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“Of course I do. But this is about you. If you invite Celeste, you can both visit with Amber. You can relax and forget about football for a night.”
He glares at me as he responds, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t have the luxury of relaxing. I…I have to make it work with whoever signs me next. I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for if I don’t have a flawless season.”
The words echo around us, sounding sad. He doesn’t look sad, though. He looks determined. It’s obvious he believes what he’s saying. It’s possible he’s right.
Although, by his own admission, he was less focused and more successful during his rookie season. Until the end.
What if all he needs to do is stop being so single-minded when it comes to football and find balance in his life?
“Taking a night or two for fun won’t ruin everything,” I try to reason with him. “Maybe you need to be around your people. You know, your actual people, not the ones your agent sends to your front door.”
“You’re coming to the concert with me,” he says with a look that dares me to argue. “And you don’t need to worry about my social life. If I want to go on a date or hang out with my buddies, I will.”
He’s obviously done talking about it. And I’ve already overstepped, so I fall silent, too.
He finishes my shake and we leave together, but head in opposite directions.
The rest of the day, I wonder if I made a mistake. As a therapist, I keep a professional distance—the lines are clearly drawn—but with Slater, there are no lines.
We’re friends now. Sort of. I think.
I can’t deny that I like that he trusts me. I like that he talks to me. I like that he ordered me a protein shake and then fumbled through his reasoning.
But I also can’t deny that I’m worried I’m getting too invested, and I’m not entirely sure what role he wants me to play in his life.
ELEVEN
SLATER
I’m having second thoughts about inviting Ellie to the concert. Mostly because, after our discussion on Thursday, I’m feeling unsteady. I can’t believe I admitted all those things to her.
I wasn’t lying. I do trust her, but revealing that the eight interceptions were my fault isn’t something I do. She has this way of knocking me off balance.
She sees me. I don’t hate it, which concerns me. What concerns me even more is how much I like her, and how much I want her to like me. I’m teetering dangerously close to wishing Amber’s concert was a date.
I’m waiting for her at my apartment so we can head to the concert together. When I hear a knock, I straighten my sleeves, and calmly answer the door.
“Do I look okay?” she asks immediately. “Wait.” She holds up her hand and then shrugs out of her jacket to reveal skinny jeans and a shimmery, silver top. She’s wearing makeup, which is new, and has her hair down. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her with it loose and styled. It’s long, almost to her elbows, and slightly wavy.
I do not think about what it would look like spread across my pillow.
And I try to ignore the fact that she’s exactly my type. I’ve been avoiding it since she introduced herself on my doorstep, but I can’t deny it any longer. I have an inadvisable crush on the woman sent by my agent to check on me.
“You look great.” It would be weird if I said more.
She nods and beams at me. “So do you.”
Although we didn’t plan it, my jeans and dark grey shirt are the perfect complement to her outfit. If we were dating, we’d get tagged #couplegoals on social media.
I rub my slightly scruffy beard as I remind myself this is not a date. She’s spending time with me out of pity. Or as a favor to her sister. Or because she’s bored.
Honestly, I have no idea why she keeps hanging out with me.
Except for now, obviously.
“Should we go?” Her eyes are twinkling and she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet.
I nod and grab my black beanie—it’s frightfully cold out—and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Sunglasses look ridiculous indoors, but they’re surprisingly effective as a disguise. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me.
