Page 6 of Play Dirty
I hate it.
The smell of power and privilege.
Looking down at my sweaty palms, I can't believe it. I’m standing beside men with so much power and so much money that they could make a difference in the world. I guess they do in a way— I wouldn’t be here without them. Most of the team wouldn’t. Most of us were some poor kids with a dream and a talent for playing ball.
I don't belong here.
I can pretend, fake it till I make it, but it would all just be bitter lies I would feed myself to fit in. I don't belong in expensive suits, nor in marbled mansions, sitting in the richest place in this coastal town.
Yet here I am.
Hands sweating, stomach queasy from the nerves that run rampant throughout my body. I look over to my best friend Zayden, who looks like he got punched in the gut and is holding back the pain. People like us weren’t made to sit with people like them, but here we are.
The invitation called it an honor. The banner, a celebration. The letter in my pocket is a full ride. What they failed to mentionis the part where your throat dries up because you can’t breathe in a room this opulent. High ceilings, white marble tiles, tall windows, and gold chandeliers decorated with flowers I’ve never seen before, alongside food I’ve never dreamed of eating. No one told me that power doesn’t scream — it whispers slow and low, like it already owns you.
The violin plays softly over the chattering guests and clinking of champagne glasses. I bring my hands together, trying to do something other than stand front and center, but I guess this is the price you pay when you play for them.
It’s not me they celebrate, but my talent. My potential.
I earned this… yet it all feels rehearsed. Wrong.
I keep fidgeting until I bring my hands back into my pockets, thankful when we are finally dismissed from the stage. I look over at Zayden, who’s already sneaking alcohol into his system, and one of the rich kids sitting beside him. I think his name is Thiago Safra, and he’s my roommate, from what he told us when we arrived. Long brown tousled hair, golden skin with a small scar above his lip, he tips back a drink as he watches Zayden like he's the most interesting thing in the world.
He isn’t. If anything, Zayden is detached and cold to those he doesn’t know…
A man of few words and a big heart.
Then there's Ezra with his black hair perfectly styled, a spitting image of all the donors standing before us. Turns out, Ezra Roberts is the son of the richest man in this place and our team captain. Still with my hands in my pockets, I try to keep my head low and disappear into one dark corner of the room.
That’s when I spot her… Again.
Guess I was right after all, that didn’t last long.
The thought causes a smile to stretch across my features as I take her in, and it quickly fades. Her eyes are swollen like she’s been crying — lips swollen from making out with whoever that was. Still, sheremains the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, standing beside Mr. J – my sponsor, the man I owe this full ride to Villalargos. Her eyes are exactly like his.
Icy.
Blue.
And fucking drowning me.
Swallowing me entirely.
Watching her like a stalker, I’m completely mesmerized by the way her light pink, full lips stretch into a forced smile as Mr. J brings her closer to him. He hugs her like a prize, but from where I stand, it looks more like a cattle being auctioned. His wife is blonde like Shiloh, except she has dark brown eyes and looks like she’s four bottles deep.
She’s stumbling and clutching one of the player's cheeks. Way too friendly for someone who’s married and old enough to be his mother. My gaze moves back to Shiloh, and I notice that she’s the perfect blend of them. Her mother’s features and her daddy's eyes.
Shiloh continues with her reluctant smiles. No one notices the little gestures that signal her disgust at whatever is being discussed amongst them; they carry on with their conversation despite her pulling away.
Then she moves away, and so do I.
It’s inevitable, really, the way my body follows hers through the columns until she reaches the table with the champagne glass display. She stops in front of it, watching her reflection. While I watch her like a stalker. I've been wanting another round with Blondie since the very first encounter. All I could think about for the last couple of weeks was the way my body reacted the moment she touched my skin.
It felt fated.
As if in some sick joke, life finally gave me everything I ever wanted wrapped in silk and ice. She grabs a tall, skinny glass filled with rose pink liquid and brings it to her lips. I don’t have the balls to go up and talkto her. But I don’t mind pretending that one day all of her could be mine; my reality sucks. There’s nothing I can offer a girl like her— so I just watch from a safe distance.
Then I feel the pressure of a hand resting on my shoulder, a firm squeeze— the smell of expensive cologne fills the space, overpowering the moment.
