Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1) - Page 53
She stands, little fists curled, a defiant tilt to her chin. “How many girls have signed this? How many women have you kept at this fuck palace?”
My lips compress. “No one has been here since she was. I didn’t need an NDA until she did what she did. You’re the first girl I’ve even wanted to be with. No one else has been offered an NDA.”
“I’m so flattered.” She throws her eyes around the room. “You never even took Sophia to where you really live?”
“No.”
“How long were you with her?”
“A year, give or take.”
She shakes her head, eyes flaring. “You really don’t trust anyone.”
“Can you blame me?” My voice is low. “I have a career to protect. And my privacy. I don’t want any more stories about me, Elena.”
She licks her lips. “For a weird reason, I really thought you walked in church to see me, but really it was all about these papers.”
“Not true.”
“Oh, I think it is. Deep down, this NDA has been on your mind.”
I pause. “Yes.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t brought it up earlier.”
I dreaded it . . . maybe because I sensed she’d be offended.
My skin crawls with unease, but all I can see is Sophia on Good Morning America, talking about our sex life, how I beat her up when she got out of line. Even though she never had one police report or photo or a hospital record to back her up, that shit still got published. It was my word against hers, and when I don’t give interviews . . .
Sure, I put out a comment through Lawrence saying it was untrue and even tried to sue her, but it was pointless, a waste of money—and people ate it up. Even Coach grilled me when it came out. Shit. That was a tense few weeks, but he knows the man I am. Adidas was incensed at the book, especially when I refused to publicly comment about it.
“I want to trust you, but . . .”
“Right. Walls.” She picks up the papers and wads them into a ball. “This is what I think of your NDA.”
I close my eyes, a hard anvil landing on my chest, and it’s not so much about the fact that she isn’t signing it but that I’ve disappointed her.
“You’re right,” I mutter. “You are better than me. You deserve a nice guy and not a banged-up bad-boy superstar football player. I hear you. Do you think I like this? Being alone? It sucks, okay; it fucking sucks. Next up, she’s writing an article for Cosmo about how I forced her to have an abortion.”
She bites that lip and looks away from me, her eyes glistening, and I pause; shit, is she going to cry—
“That isn’t true, Elena. She was never pregnant. I’m not like that. I may have grown up with a man who slapped me around, but I respect women.”
“I believe you.” Her words are quiet.
Thank God.
Her ocean-blue eyes are clear when they land back on me. “I will never tell a soul about our night. I will go back to Topher and Aunt Clara and swear them to secrecy. If I stumble across you at a restaurant or a VIP room—which is highly unlikely—I promise to not even give you a second glance. Besides, you have plenty of other options, don’t you, Jack? Why not ask one of those supermodels at the VIP room to be your penthouse girl?”
Been there. That road is bleak and empty.
And those girls aren’t Elena, with her pouty lips and little skirts and glasses.
She scoffs. “Tell me, what do I get out of signing the NDA? Jewels, evening gowns, galas, an allowance, a new car—”
“Stop. It’s not like that. It’s not a transaction.”
“Well, it sure seems like it. What happened to good old-fashioned hanging out and seeing where it goes? Maybe a date. Maybe more conversations about who you are and who I am? Because I refuse to be some girl you bang when you’re horny and need a warm body who’s signed some stupid papers. I’m a person. And full disclosure . . . ha ha . . . I don’t want to be your hookup, okay? I don’t! I’m team boyfriend all the way, Jack.”
Her chin is tilted up, eyes blazing at me, and I wonder how I ever thought she was shy.
My throat tightens. Here’s the part where I should say something right and good and fix this mess, maybe tell her that she makes me feel like no one ever has . . . but fuck, I don’t know how to even be myself with a girl anymore. She’s right. My walls are up. I’m living in a fortress.
She looks at me. “I’m waiting, Jack. I just said some real stuff. Say something.”
Several moments pass as we stare at each other, and I’m racking my brain to figure out how to get us out of this conversation, to get her on my side—and back in my arms.
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