Looking to Score(16)
“Are you sure? Coach Howard hinted that the university needed to keep your family happy,” I prodded.
He gritted his teeth. Oh yes, talking about his family was definitely a sore spot. I made a mental note to prioritize research on them. For purely professional reasons, of course. It wasn’t like I was trying to figure him out. “I don’t have fucking Mommy issues, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” he growled.
“I’m not saying you do, I’m just saying—”
He cut me off before I could get to my point. “Just because you showed me your sloppy drunk video doesn’t mean I’m going to open up to you about my family life.” I let out a sigh and he continued. “I appreciate your help tonight. That was a fucking close call, and even though I like to have fun, I definitely don’t want to end up in prison. I’ll start being more aware if you stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I’m just a college kid making the most of his senior year.”
At that last sentence, his face turned into a full-on smolder. I could feel his heated gaze all the way down to my purring vulvarine. Shit. Why couldn’t he keep talking with his mouth full of food?
He dropped some cash on the table and peered at my full plate for another moment. “I’ll start listening more. But you’re gonna have to learn to hang. Part of my brand is being a local celebrity. This town is full of fans that want to see me at parties and bars. It’s seriously cramping my style having you tell me where to go and what to do.”
It made sense. He was like novelty ice cream: Everyone wanted a taste. And being seen in public was part of his role on the team, and as his publicist, it was my job to also fill stadium seats. “Fine. I’ll do better about bridging the gap,” I replied. I’d have to start low-key carding every girl that came up to him.
He tossed me another smile. “And if you ever wanna give someone a blowie…”
I rolled my eyes. Somehow, I knew that was coming.
“Not in a million years, asswipe.”
8
My clock said that it was 5:17 a.m. It was way too early—even for me—but I couldn’t sleep. Most of my night was spent tossing and turning. I spent fifteen minutes debating whether or not I wanted to get up or try going back to sleep. Ultimately, I decided to get in a morning jog. I had a meeting with Dr. Haynes today, and I needed to work out some, uh...tension and clear my mind.
As much as I hated to admit it, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Oakley since we went to dinner the other night. I started to grab shoes with laces that didn’t match my yoga pants just to spite the presumptuous asshole, but right before I left, I dashed back in my room and put on the right ones. Dammit.
While jogging down the crowded streets of Austin, my mind ran wild. I never understood why some people said working out cleared your mind. It just made mine go crazy. I thought about everything: what I was going to wear today; what homework I needed to do; Oakley’s smile; my meeting with Dr. Haynes; Oakley’s abs; my paper due in marketing; Oakley’s di—
“Lady! Watch where you’re going!”
I sidestepped a pedestrian carrying a large box and headed back to my apartment. I made sure to slam the door for a good morning jolt for my still-sleeping roommate, then headed to my bathroom, stripped, and jumped in the shower.
The hot water felt good on my screaming muscles. I may have hit it a little too hard on my run. The calories I’d burned blistered across my mind. I mentally tallied my daily intake. I thought about the lack of sleep I’d gotten and what self-care I could do to feel human again. Maybe I could squeeze in a few chapters of the new self-help book I just bought: Girl, You Fucking Got This.
And then I thought about Oakley. What wasn’t he telling me? I couldn’t understand what was so bad about his family that he didn’t want me to know. I was certain that the information wouldn’t be difficult to find with a little digging, but for some reason, it felt wrong. I wanted to hear it from him. My mind wandered from his family being Scientologists to porn stars until my fingers were so pruny I had to get out. I got dressed, grabbed my bag, and headed out the door. If it was even possible, my mind was more clouded than it was before my run.
I made it to Dr. Haynes’s office a few minutes early. I pulled out my phone, hoping to see a text from Oakley, but saw one from my mom instead. She sent me a picture of a teacup pig wearing a bright yellow raincoat.
Mom: Do you think Dad will let me get one of these?
Me: Where would you even keep it?
Mom: Well in the house, of course.
It was like magic, my mom always seemed to know exactly what I needed. I smiled and made a mental note to call her later to talk her out of the impulsive purchase of a teacup pig. Then, I knocked on Dr. Haynes’s door and waited.
“Come in,” he ordered, and I let out a large sigh, then opened the door and let myself inside. Dr. Haynes was wearing black slacks and a button up shirt that clung to his muscles. His hair was gelled back, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses as he thumbed through papers on his desk. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the chair in front of him.
I sat down and started shuffling through my various binders in my messenger bag. Once I found the folder containing everything I needed to run Oakley’s image control, I pulled it out and started sifting through pages. “The first game is this weekend, but it’s an away game. We are gearing up for the home game next week. I’d really like to get him featured in some local publications in a favorable light. I’ve looked into a few charities, but no one wants to work with him. I had no idea how far his reputation reached.”