Page 55 of Rookie Season
Penn runs a tattooed hand down his chest. “Hell, I’d even do me right now.”
“So, same as every other night then,” Noah mutters sarcastically, which makes me giggle in surprise, loving how he can switch from broody to witty in an instant.
As I laugh, he shoots a surreptitious look at me—something he’s been doing ever since I stepped out of my bedroom in my flapper dress, kitten heels, and fishnets, my hair all curled, blood-red lipstick on my lips and black winged liner on my eyes.
I like the way he’s looking at me. His gaze is laden with heat, like he wants me, but also layered with a protectiveness that suggests he’d hunt a man down if he tried to hurt me.
He’s an intense guy for sure…but I feel safe with him by my side.
“That’s rich coming from the guy who spends a lotof time alone in his room.” Penn smirks suggestively at Noah. “I’d say you’re way more acquainted with your right ha?—”
“Gentlemen, may I remind you there’s a lady present,” Fisher interrupts before Penn can finish his sentence, but my thoughts are already in the gutter, trying not to imagine what Noah does alone in his room at night.
At the top of the stairs, Fisher gives our names to the bouncer, and the velvet rope is magically opened for us so we can walk inside, bypassing the huge line of people waiting to get inside the luxurious brick restaurant. A few of them groan, some yelling out that it’s not fair—with more than a few jealous glances in my direction.
“Those guys play for the Lions,” a pretty redhead in a Poison Ivy costume hisses to her friend, dressed as a devil in a red pleather minidress. “They’resohot. But who’s the girl?”
Her friend shakes her head. “She’s too short to be a model…maybe an actress?”
“Wait, I think she’s that influencer who posts all those ab workouts.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s it,” her friend agrees, and I have to look down at the ground to hide my snort of laughter.
I’m just about the opposite of an influencer—I deleted all my socials when I left USG—but I can imagine that if I still had Instagram, posting a roommate pic from tonight would probably be the talk of the entire university tomorrow. It’s wild to think about how on earth I went from being a regular old college kid in Georgia to frequenting VIP areas in San Francisco with my pro athlete roommates in the span of a month.
“I hate people talking about me, too,” Noah, who clearly also overheard the entire interaction, says in a low voice as we make our way past the coat check and down a narrow entry hallway.
I peek up at him with a small smile. “I wondered if you were uncomfortable when the media went crazy over you blowing your nieces kisses the other night at the game.”
Noah shrugs. “Part of my job, I guess. I signed up for being in the public eye when I declared for the draft.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to like it,” I reply simply. I already know what it's like to be the subject of speculation and rumors on a college campus—and it was terrible. I can’t imagine what it would be like to deal with on a national level. “My dad always said his way of coping with fame was to never, ever read anything about himself.”
“Your dad sounds smart,” Noah tells me, and we share a small smile.
“Welcome to Deja Vu!” Fisher suddenly cries next to us, flinging his arms wide as we step into the coolest party I have ever laid eyes on.
The restaurant usually has a luxurious French aesthetic, but it’s been completely transformed for the holiday—cobwebs and mechanical bats drip from the chandeliers overhead, a soft fog billows across the marble floors, and ornate mirrors have been placed everywhere, cracked and foggy and projecting ghostly impressions. It’s like the Palace of Versailles went goth. A DJ is set up in a black, lacquered booth in one corner, playing an old Drake track, and shirtless cocktail waiters in black raven masks and feathered black wings mingle with trays of champagne.
“Puck me sideways,” Penn says.
“I second that sentiment,” I say a little dizzily.
“Let’s party!” Fisher yells, grabbing my hand and Noah’s arm and pulling us onto the dance floor.
As the four of us dance together, I relax and for once am unworried about the crowd or my own safety. Also, Noah Downsby is a surprisingly good dancer, his movements all graceful athleticism. We’re having a blast. The three guys stay true to their word: they don’t drink any alcohol, and they don’t leave my side. We dance for hours, forming a circle on the dance floor and performing increasingly ridiculous dance moves and one-upping each other until our sides hurt from laughing.
It’s exhilarating, and I’m delighted to let my hair down and have fun again without worrying about the Tylers of this world, just enjoying the company of three of the best guys I have ever met.
After a few hours, I’m sweaty and tired, but I can’t stop smiling. I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun.
“I think I want to get some air,” Noah yells over the buzzing noise of the club, catching his breath as ‘Monster Mash’ ends.
“There’s a patio upstairs!” Fisher yells back.
“Cool.” Noah looks over at me. “I’ll be back in five, okay?”
“I’ll come with you,” I shout.
