When he showed me that blog, I almost had a heart attack when I saw that photo of me hiked over his shoulder, waving a red Solo cup like a moron. Fortunately, I’m not named, and it’s a little blurry. I almost feel guilty, like I’m getting out of this with a pass while Rider’s in so much trouble. He’s reassured me he can handle it, but I can tell the stress is getting to him.
One thing keeps bothering me, though. How in the world did a blog based in Los Angeles get dirt on a player in Charming, Texas? Especially the kind of dirt that was mostly locked down by NDAs? And out of all the photos online of Rider—at games, at parties, around town—how did theLocker-Room Talkget an image that hadn’t been published on any of the popular Broncos fan sites? Because the first thing I did was reverse-search that photo, and it didn’t land anywhere local untilafterthat blog post.
Bree took pics, but she showed them to me, and they’re from a different angle. Not that she’d ever stoop so low as to leak something to make us look bad. I think back to that party, trying to remember who else was there besides players, but unfortunately, the whole of my attention was on Rider that night.
As the guys commiserate, I consider whether I should tell him what happened with Miranda and Zoe this afternoon, but Rider looks too upset to broach the subject. The thought that he might not play the biggest game of the season, that he might actually get kicked off the team when he’s so close to achieving his lifelong dream, is devastating and trumps the hissy fit I want to have about his ex.
I scoot closer to him and rub his knee. “What can I do? Want me to grab you some dinner?”
“No. Thanks, though. I’m gonna guzzle an energy drink and hit the books. Might as well use the extra time I have this week to try to pass my classes.”
I frown. “Are you struggling with something? I thought you said you’ve been turning everything in on time.” He needs to keep his grades above a C to maintain his eligibility.
“When am I not struggling, Gabby? When has a good grade ever come easily? Never, that’s when. Even when my shit’s on time, it’s never good enough. I’m not smart like you are.” The edge to his voice catches me off guard.
“I… I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” I say gently. I know he’s sensitive about how difficult school is for him sometimes. “And don’t be ridiculous—of course you’re smart. I’m just saying I can help if you want. Do you need anything proofed? I can look over your assignments and explain—”
“That’s just it. You can’t always swoop in and do my shit for me.”
I still, a mix of anger and hurt colliding in my chest. My eyes sting, and I blink quickly. “I’m not the enemy, Rider. I’m on your side.”
Groaning, he rakes his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m freaking out. I don’t mean to take this out on you. You’ve been great.” He gives me a weak smile, one I don’t really believe.
This is what he does when he gets stressed. I’m starting to see the pattern. How he pulls away.
After a fight with her husband, I once overheard my foster mom talking to her friend about a book she had calledMen are from Mars, Women are from Venus. According to this book, when men get stressed or worried or freaked out, they retreat into a cave. Women prefer to talk and figure things out, but men isolate themselves.
Since I was ten, I had no idea what “hiding out in a cave” meant, but now I understand. Rider is in his cave. He’s protecting himself. He did it freshman year, and a bit right after we reconnected this fall.
A knot tightens my throat as I think about how well that turned out the last time.
I place the baby monitor on the coffee table and sling my bag over my shoulder. “You obviously don’t want any company, and I get it.” Even though he’s apologized, I still feel the bruise where he stung my pride. I can’t bring myself to reach for him to hug or kiss goodbye. He doesn’t reach for me either. “Everything will be okay. You’ll see.”
He nods, wordless.
So I leave.
59
GABBY
With my palm,I smooth down my hair before I knock on the door to Mr. Barstow’s office. When he yells to come in, I enter.
“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Barstow.” I printed out my résumé so I could have it on file when that opening becomes available. I sit in one of the cushy leather chairs in front of his desk. “I’ve heard the English department has someone retiring at the end of the year, and I was hoping to interview for that this spring.” At his incredulous expression, I stutter. “Or… or this summer. Whenever you conduct interviews.”
His eyebrows crinkle together. “What are you talking about? That’s not why I asked you to come to my office.”
“You… Wait. What?”
He waves a pudgy finger toward his door. “I sent someone to fetch you.”
“Oh. Um. What did you need?” This is embarrassing.
Keep it together, Gabriela. So he called you in here for another reason. That doesn’t mean you can’t discuss that position.
As he grabs a container of TUMS, he shakes his head. “We won’t be requiring your assistance anymore. I need you to gather your things, and I’ll escort you to your car.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except an annoying squeak. “I’m sorry, sir. What?”
