Page 7 of Forecheck
“Remember how you drunkenly told him he was even hotter in person?” Amelia snickered.
I groaned at the thought. “God, don’t remind me. I shouldn’t be allowed out in public when I drink.”
“Personally, I think it’s great. It was about time you manned up and made your move. I’m only sad I wasn’t there to witness it myself.”
“Clearly, I didn’t make a lasting impression,” I reminded her. “He didn’t even ask for my name or number or anything.”
I wondered why that was, turning the interaction over and over in my mind exactly as I had so many times over the course of the last five days. Despite the indeterminate amount of tequila Lexie and I had consumed, I hadn’t forgotten a word we’d exchanged.
Brent Jean had definitely been flirting with me.
“Maybe he’s shy,” Amelia offered.
“Please,” I snorted. “With that face? And body? And fame? He has nothing to be shy about.” I sighed, then added, “It’s probably better this way anyway.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m me”—I gestured to myself, to the oversized hoodie I’d stolen from my older brother ages ago, the ratty sweatpants I’d had since middle school, the messy bun I’d tossed my day three hair into—“and he’s him.” I pointed at the TV, where Brent’s face overtook the screen as the in-arena announcer went through starting lineups.
“That’s a terrible attitude,” Amelia said. “And so unlike you.”
I shrugged. “I’m being realistic. And you know I’m right.”
Bars—and alcohol—tended to level the playing field, and that night, I’d been emboldened to approach him, reaching his sidebefore I’d fully formed a plan. I blurted the first thing that came to my head when confronted with Brent Jean, up close and personal. I wasn’t going to get any grand ideas that Brent and I had a thing now simply because of one shared flirty conversation at The Backdoor. He surely had those kinds of conversations with women all the time. I wasn’t special.
Amelia opened her mouth to retort, but the puck dropped, and all conversation ceased.
About halfway through the first period, Brent scored when he found an opening while the Eagles were on a line change. I was instantly out of my seat, screaming and shouting, celebrating right alongside Brent and his teammates. Even before the interaction at the bar, he’d been my favorite player since college.
I could help grinning at the memory of him stepping into my personal space at The Backdoor, exactly as I’d imagined he would a thousand times before. The way he’d enveloped me in his crisp, clean scent. The way he’d told me he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off me.
Damn. The entire thing felt surreal now. I couldn’t be wrong in thinking there’d been something between us, could I? You couldn’t manufacture that kind of chemistry, and I swear, the air between us had sizzled, even if we’d only spoken for less than five minutes.
Brent went on to score two more goals in the game, earning him his first professional hat trick and leading the Warriors to a 5-1 win.
With an extra pep in my step, I bid Amelia good night and bounded upstairs to get ready for bed. Extensive skincare and oral hygiene routines complete, I returned to my room and picked up my phone for the first time in hours.
I had a decent social media following, particularly on Instagram, but I was still shocked by the number of notifications I’d received over the last several hours.
Clicking into the app, I quickly realized it was because my favorite online boutique had shared my post from earlier that day, where I was dressed head to toe in their clothing and posed in front of the glass and chrome building of Wayne State’s law school.
I scrolled through my notifications tab, noting all the new followers and responding to comments. I was just about to close out when a particular notification caught my eye, a follow from someone who I already followed.
“Holy fuck,” I breathed, fingers instantly shaking so hard I dropped my phone to the floor. Bending, I scooped it up and sprinted down the hall to Amelia’s room.
“Ames,” I said, too out of breath for having sprinted about ten feet. I really needed to start running again. “I need you to look at this and tell me I’m not imagining things.”
Amelia grabbed my phone and took a moment to study the screen. “It says Brent Jean followed you,” she said, giving me a confused look. I waited a beat and watched as understanding dawned, her mouth dropping open. “OH MY GOD IT SAYS BRENT JEAN FOLLOWED YOU!”
Before long, we were jumping up and down, holding hands and screaming like we were at a Taylor Swift concert. Drawn by the ruckus, Kimber stomped into the room.
“What the hell are you two screaming about?” she asked, hands planted on her hips. The look she gave us saidmy roommates are children.
“Brent Jean followed Berkley on Instagram!” Amelia told her.
Kimber looked at me. “Really?” I nodded in confirmation, holding my phone out to let her see for herself. Kimber’s mouth formed a tiny “O” of surprise.
“You should message him!” Amelia said excitedly.
