The opposition was better prepared, sharper, hungrier. Andwe-me,myteam- had underestimated them.
She’d known.
But not only had she known, she’d put it out there for all of the fucking world to see.
And on top of that, she all but confirmed how she didn’t believe in me.
That had pissed me off the most. More than I cared to admit.
And then, just to top it off, she’d walked into that press room all professional and poised. That sharp, clever mouth of hers had framed questions that had felt more like fucking daggers to my ego, and instead of composing myself, instead of accepting defeat and taking it on the chin, instead oflearning -what had I done?
Taken it out on her.
Like anidiot.
Like a petulant fuckingchild.
I brace my hands against the cool tile, my head bowing as the water runs down my spine.
Last time I saw her, I’d had her moaning my name against a marble countertop. Had her legs wrapped tight around my waist, her body trembling beneath me as I drove her over the edge.
And now I can’t evenlookat her without acting like a complete fucking idiot.
Pathetic.
I should have just played it cool. Should have shrugged off her questions, taken my loss like a man.
Instead, I let my bruised ego do the talking.
The thing is, I had actually wanted her there tonight.
Even after she’d ignored me all fucking week. After she hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction since the gala.
After I’d spent every single night touching myself like a fucking teenager, coming undone repeatedly to the memory of the way she tasted, the way she felt wrapped around me.
Tonight, I wanted to prove something. To show off, remind her who I am.
And all I've done is prove her right.
I straighten, dragging a hand through my wet hair, my chest rising and falling in frustration.
I’ve fucked up. And now, she probably thinks - no, shedefinitelythinks - that I’m a temperamental, egotistical, sore loser who has no respect for her or her profession.
Which, for the record, isn’t fucking true.
I respect herandher job. More than I probably should, given the kind of bullshit I’ve had to put up with over the years from intrusive reporters.
But she’s not like anyone else. She’s actually good at her job.
Infuriatinglygood.
And now, she’s going to think I’m just like the rest of them - just like Mark fucking Chapman and his misogynistic cronies.
It couldn’t be further from the truth, but I can’t exactly blame her for thinking it. It’s only as a result of my own stupidity.
Eventually, I cut the water off and step out, grabbing a towel and scrubbing it over my face.
By the time I tie it around my waist and step back into the changing room, some of the guys have returned. A few of them are getting dressed, pulling on their tracksuits andmuttering about the loss.