Son of a bitch.
I give Wallace a sidelong glance. “Please don’t tell me you had anything to do with this.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.” He tosses his invisible long hair, words stilted; he is by far the worst fucking liar I’ve ever seen. It’s a good thing he vies for an ESPY every year and not an Oscar.
Good god. “You are the worst actor I’ve ever fucking met. Don’t quit your day job.”
He grins stupidly, making a beeline for the black, souped-up pickup truck he often drives to practice. “Oh look, there’s Tripp to pick me up—it’s…” He racks his brain for another lie. “Our mom’s birthday, so I’m out. Can’t talk right now, gotta run!” Practically races away, duffle bag flapping behind him, knocking into his calves it hangs so low, and Tripp Wallace is not in the fucking parking lot waiting for him, that liar.
He doesn’t look back, but throws Miranda a hasty wave.
Asshole! With friends like this, who needs enemies?
Slowly, I approach Miranda. Wary. Uncertain. The usual behavior for a guy who’s inexperienced enough with women to be a bit ashamed of his behavior while standing in front of a girl he has a crush on. A girl who could crush his heart if he gave in to her. Got to know her. Let her in.
Which is why I’ve been avoiding her. Because I don’t know what I’m doing.
Well, there’s no avoiding her now, is there? She’s standing in the parking lot of the stadium, my teammates and support coaching staff curiously looking over at this newcomer who clearly isn’t one of the WAGS, definitely not a groupie—not in the casual outfit she’s got on. Thankfully they’re all smart enough to keep their mouths shut, knowing she must be the girl they’ve read about in the tabloids.
And they have read about it—when something goes down with a guy on the team, we all hear about it. We’re worse than women, the biggest gossips you’ve ever met.
“Hi.” She looks bashful too and I can tell by her body language that she’s uncomfortable—probably as much as I am. “Um…Trace said I could find you here.”
“Trace?”
“Your friend, uh, Buzz? He said that was his name.”
Oh shit, that’s right—his name is Trace and his brother’s name is Tripp, how stupid could two names possibly be?
“I’m sorry to show up like this without giving you a warning, but I have been trying to get ahold of you…although if you wanted to talk to me, you would have called me back, right?” Her head drops as if she’s only just considered that. “Shit. This was a horrible idea.”
I take another step forward. “No, it’s fine. He was right—we can’t avoid it forever.”
“It or each other?”
“It. The press.”
Her nod is slow. “Right. But…can I be honest?”
“I thought we already were being honest.” I scratch at my head under the brim of my cap.
Miranda rolls her eyes at my literal translation of her statement, powering on. “I couldn’t care less about what’s in the papers, or online, or on social media or wherever that horrible story is posted—I just wanted to talk to you and see how you were feeling about it.”
She’s worried about me?
I was worried about her.
“I wanted to make sure you were alright, even if you never want to see me again, which appears to be the case.”
That last part is mumbled under her breath, her lips twisted into a sardonic, somewhat sad downturn. That makes me frown. It was mumbled, but I caught it—and now I’m confused.
“Why would I never want to see you again?”
She looks up at me. “Noah—I’ve texted you at least a dozen times and called a few and you’re avoiding me. The only reason I’m here is because of Buzz. He said…”
I brace myself for whatever she says next. I can’t imagine what Wallace told her and glance across the parking lot as his car drives away. It’s too far to tell, but I swear I catch his eyes staring back through the rearview mirror and I have no idea what to think.
Is he a shady bastard for setting this up or a really good friend?
“What did Buzz say?”
Pretty mouth. Beautiful eyes. It isn’t just those things I like; it’s her. She is beautiful. Kind and caring. And brave—if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be here, standing in front of me to see how I’m doing.
“Miranda, what did Buzz say?” I shift on my heels, moving my bag from one shoulder to the other.
“All he said was…all he said was you’re sensitive.”
Not what I was expecting her to say.
Pussy, yes. A chicken, yes.
Sensitive? What the fuck does that even mean?
“I’m what?”
“It’s okay, Noah—I like the fact that you’re not an insensitive asshole. I like that you get sad. I like that—”
“What!” I’m not shouting—you’re shouting. “He did not say I was sad.” If he did, I will kill him. Strangle him with my bare hands.