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“Why do you always have to smell good?” I say without thinking.
She giggles. It’s an actual giggle, and I don’t know if she’s playing or I drew it out. The not knowing messes with me.
“You think I smell good?” she asks softly. Her expression looks almost confused.
“Bye, fake girlfriend,” I say softly in her ear.
She tips her head so her mouth is next to my ear. “Good riddance, Delaney.”
I chuckle. I don’t know if she means it or not. She probably does.
I step back, smiling despite being told I’m not wanted.
“Y’all are too cute,” Loretta says.
“Take care of yourself, Loretta,” I say. “And take care of my girl.”
Coleman and I head out the door. I glance back over my shoulder to catch Cass’s narrow-eyed glare at me.
I’m in bed at the hotel. Freshly showered, but running the game through my head play-by-play. We lost to the Panthers tonight.
The inspection went well. I’m in escrow on my new house. The world thinks Cass Carter and I are head over heels for one another, and my agent is lining up deals like they’re coming through on a factory conveyor belt.
Still, a loss hits hard. We’re one and one, not where I wanted to be this early in the season. Trey’s puttering around the hotel room. He can’t sit still when we lose. We already ate dinner with the guys. The atmosphere was sullen. If we had won, we’d probably still be out somewhere celebrating.
“Aren't you going to call Cass?” Trey asks. “It’s getting late.”
“Why would I call Cass?”
He looks at me like I lost my mind. “Because she’s your girlfriend, or are we doing labels yet?”
“We’re not.” I catch myself. “We’re … uh … taking it slowly.”
“You got her a box for the season? That’s taking it slow? I’ll go shower. You call your girl.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Honestly, the last person on earth I want to talk to right now is Cass Carter. She’s liable to rub the loss in, or call out the mistakes I made that helped cost us the game. I don’t have the strength to banter with her. My body aches and my mind isn’t in the greatest headspace. But Trey’s right. If we were dating, I’d be calling my girlfriend for moral support.
I pick my phone up off the side table and roll onto my back, fluffing the pillows behind me and making a Facetime call. That’s what I’d do.
She answers. “Marcus?”
“Yeah. I’m calling to say goodnight.”
“You’re calling me to say goodnight?”
“You’re my girlfriend, aren’t you?” I sound like a teenager.
I need to say goodnight and move on.
“Did someone put you up to this?” she asks.
“Basically,” I admit.
Treyvon comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. He sticks his face in the screen. “Caaaahhhsssss!”
“My girl, my call,” I say to him.
