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“I needed to get out of my head,” he says, standing and leaving a black hole where he had been. “No one helps me get out of my head like Cass.”

He might be just saying that, but I secretly hope it’s true.

He thanks me for the pizza and movie and then he heads toward the door. I follow him.

“See you for New Year’s,” he says, staring down at me. “I’ll text you before then.”

He pulls me into a hug and I’m not sure if it’s for Winona’s benefit or for his, but I lean in either way, taking a deep breath and sighing when I smell his familiar cologne and Marcus scent.

“Thanks,” he whispers into my hair.

I tip my face up and look him in the eyes. “Anytime.”

He brushes a kiss over my cheek, warm lips landing softly, followed by the delicious scruff of stubble when he pulls away. Then he looks over my shoulder and says, “Goodbye, Winona.”

I watch him walk to his car, resisting the urge to lift my palm to my face to press his kiss into my skin like a flower between the pages of a book, preserved forever.

Four days later, I’m at the Thunder Facility upstairs ballroom for the New Year's Eve party for players, coaches and their elite guests.

Marcus has kept me by his side since we got here, his hand on the small of my back, or his arm touching mine. He checks if I need something to drink. He asks me to dance.

I’m wearing a long black gown Marcus had delivered to my house a few days ago. He’s in a tux. We’ve been hanging around with Winona and Declan and the other players. Lincoln Walker’s wife is here and she and I caught up like old friends. In the weirdest way, this life—being a WAG, even though only a fake one—has become second-nature to me.

The emcee for the evening approaches the microphone and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, a toast to this past year and to the year to come. May the Thunder continue to dominate and show themselves to be the champions they are!”

People cheer. Even here, someone stomps the floor and says, “Thunder!” and we all stomp in response.

Then the emcee says, “We’ve got our band here to help us with the countdown. Find the person you want to ring in the New Year with … and, no, you can’t have mine!”

The room erupts in laughter.

Marcus stands next to me. I watch as couples pair up. Single guys stand together and a few women make their approach to various players.

The countdown starts and the percussion player hits the snare with every number.

“Ten … Nine …” Marcus loops his arm around my shoulder. “Eight … seven …” Everyone chants along, “Six … five …” He squeezes me as if to prepare me for what’s to come. We’re going to kiss. “Four … Three …” I raise my voice with the crowd, “Two … One …”

“Happy New Year!” The room chants in unison. And then Marcus turns me toward him.

His eyes meet mine and he whispers, “Happy New Year, Cass.”

I don’t have time to answer him.

He tilts his head just the slightest and leans in, pausing to search my eyes for a moment before pulling me into a kiss that I feel all the way to my toes.

I may not ever kiss him again. We have no reason. Everyone thinks we’re a couple. We’re going to break up in no time. By mid-February, this is over.

I push those thoughts out of my head and wrap my arms around Marcus’s neck, toying with his hair and giving in when he deepens our kiss.

We’ve always had something incendiary between us—that spark that fuels our banter. I want him. In another life, I’d have him. Kisses like this would be mine for the taking.

Instead, this is my kiss goodbye. And I give him something to remember me by, holding him to me, aware of his hand on my back and the other hand softly moving to cup my face as he pulls away.

“Happy New Year, Marcus,” I whisper in a hoarse, post-kiss voice.

Treyvon practically bounds over to us, stepping between us and looping his arms over each of our shoulders. “Hey, lovebirds! Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year,” we say in unison.