Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1)

by Caterina Campbell

  “Come on, Brenna,” Greg says, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Let me get you out of here.”

  Vance advances, his dick moving with his strides. “Brenna, I have no idea who she is. She wasn’t here when I got in the shower.”

  I laugh, but it’s bitter and full of malice. “I’m not stupid,” I say softly.

  “Come on,” Halsey says, pushing Vance backward with his hand in the center of his chest, “Let’s take this inside before you get arrested.”

  Vance won’t budge. “I’m not leaving unless she comes with.”

  “She’s not going anywhere with you!” Bristol screams, squeezing herself in between Halsey and Vance. “She’s done with you!”

  “You’d fucking like that wouldn’t you?” Vance, advancing on her, yells in her face, and Halsey, no match for Vance’s distaste for my sister, can’t contain him. “Is she yours, Bristol? Did you set this shit up?”

  “You wish. This shit-show is all yours, buddy.”

  I find myself leaning against Greg, thankful for the prop as my body trembles.

  Halsey, more serious than I’ve ever seen him, gains the upper hand and manages to separate Bristol and Vance. “I don’t care what any of you do, but you can’t do it out here. Who do you want gone?” Halsey raises his voice toward Vance, who jerks his head, and my attention is once again redirected to Stiletto Girl. “Cork, get her some damn clothes and get her out of here. Van wants her gone.”

  The skank doesn’t budge from the doorway. Her smirk riles my temper, and even knowing I can’t fight worth a damn, I swing at her face. I watch as my hand connects with her cheek and her head cranks to the side. I swing again, but I’m pulled up short and my fist stops mid-stride as my feet lift off the ground.

  “Get her out of here!” Greg, holding me off the ground, yells over her crying yelps and my huffing and puffing.

  “How’s that for homely, bitch?” I scream, kicking my legs like a swimming puppy.

  Corky, there in seconds, is shoving clothes into her arms and wrapping a sheet around her. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” He all but shoves her out of the room. “I think you’ve done enough damage for one night.”

  “She hit me,” she whines through thick tears. “I’m pressing charges,” she screams over her shoulder, holding her cheek in the palm of her hand.

  Anger like I’ve never felt races like a damn inferno through my blood, and I take off at a dead sprint, but instead of connecting with my target, I fold in half over Greg’s stiff and unforgiving arm, shocking us both. He grumbles beneath the strength it takes to keep an adrenaline-fueled body at bay, and I groan with unexpected rib pain.

  Greg holds me in place, cursing loudly, “Fuck me!” he bellows, grunting as he sidelines my efforts. “Easy there, Mayweather,” he says, pulling me back so my ass is pressed against his groin. I groan, coughing, and we pant together.

  I refuse to go into the room, but Halsey manages to get Vance to agree to, leaving me, Greg, and Bristol standing in the hallway.

  “If you’ll get my purse,” I pause for a breath, “I—I’ll—I c-can go.” I scrub at my tears.

  “Brenna?” Greg’s voice is calm but super uncertain as to which Brenna he might get. “I really don’t think you have the full picture. I mean, I get what you saw, but I don’t believe it.”

  I stare at him, unconvinced and pissed. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  He laughs, but not with amusement, more nervous than anything. “I don’t think you should be so hasty.”

  “Hasty?” I walk away from him and pace in a tight circle. “I saw her snatch.” He chuckles a little. “Her. Snatch!” I reiterate loudly for effect, to which I get another chuckle and two hands up in the air as if in surrender.

  “I get it,” he says. “I do.”

  The door to the hotel room opens, and Halsey sticks his head out. “You coming in?” He looks pointedly at Greg and then to me.

  “I need my purse,” I say, and they both look at me, waiting for a decision I’m not about to make. “What?” I ask icily. “I saw snatch.”

  Halsey, uncharacteristically serious, speaks directly to me. “Van doesn’t usually go for cleat-chaser snatch. Hear him out?” He holds out his hand to me.

  Bristol, abnormally silent for most of the hallway antics, screams at Halsey, “Go to hell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I wake up in Greg’s room with my cheek on Bristol’s thigh and my legs hanging off the sofa. I must have fallen asleep at some point while faking it. With Greg’s and Bristol’s vastly different approaches to Stiletto Girl, there was no other way to find quiet but to fake sleep.

  I tiptoe to the bathroom, travel attire finally dry, cheeks a bit chapped. I wish instantly that I had peed in the dark, because seeing my green eyes with makeup cried off and sleep lines that mirror Bristol’s jeans across one cheek is too much too soon.

  Swishing a capful of Greg’s mouthwash, I wash my face with cold water and shaking hands, but the attempt at retrieving some of my mediocre looks is laughable.

  When I leave the bathroom with better breath and a cool face, Greg is sitting on the edge of his bed wearing a pair of shorts and a tired expression. His hair is tousled like some midnight goblin messed with it in his sleep and made sure it wouldn’t lie back down.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “My purse,” I say in passing as I walk out of the bedroom and into the sitting area where thankfully, with her head in the corner of the sofa, Bristol is still sleeping. I sit down pinning my hands between my knees, unsure what to do while my phone, inside my purse, is being held hostage by a cheater.

  Greg, typically quiet but itching to say something, scratches his chest and runs his fingers through thick, matted, brown hair. “He’s called my phone a hundred times. What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Tell him I want my stuff.”

  He growls and heads back to his room only to return with his phone out so I can see the screen with Vance’s response.

  Van: She can come get it.

  I grab his phone, anger seizing the last emotion I have for him, and I tap out a response.

  Greg grabs the phone back and looks at the text I sent. “Really? Fuck off. That’s what you wanted to say?”

  The knock on the door interrupts whatever wisdom he was about to spout, and he stalks to the door, opening it with a mighty pull and a grumbled, “What?”

  Someone other than Greg speaks, but it’s not clear enough to hear who it is.

  “That had better not be him. So help me God, if it is, Brenna, I may kill him,” Bristol says, waking from her fitful beauty sleep.

  “She’s upset. How ’bout you give it a rest?” I hear Greg say.

  “If she wants her stuff, she can talk to me.”

  Hiding won’t get me home, and I must face him at some point. It would be preferable if I were stronger, not still attracted to him, and in a space with minimal input from Bristol, but that’s not my reality.

  “Fine,” I hear Greg say, and I squeeze my eyes tight, pissed I’m trapped in this room belonging to a person loyal to Vance and not me. “Work it out or don’t, I don’t give a shit, just wrap it up.”

  I walk toward the window that looks out over the city and the street that fronts the hotel. Traffic, despite the early hour, is thick. It’s still drizzling, and I find it ironic that the drought in California chooses the two days I’m mentally unstable to find some relief.

  “Can we talk?” He doesn’t sound like the cocky asshole I’ve grown to love. I choke on a sob as that registers. I loved him. I still love him.

  I can see a vague reflection of him in the glass, but I don’t focus on it. I just stare at the traffic, allowing Bristol to speak for me.

  “No.” Bristol snaps. “Give us our shit, and get the fuck out.”

  Vance blatantly ignores her and speaks directly to me. “Please?”

  I look up from the traffic and stare at his reflection. “You have nothing to say that I wa
nt to hear.” Tears choke off my throat. “I just want my stuff so I can go.”

  “Brenna, please?” Sedate as he asks, it’s not the Vance I know.

  I bawl, hanging my head, sick over the loss and hurting over the knowledge that this can’t be fixed. “I want to go,” I say through my tears, turning to face him finally. “Please, just let me go.” I hate the cower in my voice, but it remains. “If you wanted me, you wouldn’t have slept with her.”

  Unshaven and sleepless, he’s still the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, and when he speaks, it chills me. “I didn’t sleep with her.” The exasperation in his voice strengthens. Last night he sounded defensive, today, he sounds desperate. “If you hear nothing else, hear that.”

  “Oh, my God! You were caught. She had Van Hatfield all over her.”

  “I’m not doing this with you, Bristol.”

  “Oh, yes—”

  He cuts her off and points a dark glare at her. “If you want your shit back, you’ll stay the fuck out of it. And before you open your trap to argue, it’s not open for negotiation. Take a walk.”

  She wants to blast him, but she looks at me instead, thankfully knowing her cooperation is integral to us not having to catch a Greyhound with an IOU. I nod, giving her permission to leave me alone. These have got to be the hardest steps she’s ever taken, because I know if it were me, my shoes would feel like lead as I walked away from her.

  “You’re such a dick,” she spits as she storms out of the room and into the hall, screaming one last insult as she disappears down it.

  He growls, gathers his temper, and softens his gaze as his eyes find mine. “I—”

  Nipping his next excuse at its origin, I interrupt him. “I know what I saw. You can’t explain that away no matter how many times you try.”

  “I know what you saw,” he says, inching closer, “but it’s not—”

  “Don’t come near me,” I warn, holding my hand out to stop him from coming any closer. I know I couldn’t stop him if he really wanted to get near me, but he stops. “I saw enough of her to know I want none of you now.”

  He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, sighing heavily. He locks his hands behind his head and presses his head back into them. “She was a groupie, Brenna.” More exasperation pours out of him on a heavy breath exhaled with force.

  My disdain is heavy, laden with a disgust I couldn’t have fathomed before last night. “I don’t really care if she was a regular or a first. It’s all the same to me.”

  “She wasn’t there when I got into the shower.”

  In a visual betrayal of my despair, tears fall heavily against my cheeks and I wipe them away with my fingertips. I laugh with no amusement, my tears and laughter at bitter odds. “Let me guess, she came with the room as a perk? Pussy on a pillow.”

  “No.” He doesn’t acknowledge my sarcasm, skips right over my attempt at humorous indignation.

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe that some random girl climbed into your bed uninvited? Go fuck yourself, Vance. I’m—”

  “Let me talk.” He cuts me off in the middle of my outburst, further angering me. “It happens, Brenna.” There is no tenderness in that statement, and for the first time this morning, conviction mixes with his desperation. He presses in, closing off a few more inches separating us. “They have a friend on staff, or they are the staff, I don’t fucking know. But it happens more than you think. Trust me, it’s not a turn-on. Not one of them has ever gotten laid because of it, at least not in my room.” He pauses and lowers his head, releasing another heavy breath and then, almost as an afterthought, adds, “We usually lock the deadbolt when we’re in our rooms, but we can’t really do anything to prevent it when we’re not.”

  I stare at him, absorbing the new information but not swallowing it. “So, why didn’t you lock the deadbolt?”

  He lifts his head. Eyes fraught with distress, lack of sleep, and maybe defeat meet mine. “Halsey left while I was in the bathroom. He can’t lock it from the outside.” Still holding my stare, he draws in a breath. “I swear to God, I didn’t know she was there until I walked out and saw her.” Another sigh. “Just consider the possibility, that’s all I’m asking.”

  My head swims. I believe it could happen. But he could just be well-versed in lying his way out of relationship indiscretions. He may think I’m young and naïve, but I’ve lived a long life through my mom.

  “I need you to believe me, Brenna.” He pleads with me, eyes so desperate I almost cave, but I can’t dismiss the niggling bitch in the back of my head calling me a fool.

  Nostrils the size of canyons widen as I draw in air. It takes several swallows to unload the Sahara Desert in my throat, but I manage to come within a few sandy grains of its entire depletion. “Why should I believe you over my own eyes?”

  Tortured eyes hold mine. “Because I’m in love with you,” he says softly.

  If I hadn’t just found a slut in his bed, I would be the happiest girl alive. Instead, it feels like a manipulative move to win me back. More tears pass my eyelashes. These ones aren’t fueled by my anger or my hurt but have the distinguished mark of regret for not having heard those words sooner.

  “I love you, Brenna.” Before I know it, he is standing directly in front of me, able to touch me if he wants to. “I need you to know that.”

  Endless tears stream down my cheeks. Confusion rocks me to my core. I’m at a crossroads and have no idea which direction to go.

  “I didn’t sleep with her. I haven’t wanted to sleep with anyone since meeting you. That’s the God’s honest truth. I know what I’m asking of you is a lot. And I’ll be honest, I don’t know that I could do it if you asked me to believe that you hadn’t slept with the naked guy in your bed.” He cups my face in his palms, tilting my head back so I have to look at him, and for the first time, I allow him to touch me without shirking it off. I want desperately to lean into his hand, close my eyes, and wait for his lips to touch mine, but I can’t. Instead, I blink several times, dislodging more tears. “I’m begging you, Brenna, to take a leap of faith. Jump in feet first. Please believe me and not your eyes. Please?”

  I hold his gaze, mine blurred but unwavering. I want to believe, but what fool discounts her own eyes for the word of a known player? I can think of only one. Two if Bristol is right. My mother. And me.

  “Jump, Brenna,” he whispers. “Please, jump.” He’s no longer disguising his pleas behind sentiment or smooth talk. It’s blatantly desperate. With my eyes, I follow his Adam's apple as it bobbles in his throat. I can physically see his fear, distress, and that diminishing seed of hope in his eyes.

  His thumbs slowly caress my cheeks, wiping away tears. I close my eyes and take in several breaths. “I—I . . . I need a few minutes.”

  He nods and takes a step back, giving me the space I desperately crave but no longer think I want. I hide a sob behind my trembling hands and run for the door. In the hallway, I take my first breath and then another and another, until my chest is heaving.

  Straight from the elevator, through the hotel’s turnstile glass front door and past the valet and bellhop, I bolt out into the drizzling rain. Somewhere out front, but away from the clamor of arriving guests and departing tourists, I lean forward, clutching my knees, exhausted by my emotions and worn thin by indecision.

  This decision is likely to kill me, especially when I think back to how many times I’ve criticized my mother for her incredible weakness. In the dark of night and in the quiet of my room, it was easy to judge her when it wasn’t my heart being crushed. To believe Vance means I have to swallow my pride and live with the regret and the shame if I’m wrong. To believe my eyes means I have to have wholehearted faith in myself not to have made a bad judgment call without all the facts. Being so focused on the bared snatch in front of me, did I miss other signs? I mean, the bitch still had her shoes on, and now that I look back on it, didn’t look like she’d recently been satisfied. And by the way she was talking, she was still waiting for hi
m and wasn’t happy I might be joining in.

  Holy shit!

  My legs won’t hold me, and I sit down on the concrete walkway, as ungraceful as I am haggard-looking. I have a nasty habit of rushing to judgment where Vance is concerned, and I don’t know if I’m capable of being impartial and loving him too. Holding him accountable for what’s been said about him in the press has been unfair to him, but I don’t know how to separate rumor from fact or past from the present.

  I have no idea how much time passes, but it’s not enough for him to come looking for me yet, and my clothes aren’t so wet that hypothermia has set in. In the last twelve hours, I have sobbed until I couldn’t breathe, seethed until I couldn’t feel, and loved like I’ve loved no other, but at this moment, I wish I were empty. This mass of emotion, heightened by my indecision, drains the last of my strength, and this time I cry for my weakness instead of my loss.

  At the threshold of Greg’s room, I take one last deep breath, push the heavy door in, and step inside. I’m dripping wet, hair stringy and stuck to my face. My clothes cling to my curves, and my shirt, as I saw with horror in the glass of the turnstile doors, is see-through.

  After informing me that Bristol is “contained in Corky’s room,” Greg excuses himself to the bedroom, leaving Vance and me alone. “Are you okay?” Vance asks without moving toward me. He looks tired, and for the first time, now that I can see past my own ache, I notice his fear.

  I nod then shake my head, confused. Is there a way to answer that? Fresh tears roll down my cheeks, and I’m beginning to wonder when the well will run dry. I take in a breath to clear my throat of the remaining Sahara. “I think I want to jump.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Even though Vance is adamant he didn’t cheat on me and I’ve decided I really do believe him, returning to our chaotic normal isn’t automatic. In the two weeks since Stiletto Girl waved her snatch in my face, I’ve barely seen Vance. My school schedule is heavy, and Vance, understandably preoccupied with winning the National League Championship Series against Chicago, hasn’t had the luxury of free time either. We’ve had to improvise what normal couples take for granted after a major event, but makeup sex on FaceTime isn’t perfect when one of us can’t take dirty commands without laughing. As much as I wanted to, I wasn’t even able to attend any of the LCS games before last night, but that was the most important one—a home game that decided the series. Being there for the win was amazing. Seeing Vance lose himself in the celebration with his teammates when he struck out the final batter, off-the-charts amazing. Not having the ghost of Stiletto Girl in the middle of every fucking thing we do, did, or are about to do, triple amazing. The few chances we’ve had at makeup sex have been fantastic, but I’m ready to move on to mind-blowing I-haven’t-seen-you-in-two-weeks sex. That’s the sex I want to have today, and that’s the sex I’m forced to rush my prep for because he’s home early from his team meeting.