Page 96 of Wild Catch
“You just want me physically?” I clarify.
After a beat, he says, “Yeah.”
“Right.” The word comes out very firm for someone whose chin is trembling and is about to burst into tears at any second. “That is definitely not part of the deal. No kissing. Certainly nothing more than that. I’m never going to be someone else’s little play thing ever again.”
“And that makes me the worst piece of shit, doesn’t it?” he says slowly, quietly. “Because I know that. I saw how much that asswipe Williams hurt you, and here I am, lusting over you all the same.” His shoulders shake with a sardonic laugh. “How does that make me freakingnice, Rose?”
I bob my head, getting the point—understanding that he also doesn’t care about me.
That like many guys before him, he can’t—doesn’t want to—see past my body or my face.
But at least Logan is much more transparent about it.
I snap my visor closed so he can’t see the tears that are starting to fall. “Well, thanks for the honesty. Good night, Logan.” I’m proud of myself that my voice doesn’t waver and neither do my steps. I walk into the house and that’s when I realize that I’m carrying his backpack.
I sink to my knees, fully shaking as I take out all my things and dump them on the floor. Somehow I manage to open the front door and place his backpack right outside.
He’s watching me from exactly the same spot I left him at, and he doesn’t move a muscle even as I close door again.
CHAPTER32
LOGAN
“How does it feel like to work together with your romantic partner under such an intense scrutiny?” the columnist asks us, and I make sure to keep my expression the same. Like I’m considering his question carefully and not like I want to turn around, walk out of the premises, keep going until I’m no longer in Orlando, and don’t stop even as I reach the Caribbean.
Rosalina is better trained for this, and she has no issue with responding right away. “It works out really well on a professional level. Logan’s focus on the game is unbeatable. I think if aliens suddenly land on the field in the middle of a game he would still play without making a single error.” Here she gives out an adorable little chuckle and even looks at me like she finds me genuinely endearing.
I can’t help but stare at her, wondering if she shouldn’t have become an actress instead.
Then she continues, returning her attention to theSPORTYMagazine dude. “The scrutiny part has been harder to deal with. I even had to make my social media accounts private. But if anyone so much as looks at me funny in real life, Logan’s immediately on it.”
“So Logan, you’re the protective kind of boyfriend?” The reporter grins.
Right now we’re in a conference room by the clubhouse, and Rose sits on a chair next to mine. My arm is on the back of her chair—her idea to show we’re comfortable in each other’s space, not mine—and I observe her expression as she waits for my answer. A remnant of her earlier amusement remains, but it seems to ebb the more the seconds stretch.
The answer comes with vehement force, though. “Yes. I will protect Rose from everything.”
Including myself.
I did the right thing by warning her off. She needed to understand that I’m not the right guy for her. That as much as I piss and moan about my bizarre family, Iwasraised by them. That she’s better off without any of my bullshit in her life. I would just drag her down with me and for what? So I can touch her and kiss her like I’m dreaming about every night? That’s not a good tradeoff for her.
The camera guy recording the interview makes a face like he thinks I’m as sweet as a puppy, and boy is he wrong. He has no idea that I’m on a constant war between my need for Rosalina Mena, and the traumas that make up who I am. That would actually be a way more interesting story for this damn magazine.
Someone knocks on the crystal door behind us and Audrey Winters from PR pokes her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, just wanted to give you a heads up that the photographer is all set up and ready to start.”
“Excellent,” the reporter says, shutting his notepad. “Let’s get that going, and if I come up with any further questions I will ask you between shots. Does that work?”
“Of course. Thank you,” Rose responds all polite.
I get up first to pull the chair away from her, and I hang at the back of the group, the PR rep taking the helm.
Rose walks just ahead of me and my last name and number at her back taunt me. I know that her wearing my jersey is a crucial part of the ruse, a social signal that she’s mine, but it feels almost cruel now. I wish I could just rip off the shirt from her and burn it to ashes. That nothing of me haunted her any longer.
I rub my chest. It feels hard to breathe and I force my lungs to expand, trying to catch the vital oxygen I need for my brain to keep functioning. It would be way too juicy for this magazine to catch me in the middle of an attack.
The air outside restores me much quicker, though. The green was freshly mowed and watered this morning, and the smell permeates the air. A sunbeam hits directly into the dugout and I turn my face to it, hoping the warmth chases away the cold claw in my chest.
Heavy steps approach and then a camera shutter goes off. I crack an eye open and find the photographer aiming his massive professional camera at me. Here we go, I guess.
