Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“Hmm, but she’s still dangling that Cosmo article. She says you might be able to convince her not to write it. Weird, right?”

Very. I ponder it. I can’t trust anything she says. “She’s up to something. Tell her to find some other sucker.” I flick off the TV and stand, heading into the kitchen to grab a Gatorade and chug it down.

He follows me. “All that is true. She’s not worth your time, but if the media could see you together . . . being friendly . . . well, it might put some of those rumors of you beating her up to rest.”

Elena pops in my head. She believed me when I told her that I didn’t hurt women.

We’ve spent the week rehearsing together, and she’s been polite, yet keeps her distance, her only emotion the feelings she puts into Juliet when we’re on stage together. Last night Laura made us go over the balcony scene three times until we got it right. My hand clenches as I remember how I stood beneath her balcony window the prop guys had made, hearing her profess her love for Romeo. My heart pounded as I listened to her words, even though I knew they weren’t for me. We were face to face, our eyes clinging to each other, saying those flowery lines, and shit, shit, I felt every one of them like a prick to my heart.

But as soon as those lines were done, she pointedly didn’t look at me, talking to everyone but me. I like her ethics. I like that she knows what she wants and doesn’t play into my hands.

But . . .

I can’t stop thinking about if this were a different world, and I could let myself just . . . let go.

A long exhalation comes from me.

“Are you even listening to me?” Lawrence asks, eyeing me quizzically. “You’re thinking about that play again, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“So what about just walking in with Sophia at the gala? I’m not saying you have to get cozy, but I’ll sneak some pics, and we can spin it as ‘Old lovers now turned friends.’”

“No.”

“Dammit, Jack! It would help, and I’m sure you can turn on that charm of yours and convince her to not write that article. Would it kill you to pretend like you like her?”

I throw my Gatorade in the trash. “She ruined any trust I have. Never going there again.”

He crosses his arms and is about to speak when a knock comes at the door.

I march over and open it, shaking my head at the person there. “Shit, Aiden, don’t you have better things to do than annoy me? And how did you get my address?”

“Hello to you, old man.” He barges past me and enters the den, taking in the spacious apartment, the modern leather furniture, the artwork of the city skyline on the wall, my Heisman Trophy on the bookcase along with several MVP plaques. He does a circle, looking at photos of me in high school and college. He faces me. “Nice digs. I need a decorator. Moved in across the hall this week, by the way—couldn’t resist the proximity to the stadium. I was surprised when the real estate lady said she sold you yours a few years back. Guess we both have great taste. And before you go all ballistic on me, I didn’t know you lived in the same building. There isn’t a lot of upscale real estate close to the stadium. I got lucky. Devon around?”

I walk in after him. “You moved into the building? Good God. You stalk me in the gym and now here? You need a life, Alabama.”

He snorts. “We both know all I want to do is work out. And I want you to help me.”

I snort and cross my arms. “Why would I help you?”

Aiden loses some of that charm on his face, color rising on his cheeks. “Because you said I fucking hesitate! I can’t stop thinking about it, and if you don’t help me, then I’m going to be knocking on your door every damn day until you tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

I smirk, plopping down on my leather armchair. “You have a quarterback coach for that, punk.”

“He’s on vacation! And no one’s as good as you.”

I smile. “I know.”

He sits down on the couch. “Come on, Hawke, don’t make me beg. Let’s watch some tape.”

“You just missed it. He was just watching the last game,” Lawrence adds, eyeing us both. Probably figuring out how he can get Aiden for PR. “Did Adidas sign you?”

Aiden’s teeth grind. “No. I’m not big enough for them, apparently. Word is they’re going with the Pittsburgh quarterback.”

“Damn,” I mutter. “Assholes.”

“I know, right!” Aiden sits up straighter. “Look, turn that TV back on, and put it on where I was on the field. I’m serious, Jack. I’ve watched the tape a thousand times, and to me, I look spot on, but shit, maybe I’m missing something.”