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Cam purses his lips and nods slowly. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I thought it was odd that Ellie needed money. Her father paid for her schooling, and he bought her place as a graduation gift. Quitting her job was not a spur-of-the-moment decision and—” He stops talking and straightens some papers on his desk. “This is why they tell you to keep business separate from family,” he mumbles to himself before looking up. “I owe you an apology. I let my wife influence a business decision. It will not happen again.”
I lean back in my seat, my anger fading. I’m not mad at Cam. Or Kelsey. However, I do want to know where Ellie is and why she left New York.
“It’s fine,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not mad. I appreciate you looking out for me, and I like Ellie. We’re friends. We’ve slept together a few times, but there’s no drama between us. I know for a fact that she isn’t at home crying into her pillow.” At least, I hope she isn’t. If she is, I’m toast.
Cam puts his chin on his fist and asks, “What did you want to talk to her about?”
“I…uh…didn’t want her to think I’m sleeping with Amber, too.” It sounds silly when I say it out loud. I know our one outing was not a date, and two overnights don’t make a relationship, but she’s special and she had a rough night the other night.
And I like her.
I’ll hate myself if I’ve inadvertently hurt her.
“Shit.” Cam puts his face in his hands. “I don’t think that’s why she left. What did Kelsey say to you?”
“Not much. She was very tight-lipped about her sister.”
“Let me call my wife.” He picks up his cell phone. After a minute of small talk, he says, “Your sister was planning on going home today, right?”
Kelsey’s response is garbled from where I’m sitting, but it lasts a lot longer than a simple yes or no. When she finally stops talking, Cam says to her, “Maybe you should talk to Ellie.” He pauses, and then he says, “You shouldn’t be meddling in her or my client’s lives.”
He ends the conversation a minute later with a very pointed look at me. “Ellie isn’t running away from you; she has a job interview tomorrow.”
My relief must be obvious because Cam resumes drumming his fingers on his desk and says, “Is this going to be a problem? You need to be focused on football. When your free agency begins, things are going to move fast, and once you sign, you’re going to want to be with your new team immediately.”
“I’m focused on football,” I respond immediately. “There’s no problem.”
The part of me that wants to see Ellie again isn’t going to distract me from my football goals. Right?
TWENTY-ONE
ELLIE
I crinkle my nose when I step off the elevator.
The interview went well—I liked them, and I think they liked me—but the weather has taken a turn for the worst. The ominous grey clouds hovering in the sky when I entered the building are now in full-fledged revolt.
I step onto the sidewalk, jacket tightly buttoned. The tinkling sound of ice pellets hit my umbrella. Not just rain—freezing rain. Rain’s unappealing big brother.
I hunker down and stomp over icy patches and puddles. It’s only two blocks to the nearest metro, so I’m inside before I’m frozen stiff. A long wait for the train—weather delays—and then a slow ride gets me home about dinner time.
I waste no time stripping out of my interview finery and into my flannel heart pajamas.
It’s Valentine’s Day—the day universally despised by lovers and singles alike. I know that’s a slight exaggeration, but it is a holiday that unequivocally reminds me of my single status. And, now, makes me think of the quarterback I left in New York.
If I hadn’t returned home and I wasn’t ignoring him, maybe we could have had dinner or…no. Why would he want to have dinner with me after I ghosted him?
Not one to wallow in despair, I order delivery from my favorite Thai restaurant. I get all my favorites because I can’t decide what I want. I picked up a brownie mix at the grocery store yesterday, and I have a bottle of bubbly currently chilling in the fridge.
I’m set for an evening of overindulgence.
I flip on the television to locate something sappy and romantic when someone knocks on my door. It’s way too early for the food, so I assume it’s my neighbor who collected my mail while I was in New York. “Come on in,” I holler.
The door opens with a slight creak. I really ought to oil the hinges.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask as I scroll through the movie options. Glenda has a more active social life than I do, so it seems like a safe bet that she has a hot date.
“No plans.” The voice is deep and masculine. Not Glenda, then. What kind of idiot doesn’t check who’s at the door? I swing around in a panic.
