Page 25 of The Playmaker
"Riley?" she asks. "She's not one of your groupies?"
I grimace, the suggestion turning my stomach. "Absolutely not."
"But you can't tell me what she is to you?"
The truth hovers on my tongue. I could tell her. I want to tell her. The realization jolts me—Avery is a journalist. What the hell am I thinking? I've spent years building this wall between my public and private lives. Years of carefully crafted misdirection—the "bad boy" image, the calculated controversies, all of it designed to keep the spotlight on me and off Riley. And now I'm considering tearing it all down for a woman I barely know?
In that moment of hesitation, her decision crystallizes. She starts closing the door just as my phone lights up again.
Riley. Again.
Avery scoffs, her eyes narrowing. "Seems like you're a wanted man, Jaxon." A flash of something—disappointment?—crosses her face. "But not by me. Not anymore."
As the door clicks shut, I find myself grinning. It's those last words that give her away. In her denial, she's confirmed what I suspected—she does want me, despite her better judgment.
I hurry to my room to take the call. Riley rarely contacts me during away games; it must be important.
Aware of the thin wall separating my room from Avery's, I keep my voice low and switch on the TV for background noise.
"Riley. I just got to my room..."
"It's not fair!" she whines.
Ah. One of those calls. She only unleashes the teenage dramatics when "everyone else" has something she wants. I sink onto the bed with a sigh. Mrs. Mathews must have punted this one to me—another parenting decision that falls on my shoulders. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing right byRiley. Our parents would have known what to do. I'm just making it up as I go.
"What's not fair, Riles?" I keep my tone neutral while glancing around the luxury suite.
"People are so mean." The hurt in Riley's voice pulls me back to reality. "I have to get social media—you're being mean too by not letting me be normal! I hate it! I hate living like this. I wish Mom and Dad were here."
The last part hits like a helmet to the chest. All these years later, and the loss still feels fresh sometimes.
"What happened?" My protective instincts flare. I hate hearing how "miserable" and "sheltered" she feels, but I'd hate myself more if the media discovered her identity and turned her life into a circus. I've seen what they did to Marcus's son after his DUI—camped outside his school, following him to therapy sessions. I won't let that happen to Riley.
"You don't understand how hard this is," she continues. "I just want a social media account with Mom's maiden name—no one will know it's me or that I'm your sister. I just can't be weird anymore, J. I can't take it."
There's teenage melodrama in her words, but also a new edge of determination that gives me pause. She's sixteen. She's waited patiently for some semblance of normalcy, hasn't she? Her growing resentment concerns me—I don't want her to see me as her jailer. And maybe not all journalists are threats. Look at Avery...
Wait. What? I stop mid-thought. When did Avery become someone I'd consider trusting with this? She's supposed to be the enemy—a journalist who could expose everything I've worked to protect. When did that change?
I stand, restless with confusion. I can't immediately say yes to Riley, but I can't keep saying no without offering some compromise, some hope.
Before I can think better of it, words I never expected tosay come out of my mouth—and I can only blame my growing fixation with a certain honey-blonde reporter.
"Fine. You can have one social media account. It stays private. And you give the password to Mrs. Mathews."
Riley squeals with delight, professing her undying love for her "best and favorite big brother in the world."
Then she pauses. "Wait, are you telling me Mrs. Mathews knows how to use social media?"
I chuckle. "Mrs. Mathews is the OG of social media. Rumor has it her Facebook page dates back to the early 2000s."
It's an exaggeration, but my sister's laugh makes the white lie worthwhile. That sound—her genuine happiness—is what drives every decision I make, every sacrifice I've accepted. Few people understand that the "bad boy" persona, the carefully orchestrated controversies, even the string of meaningless dates—it's all armor I wear to keep the spotlight on me and off her.
I end the call feeling both lighter and heavier. I've made one important woman in my life happy, but the other—the one with those captivating brown eyes that make my pulse race—still thinks I'm just another player on and off the field.
The ball's in her court now. If Avery wants to talk, she knows where to find me. If not, there's not much I can do. I might have momentarily considered revealing Riley's identity to her, but that lapse in judgment can't happen again.
Ever.
