Page 83 of Just Playin'
I’m halfway across the away team’s locker room when the shrill of my cell phone halts my steps. I almost let it go to voicemail until a trickle of hope has me racing for the bucket Coach James is carrying into the room. Danny watches me with interest when I search for my phone. It’s most likely Lillian calling, but what if it isn’t?
The small bit of hope I’m clutching triples when I finally find my phone. With her face lighting up the screen, there’s no mistaking who is calling me. It’s Willow.
After exhaling deeply, I slide my finger across the screen, then raise my phone to my ear. I play it cool, hoping it will weaken the hammering of my heart echoing in my voice. “I was beginning to think you had lost my number. It’s good to hear from you.”
Her reply is nowhere near as flirty. “Why would you do that? Why would you take something so precious to me and treat it as if it’s meaningless?” Her words are as chilly as ice, but they have nothing on the coldness skating down my spine when she sucks in a shaky breath like she’s seconds from crying.
“What I said was stupid. I was talking out of my ass.”
Danny makes an agreeing noise, alerting me to the fact that he has his ear pressed against my phone so he can overhear my conversation.
After pulling away from him, I say, “I love the way your eyes light up when you perfect a move and how your lips itch to sing along to the tune when you get caught up in music. I love that you love dance so much you can see it all over your face when you talk about it.”But I doubt it will ever match the love I have for you.
“Then why do this? What benefit do you get from it?”
I wait for her to catch the sob her hiccup is barely holding back before replying, “Because I was being selfish. I wanted you to fight for me.”
“What?” She sounds truly confused.
I try to ease it. “The reason I walked away. I wanted you to fight for me—to fight for us. I needed to know you were in as deep as me. That you understand I want this to be long-term, not a college fling you’ll forget in a few months. I wasted nine years of my life trying to hold on to someone who never wanted me. I don’t want to do that again, Willow. ”
When she fails to respond, I drag my phone from my ear. Our call is still connected; she’s just as quiet as a mouse.
Just as I say her name, she whispers, “I wasn’t talking about our relationship.”
I lick my dry lips, confused. “Okay. Then what did you mean?”
Some of the angst in her voice is pushed away for anger. “My dance routine, the one I performed for you, the moves I created are now out there for the entire world to use.” I hear her throat work hard to swallow. “I know you think dance recitals are stupid, but this one was really important to me, and you went and ruined it.”
Before I can respond, she disconnects our call.
I immediately redial her number.
She doesn’t answer that call or the thirty-seven that follow it.
ISPENDthe next week wading through my confusion. I’m honestly lost as to what Willow meant by her comment. Was she saying I stole her routine, or that she wasted a routine on a man underserving of it? Most of this week, my opinion swayed toward the latter, but now I’m beginning to wonder if that was the case. She said she was referencing us, so that means she was talking about the dance she was preparing for the recital. And that’s why I’m stumped. How could I have ruined things for her? Knowing how important the recital was to her was the sole reason I refused to let her cancel it weeks ago. Dancing is a part of who she is, and I don’t care if she never talks to me again, I would never take that away from her.
My confusion gets a moment of reprieve when Danny enters the room. “Are you ready?”
I swipe my hand down my body while fighting the urge not to cringe. The advertising execs either misread the measurements Danny sent them for my clothes, or they purposely ordered them several sizes too small. Every bump on my body is on display for the world to see—I mean Every. God. Damn. Bump. This is worse than being photographed in my underwear, because not only does my dick want to hide in shame, so the fuck do I.
“Shut up,” I murmur under my breath when Dalton catches sight of me entering the press conference room.
I would glare harder, but I lose the opportunity when Delilah appears at my side. “Do you have the script?”
“Not on me.” When she glares at me, I hold my hands up in the air and spin in a circle. Dalton wolf whistles when I work my disastrous getup like a swimwear model showing off her assets in a swimsuit competition. “Where exactly would you like me to put it? It’s not like I have pockets.”
Delilah is quiet, but I swear she murmurs, “I can think of one spot.”
While I take a seat next to Dalton, Delilah gives me a rundown on how she wants our meeting to go down. It’s not about football or the odds of us winning a spot in the grand finale; it’s about her clients getting the most bang for their buck.
“No matter what is said or asked, never stray from our motto. Be the best you can be—”
“By being the slimmest you can be,” I interrupt.
“Good.” After tossing a cap with a giant fat-slimming logo plastered across the front, Delilah moves to a set of chairs behind the half-dozen cameras about to capture my every move.
I lower my cap to hide my flaming-with-embarrassment cheeks before swinging my eyes to Dalton. I realize not all the heat on my face is shame when I’m subjected to his furious wrath.
