Page 67 of The Wrong Move

As I hold onto the back of a seat, a guy goes to step around me.

I look at him to wait as the aisle is only wide enough for one.

“Hey.” His eyes go round. “You’re Byron Hendricks.”

“I think you have me confused with?—”

A girl pops out from behind him. “Oh my gosh, youare!Can we get a selfie?”

Before I have time to answer, her cell is turned, and they lean into me. I force a smile because the camera is in my face.

“Why are you traveling to Rome?” the guy asks. “Don’t you have a game? Wait, is Jye or Brandon playing your spot?”

This dude knows our roster.

“Both will rotate.”

“Selfie? Can we have a selfie?” More people ask from the aisles beside us. “Can you sign my T-shirt?” A girl yells, “I love you!” and then giggles. Someone pushes, and the couple standing with me stumble.

“Everyone, please return to your seats,” the flight attendant says from behind me.

I am fucking trying.

“If it’s okay with you, Mr. Hendricks, I can get them to form a line…” the steward says, “… and I wouldn’t mind a picture with you myself.”

Fuck me.

For the next half hour, I pose for photos and sign freaking anything the girls can get their hands on, but I flat-out refuse to sign their chests.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Vince says, standing beside me. He’s surprisingly tall. “Let the guy get some sleep.”

“Thanks,” I whisper as I slide into my seat. “Any chance you want to stay near me at the airport?” Now, I regret saying no to Colton.

After going through customs, I say my goodbyes to Vince and wish him luck traveling. While waiting for my ride, I send Giana a text.

You looked beautiful onstage. I hope you are having a fabulous time.

She responds almost immediately.

I am! How was training?

The usual. What’s on your agenda today?

Today we are in the studio, and then I’m going to relax before getting ready for the gala tonight. I hope to get to my villa tomorrow.

Giana mentioned the hotel where she is staying before she left. While the nine-hour time difference has messed with my sleep, not getting any sleep on the flight over was torture. I have a newfound respect for coach-class travelers.

But it’s all worth it to see my girl.

As I sit in the back of the chauffeured BMW, my playlist sounds in my ears for the next forty minutes—a distraction so I stop thinking about Giana’s reaction. I wipe my palms on my trousers. It’s hotter than I anticipated.

“Excuse me,” I ask the driver. “Would you mind turning up the air conditioning?”

“Of course, sir.”

We pass weather-worn stone pillars, historical monuments, and the architectural-pleasing piazzas. I understand why Giana fell in love with Italy.

After tipping the driver and thanking him for the tourist-like commentary, I grab my suitcase before the concierge greets me. At first, they speak in Italian. I catch a few words and offer a friendly smile. “American.”

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