Page 94 of How to Lose at Love

“You hadn’t thought about it.” Drake is being serious. “Really.”

“Yes, really. I normally spend my Saturdays at the diner or doing laundry.”

My brothers have no words for this phenomenon, but I wish they’d let it go.

“You’d rather spend your weekend doing laundry?” His head swivels back and forth between the pair of us. “Dallas, you can’t be serious.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to go to your game! I said I normally spend my weekends working or doing laundry—that’s not a crime!”

“It is in this house,” I mutter, digging through the scrambled eggs on my plate in search of a piece of sausage.

She turns in her chair to face me directly. “Do you want me at your game?”

I shrug. “Wouldn’t hurt if, you know—you were seen there. I can let Eli know and he can, like…arrange for you to appear on camera.”

“Appear on camera?” The puzzle pieces aren’t clicking into place. “What does that mean?”

“Cameras. For TV. The games are televi—”

Her hand goes up to cut me off. “I know they’re televised, but why would I be on it?”

“’Cause,” Drew cuts in to explain, “when a high-profile player is datin’ someone, the media loves to make her a darling, unless of course she’s a raging bitch, like Ben Davenport’s fiancée, Starla. She’s already blowing his money on designer bags and shoes and prancin’ around the sidelines to be photographed, and he ain’t even been drafted yet. Poor bastard.”

Ben Davenport plays for another Big Ten school, and he’ll no doubt be drafted early, same as I will. He also happens to be engaged to a former cheerleader who has made it her new goal to be a social media darling by riding on Ben’s coattails and future fame.

My brother is right—he is a poor bastard.

“How would the cameras even know where to find me?”

“His agent will be the one getting you seats, and he’ll make a call. That’s how they’ll know.”

“A call to who?”

“The powers that be,” Drew tells her.

“Okay, but who are the powers that be?”

He waves his hand around. “You know—the media. The control booth. They always know who’s who at the stadium.”

Ryann shakes her head. “I’m not a who’s who.”

Drake laughs. “No, but you will be.”

“I just want to sit in the student section,” she declares. “With everyone else.”

“Ah, so you do want to come to the game!” Drake grins, pleased to have railroaded her onto our schedule.

“No, but if I do, I want to be nameless and faceless.” Ryann’s foot bumps mine below the table.

“But that defeats the purpose,” I mumble again. “The point of this arrangement is for everyone to know I’m dating a good girl.”

Point to me.

“But you never mentioned what that entails.”

Point to Ryann.

“Can I think about it?” she asks.

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