As soon as she hangs up, I close my eyes and try to absorb the quiet into my very pores. Extended conversations, even with people I love, sometimes leave me feeling drained. I’m an introvert. The things that refuel me don’t involve people at all. I love being alone.
“Children and bored adults need to be entertained. Grown men living with purpose require time and quiet and energy.”
That’s what my dad used to say.
God, I miss him. Thinking about the wisdom he always shared with me, sometimes welcome, sometimes not, sears me even a year after his death.
“Son, fuck her, but don’t keep her. The two of you are oil and water, and will make each other miserable.”
He said that when he met Bridget.
“You weren’t wrong,” I mutter to no one but myself. That was probably why, even after more than a decade of trying, Bridget and I didn’t work out. She craves the limelight. I shun it. I believe in fidelity. She had an affair with one of my teammates, a supposed close friend. Just minor philosophical differences.
Now she has the audacity to join this new reality show Baller Bae . . . I need to stop thinking about this, or I’ll be walking into that party growling and scowling, in direct opposition to Banner’s orders.
We drive through the city, which hums with some force I’ve never experienced anywhere else. I can’t quite place it, but it feels like potential energy—like you could toss a ball from any spot here and it would travel around the world. No wonder people come here to dream.
The partition rolls down. “We’re here, Mr. Ross,” the driver says.
I peel off several bills and offer them through the opening.
“Oh, it’s taken care of,” he says, even though he’s eyeing the cash.
“I take care of myself.”
I give him the money, flash the briefest of smiles, and climb out. While I walk toward the massive boat moored to the pier, I rehearse social cues like smiling, nodding, and feigning interest. A tall dark-haired man and a woman with a snowy-white bob stand at a velvet rope greeting party guests approaching the boat.
“Mr. Ross,” she says with an accent I can’t quite place. “I’m Vale, Jean Pierre’s assistant. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, hi.” I accept her hand with a smile. “Thanks for sending the car.”
“No problem,” she says warmly. “And this is my husband, Keir.”
“How do you do?” he asks.
“Fine. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Mr. Ross!” a man says from a few feet away.
He claps his hands once, and his eyes roam from my shoes to my head. I have no idea if this short man with dark hair, an open smile and the beginnings of a paunch is Jean Pierre or not, but he’s wearing an ascot and has a French accent, so there’s a good chance he could be.
“Or should I call you Gladiator?” he all but purrs.
“Don’t do that.” Judging by the look on his face, that came out wrong. “What I mean is my teammates call me that, but not many other people do. Kenan is fine, and you’re Jean Pierre?”
“Yes, well my”—he does air quotes and winks—“’teammates’ call me JP, and you’re welcome to as well.”
“Okay. JP then.”
A pretty blond woman walks up beside JP, her blue eyes assessing.
“Well hello there,” she says. “I’m a huge fan of the game, and you in particular. We’re so glad you could make it.”
JP frowns at her, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because she keeps staring and batting fake lashes at me. Nothing against fake lashes. I just don’t like it when the woman blinking them is fake, too. I’ve had one of those already.
“Kenan, this is Amanda,” JP says. “One of my favorite stylists.”
“One of your favorites?” She affects an affronted look. Or maybe it’s real. I can’t tell.