Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I button my blouse and fluff out my hair in the bathroom mirror. It’s down tonight. “Like my blowout?” I say to Max. I used one of the lifetime supplies this evening.
“Love it,” he says, then comes up behind me and presses a kiss to my neck. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you’re doing?”
I smile. “Yes. But I’m not doing it tonight. I have an early Zoom meeting at eight tomorrow with the East Coast and you have that interview tomorrow with The Sports Network,” I say, reminding him of both our schedules, and of the interview he agreed to do with our broadcast partner. Plus, I don’t want him to get too excited. I need to get some rest after this dinner—not come home and brainstorm how to save my job. There will be time in the near future. “Let’s focus on this dinner and we can start figuring it all out tomorrow. And come up with a smart plan. I promise.”
Tomorrow night Max leaves for a week-long stretch of away games on the East Coast—ones I’m not attending—so I’ll have some time to put plans into motion.
“I know, sunshine. I know. But I’m here for you.”
I turn around, smooth a hand over his purple shirt, then meet his eyes. “We’ve got this.”
“We do.”
He kisses me and then we head to dinner together in his car. It feels like the start of the next phase of us, even though we walk in side by side like colleagues rather than lovers. Still, I can’t help but feel that fizzy sense of hope. Soon, very soon, we might not have to pretend. We’ve made it through this project, and we’re almost out on the other side where we can sit down, talk, and figure out all the next steps.
That feels even more possible when we reach the table and Clementine is holding a glass of champagne. “To the makeover queen,” she says to me.
Her praise makes me feel like I’m valuable to them, regardless of who I love. That I’m useful even if I’ve bent a rule. That they’ll understand I’m too important to let go just because I fell for an athlete.
I hope so. I really hope so. “It was a tough job, but someone had to do it,” I say playfully, then we sit, and I take my glass and clink with the others.
But when I steal a glance at Max, something like suspicion passes in his eyes. I write it off though. I must just be seeing things.
46
A CON JOB
Max
“Did you enjoy the eggplant salad?” the server asks, and the question sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well.
Is he even asking me?
I tear my gaze away from the water glass in my hand, condensation sliding down the outside of it. I look to the kind-faced server who’s standing by my side, clearing my plate, and yup—he is asking me.
I try to reconnect to the present moment. But it’s hard because my mind is stuck like a tire spinning in the mud. It’s not here at this dinner with the VP of Communications, the general manager, my agent, and my secret girlfriend. It’s not at this table in this trendy Moroccan restaurant in Hayes Valley that Zaire loves.
It’s back in Everly’s house an hour ago. And I can’t stop playing her words on an endless loop—but I’m not doing it tonight.
“The eggplant salad was great,” I say flatly, finally managing to muster a response.
“Wonderful. Would you like any more water?”
I don’t want water. I don’t want an eggplant salad. I don’t want couscous. I want to understand what the hell is going on with my girlfriend, who seems far too fixated on the project rather than us. “No thanks,” I mumble, then stew some more as he moves down the table.
Fine, her comment about not doing it tonight technically makes logical sense, but tomorrow is a game day. Which means I have morning skate, then the fucking game itself, then thirty minutes later we get on the bus to the airport.
Plus, she said she had an early Zoom meeting, and I have The Sports Network thingy when I’d normally nap. When did she think we were going to talk about us? She’s not going on our road trip. I can’t imagine she’ll want to talk about it on the phone when I’m on the East Coast.
Is she…putting this off? My jaw ticks as my mind runs wildly into these woods, all while grabbing the branch of this terrible possibility—what if she’s putting me off?
“Max, are you excited?”
I look up from the water glass that I’m practically crushing in my hand. My agent’s sitting next to me, asking a question. “About what?” I ask.
Garrett gives a smile that feels like a correction, like a pay attention, buddy grin. “The documentary episode is a go,” he says. “The producers gave the green light. We’ve been talking about it for the last few minutes.”