“I can’t guarantee things won’t change in the future, but for now, my intentions are pure.” I held up a hand. “I promise.”
I really did intend on buying her a new top, so I wasn’t lying. Technically.
“As much faith as I have in promises made by players…” Her emphasis on the last word made it clear she wasn’t talking about my job title. “I have to respectfully decline. I can afford my own dry cleaning, and I don’t like handing out private information to strangers.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Try not to spill any more beer on unsuspecting passersby. It’s a waste of good ale.”
I stared, stunned, as she walked away. Her friend followed, half laughing and half sneaking peeks at me on her way to the exit.
What the hell just happened?
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been rejected. Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset about it; I was…intrigued.
Jesus. The guy who could get any girl he wanted was fascinated by the one girl who wasn’t impressed. I was a walking cliché.
“Oof. Shut down hard.” Adil’s voice shook me out of my stupor. I hadn’t even noticed his and Noah’s approach. He grabbed his soda from the counter and smirked at me. “She must’ve watched yesterday’s match and thought you played like shit too.”
“Shut up.” But I wasn’t paying attention to him.
I was too focused on the flash of dark hair and blue jeans as she disappeared through the door.
I’d never seen Mystery Girl before, but for some reason, I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time we ran into each other.
I spent the next week enjoying relative freedom. I hung out with friends, watched reruns of old shows, and took my favorite sports cars out for a spin or three. Football fired me up, but driving calmed me, and I’d amassed an enviable collection of luxury vehicles that I used for everyday errands or racing.
However, I chose a nondescript car for my first session at the Royal Academy of Ballet. Paparazzi were a problem, and I didn’t need a bright red Ferrari announcing my every move.
When I arrived at RAB, I felt a pinch of satisfaction at the absence of Vincent’s Lamborghini. He didn’t drive decoy cars, so I knew he wasn’t here yet.
I parked close to the entrance, my thoughts split between the dreaded cross-training session and the girl I’d bumped into last week.
I didn’t know why I was still thinking about her. We’d exchanged only a handful of words, and I didn’t know a single thing about her other than the fact she could pay for her own dry cleaning and that she didn’t like “handing out private information to strangers.”
My mouth curved at the memory.
I didn’t wish for much outside the realm of football, but I’d give up one of my cars to see her again.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Definitely.
Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t given me her name and number. I didn’t need that big a distraction in my life.
I entered RAB, checked in with the starry-eyed receptionist at the front desk, and followed her instructions to the training studio.
Housed in a mansion that looked like something straight off a Regency movie set, the Royal Academy of Ballet was worlds away from the sweaty, utilitarian grounds of Blackcastle’s training facility. There were paintings of ballerinas, photos of ballerinas, bronze statues of ballerinas…basically, ballerinas everywhere.
I guess subtlety wasn’t their strong point.
Then again, Blackcastle’s facilities had our team logo stamped on every possible surface so I shouldn’t throw stones.
I arrived at the studio just in time to see students from the previous class trickling out.
I was early, so I hung back, waiting for the last person to turn the corner before I slipped inside. Thankfully, neither of the DuBois siblings was here yet, and I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings.
I’d never attended a ballet performance before, much less been inside a studio, but it looked exactly as I’d imagined.
A wall of mirrors reflected a row of giant arched windows, which overlooked the academy’s manicured grounds. A wooden barre stretched the length of the room, and the floors gleamed so brightly I could almost see my reflection in them.
The only out-of-place object was the giant tote wobbling on the edge of the corner table. It was stuffed with what looked like a jumper, a book, and...whatever else people stashed in their totes.
The weight of its contents must’ve been too much for the overworked bag because, after a valiant effort to stay upright, it tipped over and spilled half its items across the floor with a raucous clatter.
The book thudded to the ground. Pens rolled this way and that while a scarf drifted dreamily on top of a small box.
I half-expected someone to run in and check on the disruption, but no one did.
Should I pick up the stray items or wait for their owner to return? Would it be an invasion of privacy if I chose the former?
Screw it. It would be weirder if she walked in to find me staring at her scattered belongings without doing a thing about it.
I walked over and started scooping the contents back in their bag.
Jumper, book, pens, makeup, keys, water bottle, tights, hairspray, canvas slippers, medication, sweat towel, heat pack, sewing kit, another book…Jesus, it was like Mary Poppins’s magic bag. How the hell did she fit all of that inside one tote?
I wedged a protein bar between her sunglasses and resistance bands. I didn’t know how I’d get the—
