Page 15 of Brushed and Buried
“Yeah, yeah,” George cuts him off. “Two dildos. We know. Still sounds suspicious.”
Everyone cracks up. Lance flips him off, but he’s smiling.
The laughter dies down when one of the bridesmaids finally points, staring wide-eyed. “Wait, hold on. Is that…?”
That is when Vince finally shows up.
He comes striding down the sand like he’s been carved for the part, with board shorts slung low on his hips, a plain black sleeveless shirt clinging to his chest in ways that make it criminally obvious he belongs on a billboard. Sunlight catches the ink snaking across his arm and up, tattoos shifting over muscle every time he moves. His hair is still damp, like he’s just come from a shower, and he doesn’t look hurried. He looks inevitable.
My pulse trips over itself. I tell myself not to stare, but disobedient eyes map every familiar line I’ve drawn a hundred times in secret.
The bridesmaids notice him too. You can feel the shift, like someone has just set off fireworks behind us. They nudge each other, whispering, barely subtle.
Vince doesn’t acknowledge it. He just claims a padded lounge chair beneath the cabana, stretching out like a man immune to scrutiny. Long legs out, one arm draped across his stomach,sunglasses shielding his face. If he feels the heat of every gaze on him, including mine, he gives no sign.
“Holy hell,” one of them whispers.
“That’s…” another gasps. It’s Holly.
She squints at Vince, mouth working like she’s trying to place him in the right scene. Then, too loud and triumphant, she blurts, “It’s him!”
Silence hits like a slap. Vince sits up slowly, muscles tense, narrowing his eyes just enough to say he wishes no one would make a fuss about him being here in the flesh.
Holly flushes, words tumbling over themselves. “I mean, I just remember…because Adrian always has the games on at home, that’s all, so it just clicked…”
A cold knot twists in my gut. Too late. She’s already said my name andgamesin the same breath.
Vince’s gaze shifts to me, cool and assessing, like he’s weighing more than just Holly’s slip. It’s like blood in the water. Their heads snap between me and Vince, smiles spreading.
“Oh, so you know Holloway. This just got interesting,” Lance crows.
Holly isn’t looking at Vince anymore; she’s looking straight at me. And in that instant, I know she sees through it all. She sees the hurt I must still be carrying, the reason I’ve been sketching the same face for years without ever admitting whose it is. And the shift in her expression, sharp and protective, like she’d throwherself between me and whatever storm is brewing, tells me she isn’t about to let it slide.
My lungs squeeze tight.
Dinah immediately starts firing questions about which team Vince plays for, while Stephanie asks about “that commercial with him running shirtless.” Claire peppers him with names of other hot players, whether he knows them personally or not. Vince answers quietly, a little embarrassed but patient, smiling at each question. But the damage is done. He’s officially the celebrity of the beach.
I sip my drink, pretending I don’t notice the way Holly keeps darting glances between me and him, or how other resort guests start to notice the commotion, phones appearing as they try to be subtle about taking Vince’s photo.
“It must be weird,” I say, nodding toward a couple pretending to take selfies while angling to get Vince in the background.
Vince follows my gaze and offers the couple a polite smile as they snap their photos, his expression barely shifting. “You get used to it.”
“Do you really, though?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He looks at me then, really looks, and for a second I see something raw flash across his features. “I have to. It comes with the territory.”
Those words carry something heavy, reflecting the cost of living in the spotlight and the impossibility of ever existing without scrutiny.
“Do you ever get a break?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Vince glances at me, looking unsure if he should act casual with me or ignore me altogether. “Off-season’s better,” he finally says, stretching his arms behind his head. “You can disappear for a few weeks.”
There’s something lonely in that admission, something that twists inside me.
I notice the way other resort guests keep gravitating toward our area, trying to catch Vince in unguarded moments. He handles it with practiced ease, but I see the way his shoulders stay tense, the way he never fully relaxes.
This is his normal now. Constant performance, awareness that every moment might be captured and dissected. I wonder if he ever gets to just be Vince, or if he’s always Vincent Holloway, Tritons’ wide receiver, public figure.
