That gives me pause. So she knows who I am. That would usually work in my favor, but I have a feeling she’s not your run-of-the-mill ball groupie. “You’re a fan?”
Unsurprisingly, one brow crooks, and she rolls her eyes before turning her attention back to the game. The bartender approaches, a bottle of liquor in hand.
“What’ll ya have?” He sets the Grey Goose on the bar, toggling a speculative glance between me and the woman ignoring me.
“Could I get a ginger ale, please?”
He smirks, trading out the Goose for a ginger ale he pulls from the fridge under the bar. Filling a glass with the fizzy drink and setting it in front of me, he angles his head to peer under the brim pulled low over my brow.
“August West?” A grin lights his face.
I nod but put my finger to my lips, hoping to quiet him so I can flirt in peace. I don’t feel like signing autographs and being pelted with well wishes. I’m not even in the NBA yet, but ever since our team made the Sweet Sixteen, the media has homed in on me for some reason, elevating my profile and making it harder to remain anonymous.
“I get it.” The bartender nods knowingly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Avoiding the crazy, huh?”
“Something like that.” I look back to the super fangirl, whose attention remains riveted on the screen. “What’s the lady having?”
“A beer she can pay for herself.” She slides me a crooked smile and takes a sip of her half-full glass.
“Oooooh.” The bartender’s beer belly, an occupational hazard, shakes with a deep chuckle. He gives me a commiserating look before ambling down the length of the bar to his other customers.
“So, you come here often?” I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth.
The face she makes says she can’t believe it either.
“Next you’ll ask what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this.” The humor in her eyes removes some of the sting.
“You think my game is that weak?”
She side-eyes me, extending both brows as high as they’ll go. “We talking on the court or off?”
“Ouch.” I wince and tilt my head to consider her. “And here I thought you’d be a sweet distraction until curfew.”
“I’m not anyone’s distraction,” she says. “Especially not some player looking to let off testosterone.”
“Assumptions and judgments.” I shake my head in mock disappointment. “Didn’t they tell you not to judge a book by its cover? You can’t possibly know—”