatever they want. Bars aren’t exactly my scene anymore, especially after last Sunday’s loss.”
“Maybe she just wants to see you.”
“Maybe, but I’m not violating my peace so she can try to score free drinks.”
It’s hard for me to imagine his life.
People have little patience with celebrities who criticize fame. They’re rich and famous, so they’re supposed to be happy no matter what happens in their lives. It must be hard for him to be constantly on edge, wondering what people might say or do if they recognize him. I’ve never been more relieved that I’m a normal girl.
SEVEN
SLATER
I stomp back into my apartment to find Celeste lounging on my sofa, still wearing my shirt. She mutes the television and looks at me expectantly.
“Why are you here?” I ask bluntly.
She raises her eyebrows. “You didn’t say you had a girlfriend.”
“I don’t. Like I said, Ellie is a friend.”
I plop down in the chair next to the sofa and stare at the television. They’re showing clips of me on the field while an analyst talks. I’m glad I can’t hear what he’s saying. Why don’t they ever get sick of talking about me? And why is my own sister watching this drivel?
“It’s been way too long since you brought a girl around, you know? You haven’t introduced anyone to us since Marie.”
I try not to wince. Marie was my girlfriend in college. My family adores her, and they were devastated when she decided she didn’t want to date a professional athlete. I was…mostly relieved. I knew I needed to give everything to the game if I wanted to succeed.
I haven’t introduced them to anyone since because there hasn’t been anyone. I don’t date. I hardly even fuck. I don’t enjoy meaningless sex, and my career is too tenuous to risk a relationship, so I mostly rely on my right hand.
“I didn’t introduce you to Ellie.”
“Is it serious?” Celeste asks.
I press my finger against the headache that’s forming behind my eyes. “What part of friend don’t you understand?”
“She made you breakfast. That’s girlfriend shit.”
“We haven’t slept together,” I say decisively, hoping it’s enough to shut her up.
She tips her head to the side. “That doesn’t mean you don’t like her. Or that she doesn’t like you. When you took your shirt off, I thought she was going to swoon.”
“Swoon? Really?” I didn’t notice her checking me out. She hasn’t hit on me or suggested she’s attracted to me. And it isn’t like she’s seen me at my best.
