“Emmy, can you hold the football?” the photographer asked. “Can you hold it between your palms, like this? And scowl, like Demetrius?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Demetrius. “I don’t think anyone can scowl like him.”
Demetrius smiled, instantly changing everything about the man.
After the initial awkwardness faded, she started to enjoy herself. Demetrius was a gentleman. Leon was all business. Clay Reese was way too full of himself, but she had more than her fair share of dealing with self-inflated egos, so it was easy enough.
After…well, that left Brock.
Once she’d changed into the red-and-blue Roughnecks jersey and had her hair and makeup touched up, she stared into the mirror and gave herself a mental talk-down. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t about Brock. Whatever past they had was ancient history. This was an important cause now. One she was proud to be part of. You’re a King. A professional. Not a pathetic, lovesick teenager who got weak in the knees over Brock Watson. Head held high, she headed back to the step-and-repeat.
Brock was waiting.
Brock and his all-American poster-boy looks. Dimples. Blue eyes. Light brown, close-cropped hair. And, of course, that body. Which, according to Men’s Fitness Today, included twenty-one-inch biceps. He stood, spinning the football in his hand, without a care in the world.
If Krystal were here right now, she’d be giving her the don’t-let-them-see-they-got-to-you look. But Emmy had never learned the whole whatever, disinterest thing Krystal had mastered early on. Hopefully she wouldn’t act flustered—and no one would hear the wild thump of her heart.
“Water?” Melanie asked, holding out the water bottle. “Emmy Lou?”
Emmy Lou faced her assistant. “Wishing Krystal were here.”
“Right. Well, um, she sent me this.” She held up her phone, cleared her throat, and read, “Ignore him, and remember he’s a total dick. An asshat. And no one would blame you if you kicked him in the balls.” Melanie’s cheeks were dark red. “That’s it.”
“Sounds like Krystal.” She was laughing; she couldn’t help it. “Sorry about the language.”
“She’s right.” Melanie leaned closer. “He’s just some guy now.”
Emmy Lou smiled and took a long sip of her vitamin water.
“Ready?” the photographer asked.
No. She nodded. Smile. “Totally.” She’d smiled through much worse situations than this. This was nothing. So why did it feel like something?
* * *
He focused on the ball in his hands, turning it over and over. Not Emmy Lou…in a Roughnecks jersey, with her long, blond hair fluffed out, and her pink lips glossy. The ball stopped moving, his grip tightening until his fingers ached. Staring up into the lights overhead made it easier to ignore the increasing tension building at the base of his head. Get it together. He rolled his neck, shook out his arms, and glanced at the photographer—then beyond.
Demetrius was shaking hands with Travis, the two of them sharing a laugh before they both turned to look between him and Emmy Lou.
Brock frowned. The two of them together? Could be trouble.
In another life, Travis King had been one of his best friends. Travis had been a talker. When he wasn’t talking, he was listening. A trait he’d likely picked up from his mother, the infamous CiCi King. Travis had had front-row seats to his and Emmy Lou’s relationship. Hell, he’d probably known they were doomed from the start. Which was more than he could say for himself.
Demetrius had been his teammate for years. More importantly, they were friends. If he remembered correctly, he might have overshared some of his and Emmy Lou’s history with Demetrius. Unintentionally. He still had gaps in his memory… He’d lost too much to the damn pills. Luckily, his friendship with Demetrius wasn’t one of them.
The two of them, swapping stories? Not good. One more reason to hurry this whole thing up.
Travis King’s gaze met his, narrowing slightly as he gave Brock a head-to-toe once-over. While it wasn’t exactly friendly, he did give Brock a nod. Brock nodded in return. Demetrius only shook his head, pointing. At…Emmy Lou. Standing right beside him. Smiling. Ready for pictures.
“When all eyes are on her, she is in her element.” CiCi King’s words were just as clear today as they’d been all those years ago. “Emmy Lou King is a star. It’s her whole life, who she is.” The pure disdain, almost sympathy, on her face had said enough. “There’s nothing she loves more than her fans—making them happy.” She hadn’t needed to tell him he was lumped into that nothing. “She always comes back to that—always puts that first. Keeping that spotlight zeroed in on her. No distractions.” That’s all he’d been. A distraction. Nothing more. That was what he needed to remember.
Remembering the electric current they’d had, the constant need to touch each other, the way she’d seemed to light up when he’d walked into a room… None of that was real. That was the shit he needed to forget. Yeah, for a blip of time, he’d been a shiny, new toy. But once she’d been done playing, he’d been discarded—without a word from her. That was the shit he needed to remember. That had been real. So were the wounds she’d left.
The minute her gaze met his, the pressure on his chest intensified, forcing the air from his lungs. He’d forgotten how green her eyes were. “Emmy Lou.” He cleared his throat, looking for something else to say. “I brought your umbrella.”
“Oh.” Her voice high, breathy. “Thanks.” She paused, her gaze falling from his. “It’s broken.”
He found himself staring down at the top of her head. She was smaller than he remembered, thinner. Maybe, if he forced himself to look at her, really look at her, he’d see she wasn’t what he remembered. How could she be? There was a time she’d been near perfect to him. He’d made a damn fool of himself over her and lost her anyway. Lesson learned.