Page 81 of Bad Boy Neighbor

Lana puts her napkin down. “Just give her a chance to explain, okay? You owe her that.”

“I owe her nothing, Lana,” I respond, agitated. “You’re aware how it all ended.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on Lana,” Seb fires back. “Stop being a dickhead. The woman still fucking loves you. Give her the damn courtesy of at least explaining what really happened.”

We sit in silence with the patrons around us conversing amongst themselves while we quietly eat our food. Guilt creeps in. Seb is right. Bastard. I shouldn’t have taken it out on Lana. This isn’t her problem.

This is all my fucked-up emotions getting the better of me

“Sorry, Lana.” I let out a sigh, the heaviness filling my chest. I shouldn’t ask the question. In fact, I should leave well enough alone, but it burns inside me, racing toward the tip of my tongue, begging to be free. “So, what did happen?”

Lana puts down her fork, staring at me intently. “It’s not my story to tell. But for all intents and purposes, she no longer speaks to her family. That’s all you need to know.”

It might have been all that Lana thinks I need to know.

And maybe it is.

But stupid me needs more. To get more, I need to go straight to the source.

And that, itself, will be the most dangerous part.

After a short discussion, I will be meeting Seb and Lana later tonight at a mutual friend’s place for a quick drink.

When breakfast is over, I say goodbye then head back home to quickly change into my gear for a training session at the field.

Coach worked us hard. After a ten-minute drill working on our touch, awareness, communication, and passing, my heart rate picked up ready for the next phase of the session.

Our defenders were on point, keeping the right distance between one another, showing the attackers one way to make the pass predictable.

Every muscle in my body was pushed to its limits. There were sweat beads dripping from my forehead as we played a small-sided game. We switched plays to develop our decision-making skills and awareness. Coach is quick to commend us on our counter speed but warns us to rein in our cocky attitudes because our next game is going to be tough.

Back home, freshly showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a black tee, I stare at my phone beside me. My fingers twitching, I’m anxious to type her name into social media to see what I can find. Finally, I succumb, and the search pulls up several names, none of which are her. Switching tactics, I scroll through Seb and Lana’s with the same result.

Fuck. I throw my phone on the cushion, frustrated.

Seb had informed me they were staying at the Four Seasons.

With my keys, phone, and wallet in hand, I quickly grab my baseball cap and sunnies and leave my apartment. It’s only a short walk, and with my hurried pace darting in and out of the crowds, I make it there in ten minutes. Luckily, I avoid anyone noticing me since fans have been trolling the city waiting to spot me and my teammates.

I have no game plan, simply running on pure adrenaline. Inside the hotel, I make my way to the mezzanine level, order a drink and sit at a table with a full view of the lobby. Two hours go by and nothing. Gabriella could be anywhere. The time on my phone displays seven o’clock.

Letting out an irritated groan, the mane of curls catches my eye first. She’s in the lobby wearing a crimson dress. I’ve never seen this color on her. It’s an unusual choice kick-starting my heart and reminding me of her understated beauty.

She looks nothing like last night. On closer inspection, she’s made a hell of a lot of effort with the way she dressed, including her makeup and hair. The kind of effort you make for a date.

I shut my eyes for a brief moment, trying to control my ragged breathing by the jealousy consuming me.

They open wide again. This time, I pay closer attention to her mannerisms. She appears nervous. Repeatedly, she adjusts the hem of her dress, pulling it down to her knees. Pulling out her phone, she checks it, only to place it back in her purse and do the same a minute later.

Her eyes search her surroundings until a man stops in front of her. I lift my cap to get a better view of the situation unfolding in front of me. The man’s a lot older, perhaps in his fifties, the salt and pepper hair a dead giveaway. He’s dressed in an ivory sweater and dress pants, nothing spectacular. They appear to be talking—him rather friendly, and her smile has turned relaxed.

He motions for the door, and with a nod, they begin walking toward the exit. I scramble for the stairs, desperate to catch up with them, but an elderly woman slows me down until I’m outside, and they are nowhere to be seen.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She’s dating an older man. My mind can’t comprehend the image.

Her, him—a fucking date.

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