Page 34 of Wild Hit
She gives me aseriously?look. “Hello? You’re the one who came up with the idea and I’m just agreeing to it.”
Me? With an idea? I couldn’t remember my name right now if she asked.
“Marty’s so bummed and I really have no other easy way out.” She lifts her chin. “So let’s do it, let’s be a fake couple.”
“Oh,” I mumble. So that’s what she meant bylet’s do it. Of course. What else? Pfff. Clearing my throat, I say, “Right. Okay. Let’s do it.” I clamp my mouth shut since I unfortunately can’t stuff my foot in it.
“One thing, though,” she adds all businesslike. “You should call the school and confirm before we share the plan with Marty.”
“Agreed.”
She jerks a thumb to one side. “All right, I’m heading home now. Don’t forget to stretch before you go to sleep, or whatever it is you do after games to rest properly.”
“Thanks.” I nod.
Audrey blinks at me for a second. “Um, okay. Bye.”
“Yep.” I wave at her just like I did to Consuelo, except Audrey’s still standing in my kitchen.
Prickles of sweat break all over my skin, a portent to death of embarrassment.
In contrast, she’s dignified as a queen as she makes her way out. I stay still, hoping that she won’t decide to come back in and make fun of me for being the most awkward member of the entire Orlando Wild organization, even as I was wishing for her to see me as one of the best players instead.
When it’s clear that no such thing is happening, and the faint sound of her door shutting reaches my ears, I pluck my phone and keys from my pocket, leave them at the counter—and drop to the floor.
“Uno, dos, tres…” I count the pushups in Spanish, which is what I do every time I know I’m going to reach a high number. It may be absurd, but if tiring myself out is the only way I can stop the sudden attack of my hormones, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
CHAPTER 15
AUDREY
Aroot canal. Waiting for three hours at the DMV only to find out you didn't bring one of the required documents. Your delivery driver leaving your food at some unknown house that is definitely not yours. An apprentice taking out your blood sample.
What do all those things have in common?
They're more pleasurable than brunch at the country club with my dad and his groupies.
You’d think that all these people who own entire portfolios of companies all over the world would have something more important to do than meet for brunch on a Friday to talk about their golf swings. I’m on my second mimosa and very glad that I didn’t drive myself to the function, because alcohol is the only thing that will see me through.
My father turns to me with a beaming smile. “What is your opinion, Audrey?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I also doubt that my thoughts are really required. If I learned anything from my mother—and it wasn’t much that was good, trust me—is that the way to survive these functions is by blending with the background.
As response, all I offer is a wan smile and busy myself with another sip of the boozy drink. Dad’s bushy eyebrows twitch, like he can’t hide his surprise at the fact that I’m not cooperating. That’s how I know I’m doing a great job.
The conversation ebbs a little after that, and he pretends like we’re being called to someone else’s presence. With my hand in his arm, he steers us away from the group, hiding in the relative privacy of walking in the periphery to whisper, “You’re being rude, Audrey.”
“Am I?” That brings a little smile out of me and I try to hide it behind my crystal flute. “I did agree to your terms of showing up to public events together, but it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy them.”
“If you don’t appear like you’re having a good time, how will people think that we’re a happy family?”
I gasp in mock exaggeration. “Dad, you didn’t say that lying to everyone was part of the deal.”
He sighs and if I didn’t know him, I’d think he was sincerely disappointed. “In any case, I would like to have a word with you about the status of your name change. But first, we need to appear social.”
Then he stops us in front of Henry Vos and I realize this was just a little distraction that worked swimmingly. With my hand trapped in Dad’s arm and throngs of rich, but sweaty people all around us, it’s not easy to execute a clean escape from this situation.
He stops mid sentence in a conversation that seems to be about horses, to stare at me—or more specifically at the sliver of skin at my waist that my outfit reveals. I have to really exercise my willpower to not ram the heel of my hand into his chin. I wore this outfit because I wanted to at least feel cute while being miserable, not for his satisfaction.
