“Finally a night together,” Quinn says, her tone teasing and salacious.
Banner flashes a quick self-conscious look my way, but doesn’t answer. She just takes Quinn’s hand and drags her in the direction of the opposing team’s players’ tunnel.
So he’s staying with Banner instead of flying back with the team. Makes sense. If Banner was my girl, I’d stay back and fuck her, too.
If Banner was my girl.
The phrase boings around my head on a pogo stick for a few minutes while I escort Iris and Sarai to the opposite players’ tunnel where August will be. As soon as they are safely with him, I head for my car to start the trip from San Diego to LA. I pull up the Bluetooth for a phone call before I even make it out of the lot. It’s late to call my assistant, but she knows how I operate.
All the time.
“Seriously?” Chyna sounds like she was asleep. It’s not that late. “This is way after hours, Jared. What do you need?”
“Now don’t go drawing personal boundaries,” I tell her, letting her hear the rare affection I hold for her and so few others. “It’s too late for that shit. You’ve spoiled me all these years.”
Her heavy sigh is followed by a long-suffering chuckle.
“One day you’re gonna meet the woman you can’t charm.”
Already did, my friend. Just left her.
“So what we got?” she asks. “Now that I’m up?”
“You remember the guy we met who owns the new strip club downtown?”
“Yeah. You said he reminded you of a lizard in snakeskin.”
“That’s the one.” I laugh, pushing the button to lower the top on my convertible. It’s a glorious night for a drive. “Call him. I need a favor.”
10
Banner
“Girl, you better get you some.”
In the early morning quiet of my bathroom, I shhh Quinn’s app like it understands me. It’s five o’clock and I’m recording my food and workout from yesterday because I forgot last night. In addition to tracking nutrition, fitness, and water intake, it also logs sexual activity and menstrual cycle. Considering my PCOS diagnosis, I need to monitor this closely. Zo spent the night with me instead of at the hotel with the team. He’s in the bedroom asleep, and I don’t want to wake him up.
We had sex. That’s not unusual in a healthy relationship between two consenting adults, but we’ve been best friends since he coerced Cal Bagley into making me his agent nearly ten years ago. At that point in his life, Zo needed a friend more than he needed sharp negotiation skills and experience. I was that friend. I walked with him through that first year following his family’s death. In interviews, he always says he probably wouldn’t have gotten through the pressures of his rookie year and all the grief he had to process without me. It went both ways. I needed a friend just as badly. I got tossed into a pool of sharks, sink or swim. It was the rookie year for us both, and he was there for me, too.
Only in the last year did he express that he wanted more than friendship. Initially, I was a hard no. Why ruin a good thing? And frankly, as fine as Zo is, I’d never thought of him that way. I told him as much, but he kept asking. Eventually, I caved and we went out on one date. And then another. And then a third. I’m not going to say lightning struck. It didn’t, but it was nice to have someone as attractive as Zo want me. It was nice having someone to cuddle with while watching a movie. Nice to be holding someone’s hand when walking on the beach.
The first time we made love, I cried into my pillow after. Not because it was awful. It was good. It was sweet and tender and . . . good. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just ruined something precious. That I jumped off a building and was just waiting for the splat. But there has been no splat. Just falling. I guess this is falling in love? It’s a shame that at thirty-two years old, I’ve never been in love, but who’s had time? The occasional hookup. Drinks here and there. Dinner. I’d made myself vulnerable to two men in college, and both were disastrous. I may still be falling for Zo, but I know I can trust him, and he knows he can trust me. That must be a huge part of love.
“Girl, you better get your butt in gear.”
My workout times are also scheduled into the app, so “she” knows I haven’t left the house and should already be on my way to Titanium.
“I’m going,” I grumble.
Before I leave, I perform my everyday ritual of looking at myself naked in the mirror. There was a time I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stand naked in front of a mirror and just stare at myself, take in my imperfections without flinching. Without hearing the criticisms from culture, of men on the street, of my exes.
From myself, the harshest critic of all.
And looking at myself naked each morning, I may see a little extra flesh around the middle. Or one day, not yet thank God, some boob droop. Or God forbid, a square-er ass, but I make the choice every day to accept the girl who stares back at me. To offer her the same unconditional love she offers the people she cares about, her family and friends. I would never judge those closest to me, never say the things to them that I used to say to myself. If there are things I see that I want to change, I develop a plan to work on them. If there are things I cannot change, I work to accept them.
I will never be petite. I’m just not made that way. Some of it’s just genetic. My hips, my ass, my very bones are too big for that. I’m not interested in being tiny. I want to be strong and healthy and feel good in my clothes, and now I do.