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“Me neither.” I bite my bottom lip. “Uh, one other thing.”
He looks wary. “What?”
“Remember the photography awards I was talking about?”
Adler nods his head, even though I’m not sure he really does remember. Saylor is the one who’s asked me about them the most.
“I’m a finalist in one of the categories.”
The concern totally disappears from Adler’s face. He beams. “That’s incredible!”
“Yeah, it is.” I smile, the praise feeling really nice. “And the, uh, photo I submitted is of Will.”
I don’t mention he’s not wearing a shirt in the photograph. I feel like I’ve dumped enough on Adler already.
A little of the enthusiasm has dimmed from my brother’s expression, but not all of it. He nods once. “Congrats, Sophia. Really.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s everything, right?”
I laugh, relief making me giddy. The only person left to tell is Saylor, and I already know how she’ll take the news. There’s a reason I saved her for last.
“That’s everything,” I confirm.
He exhales. “Good.”
We head back toward the house. Halfway there, his arm lands on my shoulders, squeezing me against his side. A way we haven’t walked in a long time. “I looked up some of your photos. The ones you took of the games at the start of the season. They’re amazing, Sophia.”
I smile, warmth that has nothing to do with the weight of his arm spreading through me. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t asked about your photography more. Looked at your photos before.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I want to see more. Maybe after dinner?”
I have to clear my throat twice, to get rid of the lump that’s appeared there. “Sure.”
Right before we reach the door, Adler tells me, “You’re too good for him. But I like him more than any other guy you’ve brought around.”
I rest my head on his shoulder for a second. “Thank you.”
He squeezes me again, and then we head inside together.
FORTY-ONE
WILL
Cameras flash as we walk toward the doors of the hotel. Kinda ironic since we’re here for photography awards. I wonder if any of the people photographing us now submitted to the EPAs.
Sophia’s grip on my hand tightens as we walk into the lobby of the London hotel where the awards are taking place. She’s anxious, but I doubt anyone else here can tell. She’s walking with all the regal confidence of a queen, her blonde hair pulled back in a deceptively simple knot that I know took twenty minutes. But I can spot the strain in her smile. The stiff line of her shoulders.
Her parents and Beck and Saylor are already inside. We just came from a mixer before the actual awards ceremony, where Sophia was a popular attraction. People paid more attention to me than I was expecting them to as well. I guess photographers don’t normally show up with their subjects as their dates. There’s been a lot of fascination with me and Sophia ever since her photo of me was released.
My face is partially cut off in it, but the Kluvberg jerseys in the background—not to mention Sophia’s last name—were a big giveaway as to what club was associated with the photo. And it’s not the first time I’ve been photographed with my shirt off. Both because of antics during games and from different ads I’ve done. Add in my recognizable tattoos, and it didn’t take very long at all for people to figure out it was me.
I don’t really care what anyone else thinks of our relationship, but it’s nice that the response has been mostly positive. That no one has mentioned the name Cassandra Owens. There was some ribbing from the guys—someone papered the inside of my locker with printouts of the picture—but I think that’s a good thing. A sign of acceptance, if not respect.
