If he wasn’t right before, he is now. My body pulses and aches for a kind of release it’s never had, and anything other than him, I realize, would be a disappointment. I swallow, digging deep for my composure so I can play the game instead of getting lost in it.
“And if I told you I don’t think you’re interested but rather fixated because you’re trying to prove me wrong, would you have an answer for that too?”
“I could let you feel for yourself how wrong you are.” A flat-out wicked gleam sparks in his eyes.
I look down involuntarily at the part of his body he is referring to and back up to his eyes. “That could be for anyone. It’s not like we aren’t surrounded by goddesses.” I look over his shoulder and can pinpoint at least two overly-endowed women that fit the description.
“I haven’t looked at anyone else.” His eyes remain trained on mine.
“Why me? Normally you wouldn’t touch me with someone else’s dick.”
He winces, scrunching an eye. “You’re the one hung up on quote-unquote normal. I wouldn’t normally take this much time on a girl, but I’m doing it.”
He has a point. He’s put in a lot of effort when there are so many sure things out there for him.
“Hey, Hatfield?” I welcome the interruption by one of his teammates and use it to put a little more distance between us when Vance stands up straight to talk to him.
“I’m out. I just wanted to congratulate you on a good game, man.” Vance’s teammate, older by a few years and ruggedly handsome, claps Vance on the shoulder and smiles. He then turns his attention to me. “Greg,” he offers, extending a huge hand toward me, and if the theory about hand size is true, he’s left no shortage of loose women in his wake.
I accept it without question, liking him instantly. “Brenna.”
He exchanges a look with Vance that I question but will never ask about. “Nice to meet you, Brenna. Don’t keep him out too late. We need him rested.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
A small smirk transforms his kind face, making him look like a mischievous boy. “If you say so,” he says, turning his attention solely to Vance. “Later, Hatfield.”
Vance turns back to me. “You can keep me out late if you want. Middleton’s not really the boss.”
Taking inventory of my family, I spot Uncle Rodney looking like he’s died and gone to heaven. Bristol, looking happier and holding her own with Robbins at the far side of the bar, gets the award for most improved attitude. It is my mom, who sits with an older gentleman, not to be confused with old, because he is beautifully handsome and austere, that surprises me. She seems to have absolutely captivated him, because he looks at no one but her. It could also be he thinks she’s crazy when she throws her head back to laugh and her cackle breaks the sound barrier, but I don’t think so. Saying she has had too much to drink might be exaggerating, because she hasn’t stripped to her underwear and hula danced yet, but we’re close.
“Thank you,” I croak out like I ate a spoonful of sand. I clear it and try again. “I know you didn’t do all this just for him, but you made Uncle Rodney happy today.” It’s delivered eloquently and without an ounce of scratch to my voice.
“I actually did do it for him,” he says, his brows drawing together. “You were a perk, though.”
I believe him, and things start easing up in my chest. “Regardless, I appreciate it. I didn’t like taking the spot of a sick child, though. Thanks for that, by the way.” I shove his arm.
Vance exhales. “I added you four to the lineup. You didn’t take anyone’s ‘spot.’ I promise.” He studies me.
“What?” I ask, nervous about the track of his thoughts.
“I’m wondering what I have to do to see you again.”
My stomach flips. “I think I was too quick to judge you. I’m used to really shitty people with ulterior motives, but you didn’t deserve to be lumped in with them so quickly. I’m sorry.”
He raises a shoulder and reaches for a tendril of my hair that he twirls lightly around his finger. “You don’t have to apologize. I can’t say my motives will always be on the upside of good. But they’ll never be dishonest. You still haven’t answered the question.”
“I don’t know, but you’ve got a game tomorrow, and I’ve got to get my drunk mother to bed.”
“I don’t have a game until tomorrow afternoon, and she looks fine to me.” He hasn’t looked away from me to know this.
“To the untrained eye, yes, but to the expert, her cackle precedes poor choices.”
He concedes with a waffle of his head. “I guess you’d know. Things will be winding down here shortly anyway. I’ll walk you out.”
I gather the drunk crew, a forgotten purse on a chair, and a number from Mom’s suitor, and we exit the club close to where we came into it. Cameras flash the second we hit fresh air, and I catch a small glimpse of the other aspect of Vance’s life. I halt, turn around, and push Vance back inside the door while the others, oblivious, walk ahead mumbling and giggling on their way to the limo.
“No offense,” I preface, feeling the weight of what I’m about to say next before it’s even out there, “but I’m not quite ready to be on the cover of Candid with you.” I draw in a breath and check my current state of indecision. I’ve lived my life explaining my actions, denying Bristol’s, and defending my mom’s. I don’t know if I’m ready for the much broader spotlight his life will cast over mine. And what happens to me when he’s done doing “normal?” Things were so much easier when I was feeling out my heart’s curiosities and not wondering whether I could weather a global rumor storm or meet the expectations of a baseball god.
“I’m not ready for that either,” he admits. From inside the doorway, I can’t tell where the camera flashes are coming from, but I’m sure he’s well versed. “But this isn’t how I wanted to say goodnight to you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who should apologize.” He looks out, seeming to think of another option before dragging me deeper inside the entryway, where security hovers close. “Will you stay for the game tomorrow?”
“I can’t.” I’m disappointed, but it will be a good test for his tenacity.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Wow! You’re cynical.”
“You’re hard to read lately.” His tone is softer, a regretful edge to its sincerity.
I sigh. “I can’t. My ride leaves at eight, and my beautiful room expires at eleven.”
“Should I be worried about you changing into a pumpkin?”
“I think that’s her chariot.”
He’s so close to a smile, I wait. “Chariot. Right.” His smile hits his eyes, not his lips. “I can cover the chariot and all the other accommodations if you’ll stay.”
“I can’t ask you to do that. Maybe we could meet up for dinner another day you’re in town?”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
“You know I’m not sleeping with you, right?”
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I swear.”
I nod slowly. “I’ll take the chariot, but I’ll pay for my own room.”
“I’ll have a car come for you at eleven, and there will be a ticket at Will Call. Just give them your name.”
I’m not sure how to end this night with him any more than he knows how to end it with me. So I take the initiative and rise on my tiptoes, leaning toward him. I kiss him on the cheek, far, far away from his lips, where a small amount of stubble has risen. “Goodnight, and thank you for everything.”
His hands encircle my arms, and at first I wonder if he is going to push me back. But he holds me steady and looks me in the eyes before he brushes his lips against mine. They are soft at first, tentative and testing, and when I don’t hesitate, they become the pleasure-producers I knew they’d be. His hands lift to my face, cupping it while his tongue tests the waters to find me accepting. My breath catches as our tongues meet, and with each swirl and taste
he takes, my knees weaken. The kisses I’ve had before him pale in comparison.
Pulling away before he gets too far, he looks at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sleep after a night like last night is near impossible. Throw in worrying whether or not Bristol will ever speak to me again after telling her about today’s plans, and it’s nonexistent.
I text Vance at the number Tori gave me when I finally got the nerve to ask for it.
Me: Good morning.
Vance’s reply doesn’t come right away and so, with the time I have, I tackle Bristol, and while laying on top of her remind her how awesome I am. “You can’t stay mad at me,” I tell her, lightly teasing but with more sincerity than she’ll ever appreciate. “I’ve never been on an actual date I didn’t get because I was your wing girl. You should actually be pushing me out the door.”
She snorts, “You smoked crack for breakfast, didn’t you?”
I press my palm into her forehead and press her head into the mattress, playful like we used to be when we were little and fighting over stickers. “I know how to handle my crack. I’m being serious.” I let her head go after she squirms enough that I’m about to fall off of her. “I need you to at least pretend you’re happy for me, so I can do this.”
Breathing heavily after trying to dislodge my weight, Bristol exhales, her body a bit more compliant. “I’m happy for you. I am. I just worry about you becoming Mom and overlooking everything that’s wrong because he’s hot and says the right things. Not to mention, this family would be skewered in the tabloids, and we’ve got a lot of dirt to publish.”
“You have dirt. I have dust. I’m not overlooking anything.”
“You are! He lied, Brenna.”
“He didn’t lie lie.”
“Oh, okay, Mom. See? It’s already started and you haven’t even slept with him. Please tell me you’re not going to sleep with him. Of the two of us, you’re the good one. Don’t lose that for sweet talk and kick-ass abs.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, rolling off her and onto my back beside her. “Besides, I can’t compete with the women he has access too. I’ll be a footnote quickly.”
My phone chimes a text notification, and I barely refrain from jumping on it. I roll sideways, kiss her cheek, and recite our motto: “Me and you against the world.”
“Me and you,” she says softly.
I gradually sit up, acting like it’s a choice I don’t want to make, and when I’m off the bed and she’s returned to packing her bag, I check my phone.
Vance: Who is this?
I smile.
Me: Guess.
Vance: No.
He is so grouchy when he’s not flirting with me.
Me: I don’t kiss and tell. I thought you’d know.
Vance: Brenna????
I nod as if he can see me, and I must giggle out loud because Bristol snarks out something about my annoying happiness so early in the morning. But Vance obviously hasn’t kissed anyone more recent than me, or he would have called me Betty or Bambi or Svetlanka.
“Who are you texting?” Bristol asks.
I look at her but don’t answer and tap out my reply to Vance.
Me: Yeah, it’s me. In case you need my # to back out.
Vance: Not a chance.
I practically squeal.
My phone sings Imagine Dragons’ “Radioactive,” and Bristol stops what she’s doing to look at me.
“Who’s calling you?”
I shrug, smile, and answer my phone as I walk out of the room and into the hall.
“Hey,” Vance says softly. “How’s your morning going?”
“Good. Quiet. They’re all getting ready to leave, which might take a bit longer than normal since my mom is just now discovering why she doesn’t go hard anymore, and Uncle Rodney thinks he needs to soak in the big bathtub. Are you sure you still want to do this?”
“Beyond sure. I added an extra night to your room, so don’t check out.”
“I told you I would get it.” I’d never speak it, but I’m sort of glad I don’t have to choose between paying off a room I can’t afford and buying textbooks for Bristol when they cancel her scholarship due to her lack of attendance.
“I must have missed that. Sorry. Anyway, are you cool with keeping it low key tonight, after the game I mean? I don’t think either of us is ready for the circus.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“I don’t want to cut this short, but I’ve got a morning workout.”
“You’re fine. I just wanted you to have my number.”
“Thank you. Oh, and Brenna?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
I smile. “Me either.”
After seeing Uncle Rodney, Mom, and an increasingly pouty Bristol off after a mostly silent pre-paid room service brunch in Mom’s room, the car arrives to take me to the ballpark. Will Call is surprisingly easy, and within fifteen minutes, I slip into my seat. Sitting beside a girl wearing a ball cap, sunglasses, and a number twelve Hatfield shirt, I wish I’d glammed up a bit. My nominal jealous side rears its ugly head, and I tamp down the inner monologue criticizing her beauty as I stand for the national anthem.
Sitting down at the end of the anthem, I stuff a chip into my mouth and chomp loudly. I don’t know if it’s the best way to get her attention or to make me look like I was raised by wolverines, but it works, and pretty girl with “Hatfield” on her T-shirt looks at me.
“I didn’t think anyone was sitting there.”
Not sure if she’s being rude or making conversation, I’m careful with my expression. “Only for part of it.” It’s the sarcastic truth. I fully intend to be on my feet for most of it and not sitting beside her.
She shrugs. “I just meant it’s usually empty. You’re free to sit for the whole game.” She smiles, yells as they put Vance’s picture on the Jumbotron, and returns to her seat. I’m hoping she’s just rabid and not a stalking fangirl like Tracy.
Vance pitches for the first six innings, allowing few hits, which, if I’m being honest, makes for a boring game. I don’t know all the rules, but I know it’s more exciting if both teams hit the ball, and with a score of three to zero, excitement has been limited. Pretty brunette girl wearing number twelve chats away with me about how much she wishes she lived closer so she could attend more games and how she likes Van’s new walk-up song and hated the one he had his rookie year. She knows a lot about him, but I can’t get a word in through all her info and statistics, so I nod, grunt a few times, and yell when Robbins and Corky take a turn at bat. She leaves before the end of the ninth with a wave and a “nice to meet you,” though I don’t think we exchanged names.
After the game I wait in the tunnel, where security is tight and reporters are prevalent, along with what I guess are fans, who either have some sort of pass like me or sneaked in. It’s calm chaos with thunderous acoustics as the team files past to the locker rooms. I watch for Vance, who passes by with a look and nothing more.
My name is announced, and though not through any equipment, it’s loud and plenty clear. I walk up as far as I can without pissing people off, and it’s announced again, so I wave my hand over my head, and security immediately clears a path and directs me to the front.
“Brenna Sloan?”
I nod, nervous as fuck and sweating bullets. The security guard, thick but short and rather underwhelming as far as security guards go, checks my I.D. and a laminated pass Vance left at Will Call. “You can wait in the press room.”
“I’m not press.”
Toneless, he responds, “I wouldn’t claim it either. Right in there.” He points to a red door that reads “Authorized Personnel Only,” and I aim in its direction with him close behind me. He swipes his badge, and the door pops open to a nice air-conditioned room with a water cooler and a television playing highlights of Renegades practices, games, and charity events. It’s all very propaganda-ish.
After I’ve watched propaganda on loop for about an hour, Vance enters the room. He’s freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing an impeccably pressed black suit. While I’m checking him out, he’s probably looked me over twice and is now questioning his taste in women. I didn’t pack to stay an extra day, so I’m in recycled clothes and bathed in perfume.
“I’m sorry that took so long. I had press.” He keeps a fair amount of distance between us, but he came and still remains, so I take that as a good sign he’s not going to dump me here. “Are you okay with going back to my place?”
I climb into Vance’s silver Audi Spyder. The seat fits me like it checked my body type before I climbed in and adjusted itself accordingly. I’m in awe and distressed all at the same time. I don’t live around things this nice, and I feel like I’m in an all-white room with grease on my fingers. The thing is exquisite and fast as fuck as he flies down the highway at racetrack speeds.
Vance’s home, where he primarily lives during the season, is located within a gated community fronted by a guard shack and cameras. The street, lined with pristine lawns and mature trees, is wide and unencumbered by vehicles parked along the curbing. Not a single motorhome, kayak trailer, or rusted-out nineteen seventy-six station wagon exists as far as the eye can see. His stamped concrete driveway is long and curves to his three-car garage which, by the standards around here, is small. The rest of his property, including the house and grounds, is well-lit, blooming up and out like a grand chandelier, making it a beautiful focal point against a painted sky.
Inside is magnificent yet somehow understated for the wealth. Beyond a grand foyer is a sitting room, and family pictures adorn a portion of one wall like a shrine to his All-American upbringing.
Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1) Page 10
