“What exactly do you want from me?” I ask. Normally, I’d be a lot nicer, but I’m late, and heknowsthis because I told him.
“Maybe I want to make a new friend.” He smiles cheekily at me, but I don’t buy it for a second. Quinn’s in the tabloids more than Henry, and I’m honestly surprised he’s not the one we’re doing damage control for.
I laugh sarcastically, shaking my head. “Well, Quinn, I’ll probably see you soon.” I don’t give him the chance to respond before I walk into Stacey’s office.
Her piercing eyes drop immediately to my chest.Oh, fuck me. I never grabbed the bag with my clothes.
“The coffee spilled,” I explain, my stomach churning.
“I can see that—the evidence is all over you,” she says, the corners of her mouth turning downward. I wish I could smack my forehead against the wall. “Tell Ginger to go get more coffee,” Stacey instructs.
“I can do it, it just all fell—” I protest, and she types quickly on her laptop.
“I’m aware you can fetch coffee successfully. I’m telling you to get Ginger to do it because we were due in the training room with Henry Price five minutes ago,” she says, and I hate that immediate butterflies erupt in my stomach. I need to get my shit together. I can’t be fangirling over him every day, but especially not today.
Wait—today—with coffee all over my fucking shirt.
I force a smile on my face when I feel like curling up into a hole and disappearing.Awesome.I grab my laptop and Stacey’s off the desk to shove into my bag, double checking I have my phone to jot notes on. Stacey is already walking out the door, and I hold a sigh in. I definitely didn’t plan to spend my first day shadowing Henry wearing a sopping wet,stainedshirt, but apparently the world hates me.
As we walk toward the training room, Stacey has me keeping notes on my phone about the questions she plans to ask him. I type them all, despite knowing Henry isn’t going to answer anything that isn’t related to football.
I haven’t told Stacey I know Henry because I don’t want to abuse that connection. I also refuse to call him my friend because I don’t want him to simply be my friend.
Henry is running on a treadmill when we walk into the training room, and my heart stutters at the sight of him. There’s a thin sheen of sweat coating his body, making the impressive muscles on display glisten as he runs. My eyes drift to the dark hair that trails from his navel underneath his shorts.
My goodness, he’s beautiful.
I blink quickly, reminding myself I’m working, and this is the last place I should be staring at Henry like a piece of meat. He makes eye contact with me, his mouth immediately turning downward as he slows the treadmill down, stopping it completely. “What the fuck happened to your shirt?” he asks, grabbing a towel to wipe his face off, and I can feel my cheeks flush bright red. I look like a slob. This is a nightmare.
“Coffee incident. I’m going to send your buddy Quinn my dry-cleaning bill.”
Stacey shoots me a quick look of disapproval, and I take a half step back to stand behind her, allowing her to take the lead. I’m meant to be seen and not heard. “Good morning, Henry. After talking to your coaches and Greg, we decided today would be the perfect day to start gathering information for our first piece.”
Henry runs a hand through his dark hair, his shoulders tensing. I feel bad how uncomfortable he looks. “Sure. Whatever, I guess.”
“Great,” Stacey says, smiling at him. I’m honestly impressed she hasn’t let her eyes drift from his face because I can’t say the same.
I pull my phone out, getting ready to record this conversation when out of my peripheral vision, I see Henry hang his towel over his neck. “Mira,” he says, using my nickname, and I hate how quickly my head snaps up to look at him.
“Oui?”4 I ask, responding in French because he’s going to blow this for me before it even starts, if he hasn’t already. Maybe I should have let him know I wanted him to pretend he doesn’t know me.
“Qu’est-ce-que Quinn a avoir avec ta chemise? Est-ce-qu’il t’embête?”5 Henry asks, an odd expression on his face, and I shrug.
“Non. Je vais bien.”6
“What language is that? French?” Stacey asks, guessing correctly.
Henry nods shortly, the look of unhappiness still not gone from his face. “My stepmother is from France. My godparents speak it as well, and taught me the language as a kid.”
My parents and Penelope made sure all of us were bilingual from the start.
“And who are your godparents?” she asks, curiosity gleaming at the kernel she earned.
Henry’s eyes drift back to me, thinking the same thing I am. It’s not public knowledge my parents are his godparents. It’s not a huge deal, but still probably not something that should be advertised if we can help it. He doesn’t have a choice, though. I dip my head into a short nod, silently telling Henry the choice is his. “Some family friends,” he answers.
Stacey purses her lips, shaking her head. “I was promised you would answer my questions honestly.”
“I did answer honestly. My godparentsarefamily friends. You didn’t specify and ask for their names. If you had asked the right question, maybe you’d get the right answer,” Henry says, his face guarded, and I can’t blame him. He digs into his bag, throwing a white bundle at me. “Envoie-moi la facture de ta chemise. Je vais parler à Quinn.”7
