A moment later, Talon leads me to the front doors, which must stand at least thirteen or fourteen feet in height. A woman in a gray uniform-style dress greets us, letting us know everyone’s outside in the rose garden.
“You grew up here?” I ask, making sure I whisper so my voice doesn’t echo and bounce off the golf-leafed walls.
He slips his hand in mine. “Technically I grew up in Maritime Valley, but we moved here when I was in junior high … after Mark had his record nine-figure year.”
I pick up on a hint of contempt in his voice, but I don’t pry. Not here. Not when we’re five steps from a wall of sliding glass doors and a small gathering of Talon’s family members on the other side of it.
“Look who’s here!” A lithe woman with coffee-brown hair and a colorful Pucci dress rises from an iron patio chair and ambles toward us, arms stretched wide toward Talon. She wraps him in her arms like she hasn’t seen him in a hundred years, and then she kisses the side of his cheek. He fights a boyish smile that disappears in under two seconds.
“Mom, this is Irie,” he says. “My girlfriend. Irie, this is my mother … Camilla.”
His mom does a doubletake, giving me an obvious once over but not in any kind of rude way, more of a genuinely surprised sort of way. She takes my hand in hers, patting the top of mine as she speaks. “You said you were bringing a friend. I had no idea you were bringing this pretty little thing. When did you two start dating?”
“Just last week, actually,” I answer.
“Well, I’ll be,” Camilla says, her overfilled lips arching up at the corners. “You know you’re the first girl he’s ever brought home.”
I turn to Talon. “Really?”
His hands slide in the front pockets of his ripped jeans. “Yep.”
“So, tell me, how did you two meet?” she asks, leading me to the empty chair beside her. Everything’s happening so fast, I hardly have time to take in the beautiful flower-filled urns that surround us, the soft spa-like music emanating from hidden speakers, and the crash of the ocean on the shore behind us.
Talon joins us.
“We met our freshman year,” he answers. “Took this long for her to give me a chance.”
He winks at me.
“What? Oh, come on now,” Camilla says, chuckling like she thinks he’s teasing. If only she knew the truth. “Irie, would you like something to drink? Marta made the most divine white sangria you’ll ever taste in your life. Mark, will you pour Irie a glass of the sangria, please?”
I realize now that there’s a man standing behind the outdoor bar, not smiling, not saying a word. Talon said his parents were assholes … but so far his mom is adorable. Maybe his stepdad is enough of an asshole for the two of them?
Before I forget, I reach into my bag and pull out her birthday gift. Talon insisted it wasn’t necessary, that she has everything an Orange County woman could ever possibly want and then some. But I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.
“This is for you,” I say, handing her a small wrapped box. “Happy birthday.”
Camilla places a manicured hand over her heart and looks at me with tenderness in her eyes. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”
A moment later, she unwraps the gift and examines the small marble ring box. It’s the kind of item that looks perfect staged on a guest room nightstand or alongside a bathroom sink. Carrera marble goes with just about anything, and it’s timeless and elegant.
I figured with her interior design background, she’d appreciate such a classic, versatile accessory.
“This is gorgeous, Irie, thank you so much,” she says, running her fingertips along the smooth edges. “I know exactly where I’m going to put this.”
Placing it aside with care, she leans over and gives me another hug. Her perfume is distinct and overwhelming yet lovely—much like her home.
A few seconds later, a soft-bellied, bald-headed man shuffles across the patio to offer me a glass of white sangria accented with various floating fruits.
“Irie, this is Mark,” Talon says. “My stepdad.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” I say as we shake hands.
“Likewise,” He says, monotone, his attention veering toward Talon. He makes a face, somewhere between a sneer and a wince. And then it’s gone. Maybe I imagined it?
“Irie’s an interior design major,” Talon says to his mom.
“Oh, you’re kidding.” She swats her hand against my knee, her eyes sparkling.
“Talon told me you used to design,” I say.
“I sure did.” There’s life in her effervescent voice. “That’s how I met Talon’s father actually. He was an architect and we met at this conference in Pacific Heights.”
“I’m very familiar with his work,” I say. “Talon actually took us to the Gold-Harris exhibit a couple of weekends ago. Amazing, amazing work.”
As I geek out with his mother, Talon sits back in silence, his stare weighty and obvious.
“Talon.” Mark takes a seat next to him, slapping his knee. “How’s the new training schedule? Still hitting the gym every day?”
Talon’s chest rises and falls and his lips flatten. “You ask me that every single time you see me.”
“Oh, come on. Someone’s gotta stay on top of you.” Mark sniffs, like he’s teasing. Talon gives him a thousand-yard stare. “I only ask because I care.”
I try to pay attention to what Camilla’s saying—something about this “painted lady” she was hired to renovate in San Francisco when she was fresh out of design school—but I’m distracted by the tense energy I’m picking up on from Talon, a vibe that only seemed noticeable the instant Mark sat down.
I take a sip of the white sangria, saccharine sweet with just enough of a kick to it, and nod along to what she’s saying until the sliding door behind her opens and a teenage girl with wavy blonde hair down to her lower back steps out, cell phone in hand.
“Hadley,” Camilla says. “How was practice?” She turns to me. “Hadley’s on the competitive dance squad at her school. Last year they went to state. Fingers crossed we take home the big trophy this year.”
I’m beginning to sense a pattern with these people—the emphasis on winning and accolades and bragging rights. And knowing what I know about Talon, it makes perfect sense.
Hadley takes a seat in a chair at the far end of the table, nose buried in her phone. She’s here but she isn’t. She’s simply making an appearance.
“Hadley, have you met your brother’s girlfriend?” Camilla asks. “Come say hi to Irie.”
The blonde glances up from her phone for half of a second before returning her attention to her screen and staying planted.
“Teenagers,” Mark says with a huff. Funny he seems adamant about staying on top of Talon’s workout schedule yet he doesn’t give a damn about his daughter’s disrespect.
“Where’s Kelsey?” Camilla asks. “I should go find her. Lucille should be bringing dinner out any minute. Would you all excuse me for a moment?”
With that, Camilla disappears into the house, her overflowing wine glass in hand, and Mark pushes himself to a standing, heading to the outdoor bar to refill his crystal tumbler with cognac he pours from a leather-wrapped bottle.
“I want to see your room,” I say. “I want to see where teenage Talon got his start.”
“It’s boring.”
“I doubt that.”
“And it looks nothing like it did when I was younger. I think it’s on Mom’s fifth iteration …”
“Come on …”
He flashes an amused smirk and heads in. I follow. It seems like we’re walking forever when we finally reach a curved staircase in the back of the house. We make our way to the top, hand in hand, before he leads me down a dark hallway, stopping at the last door on the right.
“All right. This is it,” he says. “This is my childhood bedroom.”
He swings the door open, and we’re met with a small gush of air that smells like a mix between organ
ic cleaning spray and the salty spray of the Pacific ocean.
The walls are covered in navy wallpaper with the tiniest hint of a pattern, and the furniture is polished white oak. It’s equal parts coastal and castle—a difficult blend if I do say so myself—but somehow it works.
A king-sized bed is centered against one wall, anchored with oversized nightstands and gold-toned lamps, and a row of windows along the far wall showcases the stunning ocean view.
“Can’t imagine what it must have been like growing up with views like this,” I say, heading to the windows. “Falling asleep at night to the sound of real ocean waves.”
“I was never really home all that much,” he says. “Between school and training and games, I was only really here to sleep and by then, I’d be so exhausted I’d fall asleep with my cleats on half the time.”
“Well that’s a shame,” I say. He’s standing beside me now, his body heat subtle but his presence heavy.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Your stepdad,” I begin to say.
“What about him?”
“Is he always so … gruff? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s annoyed that I’m here.”
Talon squints. “He probably is.”
“Really? Why?”
“Don’t take it personally,” he says. “It’s not about you. It’s about football. It’s always about football with him. I’m sure he thinks you’re going to be a distraction to my workout schedule or some bullshit like that.”
From the corner of my eye, I spot an oversized glass case filled to the brim with trophies, awards, medals, and framed photos. I’m not sure how I missed this when we walked in because now that I see it, I can’t take my eyes off it. The presentation is quite … ostentatious.
He follows my attention and exhales. “That is all my mother’s doing. For the record, I would never enshrine my accomplishments.”
“I think it’s cute,” I say, making my way over. “A little over the top, but it paints a pretty vivid picture of who you are.”
He clears his throat. “Let me know when you want to head back down.”
I turn to him, almost laughing. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
I can’t imagine Mr. Big Ego wanting to shy away from the limelight when all he’s ever done is shine, but now that I look at him, I realize his hands are on his hips and his jaw is set and nothing about him looks like he wants to be in here, re-living his glory days.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“What? Yeah,” he says, frowning. “Just hungry.”
“Liar.” I study him closer. “What’s going on?”
Talon’s rounded shoulders lift. “I just don’t like looking at any of this shit.”
“This shit?” I repeat. “Talon, this is your life’s work. These are your accomplishments. You should be proud to show these off.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not, so—”
I’m beyond confused. “Guess I never took you for a humble guy.”
“You and everyone else.” His words are chilled, his delivery distant.
“Is this a sensitive subject for you?” I ask, pointing to the overflowing case.
His brows lift and he stares through me for a sec, his hands still firm on his hips. It almost seems like he has something to say, something to get off his chest, but the words are stuck inside him.
“You’re acting weird …”
“I just … this case represents everything I hate,” he says.
“Wait. What?”
Talon pinches the bridge of his nose before striding to his bed and taking a seat on the edge. His body is folded over, elbows on his knees, and he releases a heavy breath.
“I’ve never said that before,” he says.
I take the spot beside him, resting my hand on his back in a silent show to let him know I’m here for him.
Glancing up at the case on the other side of the room, his body stiffens. “I hate the game, Irie.”
I’m digging deep for the right thing to say in this moment, but I’m coming up empty-handed.
“Dinner’s ready,” a young voice interrupts us, and we turn toward the door. A petite girl with straight dark hair leans against the jamb. “They told me to come get you guys.”
“Thanks, Kels,” Talon says, climbing up from the bed. He reaches for my hand and leads me out of the room, but all I can think about is that bombshell he just dropped.
I never would have seen that coming in a million years.
He always seemed so sure of himself, so confident in his talent and his goals and ambitions, but was it all for show? All for nothing? And what does it say about a man who can work so hard for so long, obsessively chasing after a single objective … only to have a change of heart and throw it all away?
Chapter 24
Talon
I wake to the smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen Sunday morning. Reaching over, I find the spot beside me cold and vacant. Flinging the covers off, I head to the bathroom to clean up.
We left my parents’ house last night and came back to my place to chill for a bit. She talked me into watching the cheesiest show she could possibly find on Netflix. We were one and a half episodes in when out of nowhere, she climbed into my lap, threw her arms around my shoulders, and crushed her petal soft lips against mine.
She kissed me hard and recklessly, zero abandon, and the way things were headed, I thought for sure last night was going to be the night, but she wasted no time pumping the brakes the second I slid my hand up her shirt.
Regardless of that setback, I convinced her to stay the night …
I guess you could say we’ve slept together now—even if we were fully clothed.
I find Irie in the kitchen, along with two of my roommates who are perched on counter stools waiting for their breakfast like a couple of begging mutts.
“No, they never should have traded Voxley,” Irie says, standing over a pan of sizzling bacon in nothing but one of my jersey-thin t-shirts. “And I say that as a retired Chiefs fan.”
“Wrong,” Carter shoots back. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Voxley’s been worthless ever since he tore his ACL two seasons ago. Never been the same. Dude needs to hang it up.”
“What?” She turns to shoot him a dirty look. “He scored more touchdowns last season than he did in the two seasons before that combined.”
“Look who’s up,” Rylan interrupts their argument when he sees me. “Morning, angel face. Sleep well?”
He’s wearing a shit-eating grin and I’m positive he thinks I fucked Irie last night, but it’s none of his fucking business so whatever.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I tell Irie as she plates a few slices of bacon. I slip my hands around her waist from behind, leaning down to kiss her neck. “These guys might talk football like morons, but they’re perfectly capable of making their own breakfast.”
She smiles. “It’s fine. I was up. And I was starving. Rylan’s the one who went the store to get everything.”
“Jesus. What time is it?” I check the clock on the microwave. It’s half past nine. I don’t remember the last time I slept in this late, but I must have needed it. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I slept this hard. Something about having Irie beside me, lying in my arms, put me out like a light last night, despite the freight train of thoughts clouding my head.
Ever since the conversation we had over the display case at my mom’s house yesterday, I can’t stop thinking about what I said.
I mean, I’ve felt that way for years … but saying it out loud made it real.
Irie casually tried to bring it up last night between episodes of Jane the Virgin or whatever the hell she had us watching, but I brushed it off every time.
I’m not ready to talk about it.
Talking about it means making a decision—a decision I’ve been avoiding for weeks now.
I still haven’t signed the Richmond contract.
And honestly … I don’t know that I will.<
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Chapter 25
Irie
“A lot of girls hate you right now.”
I peer across the table in my lighting class Monday morning and find a girl who’s never said more than three words to me all semester.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.
“You’re dating Talon Gold, right?” she asks. “A lot of girls hate you. That, or they want to be you. You’re pretty much the most infamous name on campus right now. I think someone even started a hashtag about you.”
I roll my eyes and attempt to ignore the girls at the table behind us, listening intently to our conversation.
“What’s your secret?” she asks. “How’d you get the one guy no one’s ever been able to get?”
Without hesitation, I say, “He has a type.”
“Which is?” She lifts a micro-bladed eyebrow, chewing on the end of her pencil with pillow-sized Kylie Jenner lips.
“He likes girls with tact,” I say. “I think he also has a thing for basic human decency. Oh, and self-respect. He’s pretty into that.”
She wrinkles her perfect nose and scoffs before turning away, and I angle myself to hide the humor trying to display itself across my lips. Maybe I came off a little harsh, but I know what she was saying underneath all of those questions.
She thinks he can do better than me.
She thinks he’d be better suited for someone like her.
I had “friends” like that back in high school—ones who’d make underhanded remarks disguised as innocent questions—and I ate them for breakfast.
Our professor excuses himself to take a phone call, and I use it as a chance to check my messages.
Sure enough, Talon texted me within the last twenty minutes.
TALON: My place tonight … seven.
I fire off a quick “if you insist” along with a winking emoji and put my phone away.
Hate the Game Page 12
