“So . . . it’s serious?” I carefully set down my bottle of champagne. “I mean with him. You said it was serious. Like are you guys talking marriage or what?”
Knowing that she was serious about “some guy” was one thing. Knowing she’s serious about him is quite another. Caleb and I will move in the same circles, play in the same league, attend the same events. I may see her from time to time, wearing his ring and raising his kids. Maybe I’ve just had too much to drink, but my stomach turns.
She shrugs, dropping her eyes to the floor and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “He wants to marry me, yeah. Someday.”
“And what do you want?” I ask, watching her closely.
“The same things I told you I wanted last night.” A frown crinkles her expression. “I want my career. I want the chance to prove myself.”
“Good.” I pick up my champagne. I need it. “Remember how I said guys
lose themselves in that world? The one Caleb and I enter in a few months?”
I wait for her to nod, to acknowledge that she remembers. “So do girls,” I say softly. “I would hate to see that happen to you, Iris.”
“Thank you.” She pushes her hair behind her ear, her lashes lowered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I hope she does. A girl with that much spirit shouldn’t be crushed. A girl with that much character shouldn’t be swayed. I’m afraid a man like Caleb could do both.
Regret tinges her smile when she looks at me. I don’t know if it’s regret for not telling me about Caleb last night or if it’s regret for what we’ve lost before it has even begun. Whatever it is, she tucks it away behind her eyes and steps close to me.
“You’re a great player, August.” She tips up on her toes until her lips are at my ear. “But I think you’ll be an even greater man.”
Her words zip like an arrow to the very heart of everything I’ve wrestled with tonight, soothing my uncertainty about how I’ll handle the future. My hand slips to the small of her back, to the silky skin above her skirt. I want to pull her closer so badly, but she steps back until my hand falls away. Clearing her throat, she flashes me one last heart-stopping smile. “Bye, August.”
And with that, she turns and leaves the bar, retracing her steps from my box back to Caleb’s. My fingers seize around the gold-foiled bottle of champagne in unreasonable frustration. I met this girl last night. I shouldn’t feel this intensely so quickly. I shouldn’t feel like Caleb stole something that was never mine. I out-shot him tonight. I out-rebounded him. I flat out outplayed him. I’m the one who raised the trophy over my head. I won.
So why in God’s name do I feel like the loser?
4
Iris
When I FaceTimed with Lotus last night, showing her my outfit options for this interview, we agreed this pencil skirt was perfect. Now it feels too tight, like it’s highlighting all the assets on my body and overshadowing the ones on my resumé. And did this blouse cling to my breasts like this before? Did they grow overnight? I check the pins securing my hair into a knot at my neck. A light dusting of powder and a few touches of color are my only concessions to makeup. Anxiety knots the muscles of my stomach.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath. My GPA is high. Armed with several semesters’ worth of training and experience, plus letters of recommendation from all my professors, I should feel confident. This is the one, though. The opportunity on my list that I want more than all the rest.