Page 27 of Bad Teammate
“Meh.” Sasha shrugged. “Whatever.”
Little did Sasha know, Derek was at leastoneperson I knew—and I hoped he would get to see me in my cute outfit. Especially after seeing me yesterday in my homely travel apparel.
But all that was left of Derek was the linens he’d slept on, folded and neatly stacked on the couch.
“Where’s your roommate?” I asked, trying to sound as if I didn’t care one way or the other.
“I don’t know. He was gone before I woke up.” Sasha paused, glancing up at me from the side of his eyes. “Why?”
I went over to the wall of windows and stared out at Dallas. “No reason,” I said with a tangled knot in my throat.
“That was nice of him to offer you his bed, by the way.”
“It was,” I teased, “because I could never sleep in your bed.”
He laughed. “I’d never offer it up to you in the first place.”
“Jerk.” I tutted. “Are you ready to go?”
“Sure.” He switched the TV off and began to put on his shoes. “Let’s go.”
Sasha locked the condo door behind us.
“So, what do you want to do today, anyway?” I asked as we stepped onto the elevator.
He gestured at his outfit. “My clothes are awful, Katya. When we go out to the club, I don’t fit in. I look so …Russian.”
“But you areRussian.”
“You know what I mean. My clothes aren’t cool. I want to fit in.” He huffed as he mashed the elevator button. “You always look so cool. And you know what fashion trends are popular in America, so I thought you could help me.”
“Aw.” I touched my hand to my heart. I was flattered. “Sure. I’d be happy to take you shopping. But only if you apologize for giving me a hard time over how long I take to get ready.”
He chuckled. “Fine. I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you,” I said as the elevator doors opened to the garage level. We climbed into Sasha’s Porsche and roared down the street.
***
Hours later, we headed back to Sasha’s car with another load of shopping bags hanging from our arms. Sasha pressed a button and his Porsche trunk lid popped open. We threw our bags in with all the others. We’d both scored a decent haul, and Sasha had paid for everything—my clothes included.
“So?” I asked. “Want to keep going?”
“I can’t, Katya.” He held his stomach. “I’m starved.”
“Let’s go eat, then.”
We walked to an American bar and grille in the neighborhood. The hostess, unable to keep her eyes off Sasha, led us to our table.
“That girl looked like she wanted to talk to you,” I said. “You get recognized everywhere you go, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Sasha said. “I love it.”
“I can tell.”
We’d had to stop and take selfies with about fifty fans today alone. With me at his side to interpret, Sasha was excited to interact with his fans for the very first time. He’d carried on conversations lasting ten or more minutes with some of them.
“So how do you feel today?” I asked after we put in our food order. “Is your migraine gone?”
