Page 50 of Anatomy of a Player

With the very girl I’d sworn I was done with. So much for my plan.

“We need to find you a seat,” Whitney said, wrapping her arm around my waist.

“I’m really f—”

“No arguing. Just come on.” Like she could really move me. I draped my arm over her shoulders, though, because it was a good excuse to touch her more, and her bare skin under my arm was as soft as I imagined it would be.

Whitney asked a few wallflower dudes to move off the ledge—shushing me when I said I could just lean against the wall. “Do you need ice? I could probably find some ice.”

“I’d say I’m fine, but I’d get in trouble again.”

That adorable indention in her cheek flashed as she smiled. What was this girl doing to me? Part of the reason I’d come tonight was to get heroutof my head. I’d seen the back of a girl with a rainbow skirt, killer legs, and tall, glittery pink shoes, and I’d thoughther. She’s just what I need.

Then she’d turned enough for me to get a better look, and I’d actually felt my eyes bulge, like in those cartoons where the character’s eyes pop out of their head, stretched until they can’t stretch any more. I recognized her features, but I could hardly believe it was the same person.

“I knew you were a glittery pink kind of girl,” I said.

She leaned in like she was going to tell me a secret, and I wanted to hear every one she had. “Shh, don’t tell anyone. Apparently serious journalists don’t wear pink or heels.”

She flashed me a killer smile, but then her brow crinkled and she pursed those shimmery pink lips I couldn’t stop staring at. It was like watching an emotional kaleidoscope. “Speaking of serious journalists… About after the last game—I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

The makeup she had on made her eyes even bluer, and they cut through me when her gaze met mine. “I can’t believe you still came to my defense after I ripped into you so hard.”

“Don’t worry about it—it’s forgotten.”

She started to run her hand through her hair, but then seemed to realize the wig would make that impossible. “I was just worried about looking professional in front of everyone, and I panicked and went for the meanest thing I could think of. It’s the second time I overreacted with you in the locker room, too, and I’m so sorry.”

I grabbed the hand she didn’t seem to know what do with and squeezed it. With her tiny hand in mine, my stupid move of coming here was suddenly worth it. “Apology accepted. Again.”

A warning sounded in the back of my mind, telling me that diving back in was only going to set us both up for a crash, and I should still be careful, apologies and concern over my ankle or not.

She nodded and let out a relieved breath. “Want a beer?”

“Yes.”

“I need to check on Lyla, too, but I’ll do that and get a beer and be back in a few. Don’t stand up—just let that ankle rest.”

“Yes, Coach,” I said, and she rolled her eyes and shook her head, but the smile was back on her face.

I leaned back against the wall, marveling at the turn of events. My original plan on how to deal with Whitney had alternated between going into asshole mode whenever she was around, or ignoring her completely.

But then that prick had stepped up to her. The way she’d wrapped her arms around herself and cowered her head, like she knew his words were going to sting—I immediately recognized the defensive stance, because I’d resorted to it so often in my earlier years. It was so unlike the Whitney I knew, too, and it shot me right through the chest.

So I’d reacted.

Now I was dangerously close to being totally wrapped up in the girl, and most likely totally screwed—there was no way this was going to end well. But I couldn’t help it, not when I felt happy for the first time all week.

When Whitney and Lyla approached, I did a double take at Beck’s girl. It was interesting looking at them together—and in more than just a two hot chicks way. Lyla was clearly not quite comfortable with her outfit, while Whitney seemed more comfortable than I’d ever seen her, except for maybe that night on the couch. But now that I thought about it, she always fidgeted and tugged at her clothes when she was dressed more conservatively.

“Lyla’s kind of over this party, and I really think you should get off your ankle, so I thought we could take you home,” Whitney said.

“I’ve been there alone for two days straight, bored out of my mind.” My ass imprint was probably still on the couch, and I wasn’t in a big hurry to get back to it.

She opened her mouth—ready to argue, no doubt—and I quickly added, “But I’ll go home if you come with me.” I put on my best poor, pathetic me face.

Whitney glanced at Lyla, and they did their silent girl conversation, while I awaited the verdict. Whitney sat down next to me. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

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