Page 84 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Huh,” says the psychologist.
Clay clenches his jaw. He’s still scrolling through the photos which are, thankfully, mostly of Fuckson’s stupid friends.
At the end of the gallery, another shot of us rolls into view. I don’t remember this moment, either. We’re at the rink, wearing practice gear and standing in the dressing room. I’m smirking, like maybe I just chirped another player and made the other guys laugh.
As incriminating evidence, the photo wouldn’t turn heads except for one thing. Clay’s expression in the pic stops my heart. He’s watching me with naked adoration. Like he’s never met anyone as perfect as me.
I can’t look away. I’ve never seen any photos of us together. Honestly, the look on his face is hard for me to process. AlthoughClay has been very clear with me, until this very second, I don’t think I believed him. Not all the way down to my gut.
Now I’m staring at the evidence. If love had a face, it’s the one he’s wearing. It shouldn’t shock me, but it does. At twenty-two, I clearly wasn’t ready. Nobody had ever loved me before—not selflessly—and I hadn’t loved anyone, either.
I didn’t know what it felt like to fall for someone. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. And Clay’s love scared the hell out of me.
It’s all so obvious now. I let myself believe that I couldn’t date a guy, because that was easier than facing a scary new thing.
I look up at Clay at the same time he looks up at me. Our gazes clash for one potent second, before he looks away. He bends down and kills the tab, then snaps the laptop shut. He hands it to Tate. “Thanks for showing me this.”
“Sure thing,” the publicist says, snagging a pretzel. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Right,” Clay says quietly.
Doc Baker looks between us, a question in his eyes. But he follows Tate out of the room, leaving me alone with Clay.
As soon as the door closes, Clay drops into a chair, a dazed look on his face.
I sit down opposite him and wait for him to speak. But he doesn’t. “Clay, are you seriously freaking out?”
He sighs. “No.”
I’m not convinced. I push the pretzels toward him. “Here, taste these. Toby insisted I bring them to you. He’s proud of them.”
Clay looks at the tin like he’s never seen it before. He takes a pretzel and bites it. “All right. Good work, team. Although it’s not really baking.”
“Oh,please,” I complain. “Even this was a challenge for me. It took me a minute to figure out that we needed to chill themon wax paper. The first batch is permanently glued to one of our plates. And it was super messy. There was chocolate, like, all over my body.”
Clay’s eyes heat. “Jethro.”
“It’s a literal fact. You’re the one who made it weird.”
He rubs his forehead. “Tell Toby the pretzels are great. But you could have called me. I promised him I’d help out with the next bake sale.”
“Seriously?” I flop back in the chair and look at the ceiling. “Icouldn’tcall you. I wasn’t going to put us in that position. You’d feed me dinner again, and then I’d hump your leg like a horny animal.”
“Jetty.” He takes another bite and shakes his head. “Yeah. Fine. I get it.”
“Do you?” I press. “Did you know I also called the travel department and told them I prefer hotel rooms on lower floors?”
He squints at me. “Why?”
“So we don’t end up in bed together!”Jesus. “Don’t be dense. You told me you needed distance, so I’m giving you distance.Allthe distance, Clay. There ought to be a championship I could win. Because you’re not the only guy who has a lot of distractions. I fucking dream about you.”
He stops chewing. “You do?”
“Of fucking course!” It comes out shouty. “I know I’m some kind of late bloomer, and I already fucked up my chance with you. But I’m coping, okay? I want to win you a damn Cup, too, so you can have what you really want in life. I don’t get why you’re freaking out about an old photograph. There’s no scandal. There’s nousto terrify anyone. So calm your tits already.”
He stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
