Page 72 of How to Lose at Love

Shit.

She noticed.

There’s a shit-eating grin on her damn face as she looks around the room. “Now what?”

“No idea.” I hate this crap.

Hate the socializing and how everyone acts so fucking excited to see me when they know nothing about me. They want photos and selfies, and that’s what we’re going to give them tonight.

“Smile,” I say into the crown of her hair. “Everyone is watching.”

“Did you just kiss my head?”

Is she joking? “No, I didn’t kiss your head. I was tryin’ to be discreet. Get over yourself.”

Ryann laughs, making small talk with the guys from my team, the majority of them she’s never met even though she dated Diego—who hasn’t made an appearance yet, thank God.

Don’t know how I’d deal with that.

“Bro!” A hand slaps me on the back, and I turn.

“Dude,” I say to my brother, Drake, who has the neighbor girls in tow.

Why does he insist on hanging out with those two?Jeez, they’re nothing but a pair of grasping wannabes. Barely have anything to say, showing up half dressed. Speaking of which, what’s with the pair of them at the same time? They’re not twins.

What the fuck is that all about?

“Glad you’re here.” My brother burps. “You can take us home later.”

I shake my head. “We’re not staying long.”

“Awesome.” The dumbass grins. “We’ll bounce when you bounce. These two hate walking.”

“Well, if those two hate walking, then by all means, let me drive you all home…” I quip sarcastically, taking the beers out of a rookie teammate’s hand when he brings the cups over, promptly handing one to Ryann.

She sips daintily, foam catching on her top lip.

As we stand there like turds floating in a punch bowl, cell phones are produced and we’re caught in the crossfire of duck lips and filters. Not everyone is obvious about it; most of them are stealthy.

“This is so weird,” Ryann mutters.

“What’s weird?”

She takes yet another sip. “The way everyone is fawning all over you.”

Is that what they’re doing? I barely notice anymore.

“They’re not fawning all over me.”

She scoffs. “Yes, they are.”

Don’t know what to say to that except, “You get used to it.”

“I won’t have to. This is temporary,” she reminds me out of the side of her mouth, cup in front of her lips.

“Well, this is my life.” Do I sound bitter? “Welcome to it.”

“This will only get worse if you play professionally,” she says, as if I didn’t already know. As if I haven’t already thought about this.

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