Chapter 2

Outside the stadium, I try to grab a cab to the airport.

The crowd's still pouring out. No drivers are picking me up. I decide to walk somewhere quieter and try again.

I've barely taken a step when a voice stops me.

I turn. Preston reaches out and ruffles my hair.

"Where'd you go? Everyone's waiting on us. The party's about to start. We need to move."

His tone is completely normal. Like he didn't just drape his jersey over another woman and drag her to the confession circle in front of the entire world.

"I'm not going," I say flatly.

He pauses. Then his face shifts. Impatient. He grabs my hand and starts walking.

"Are you serious right now? Please don't tell me it's because I didn't pick you. I already explained. After we go public, you can wear any jersey I own."

"I don't have the energy to coddle you tonight. Media, the team, a hundred fires to put out. Eeveryone else gets it. You're the only one making it about your feelings."

Everyone else. Meaning Sabrina.

I don't say anything. I let him pull me along.

Might as well end it face to face.

He pushes the private room door open. The food's already out.

Sabrina's sitting right in the middle of the team, two empty seats beside her.

Preston drops into one like it's his, arm slung over the back of her chair.

I take what's left.

The player across from me grins. "Yo, Lena, where'd you disappear to? Pres was tearing his hair out looking for you. Thought something happened."

"Nowhere. Just walking around," I say, flat.

Sabrina's eyes go red instantly. "Lena — are you mad at me? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said yes when Pres invited me."

Pres.

I glance at Preston. He clearly doesn’t even react to the nickname anymore.

I open my mouth to speak, but Sabrina cuts me off, making a show of getting up.

"It's my fault I'm in Lena's way. I'll go — from now on, outside of work, I won't come near Pres."

The guys jump in, pleading with her to sit.

Preston presses her back into her seat and turns to me. There's a warning in his voice.

"Lena. Grow up. Stop making a scene over nothing."

"Sabrina's my team operations manager. We work side by side. Putting my jersey on her shoulders is nothing. Keep giving me that attitude, and you're taking this too far."

Funny.

I haven't said a single word, and I'm already the one being childish.

One of the guys jumps in to save the mood.

"Alright alright, drop it. Let's eat."

Preston picks up a lobster tail and drops it on Sabrina's plate. Starts cracking it open for her.

I sit there and watch. I don't stop him like I usually would.

He notices how calm I am.

And — for once — he actually offers up an explanation for me.

"Sabrina can't shell her own lobster."

"Mm," I say. Even. Quiet.

Somehow I think about the night Preston first came to meet my dad.

He sliced his finger open and still finished shelling every piece of lobster on my plate.

He told my dad he'd take care of me forever.

Said he was ashamed he hadn't made it big yet — that he couldn't win a title in my name.

He still cracks open lobster.

Just not for me anymore.

I crack my own and take a bite. I swallow wrong and start coughing.

Preston frowns, pats my back, pushes a glass into my hand.

"Still so clumsy. Slow down. No one's going to steal it from you."

Lemonade.

Sabrina's favorite.

Five years. He still doesn't know I'm allergic to lemon.

I used to make excuses for him. He's got games. He's got pressure. He can't be expected to remember the little stuff.

But he remembers Sabrina loves lobster. He remembers she loves lemonade.

He just doesn't remember lemon puts me in the ER.

I open my mouth. "I'm allergic to lemon."