She pushes to her feet, walks past me, and opens the door. “Miss Sloan?”
I stand, taking her gesture as my clue to vacate.
“Have you thought of a cover title? It is, after all, our signature.”
I smile on my way out, grinning like I’ve got the right answer. “Jockeying for Pole Position, or Jock, Lock, and Drop it.” Profoundly certain she’ll love them, I smile.
“Clever.” She offers a ghost of a smile, and I watch her closely, looking for anything that might suggest warmth. “If you’re not trying to destroy her, you may just save her.”
I clear the lobby, feeling confident I’ve paved a path to clear Camille’s name. It won’t erase what Bristol and I did, but if the article comes out half as good as it is in my head, Camille will have her reputation back, and Jock will have its newest cover model.
The door to the lobby swings open and I see Chip Pervis, Vance’s manager, holding it open for Camille. By the look on his face, he’s as unhappy to see me as I am him. “Ohh!” He stops, eyeing me as I push open my side of the double doors without making eye contact. “Hey, Brenna. Makin’ the rounds I see.”
Camille backhands him in the gut at the same time I glare, mortified by his insinuation that I’m selling secrets to more than one magazine.
“Hi, Brenna.” Camille’s polite greeting is more than I deserve but short of friendly. Her gentle demeanor is like a salve on dry skin. Chip, on the other hand, is brittle, but I’ve never been in his good graces and now never will be. Not that I give a shit. I don’t bother with a fake smile. He’s not worth the sin of being two-faced, and Camille has already transitioned inside, choosing not to witness the spontaneous reunion between me and her brother, whom I now see approaching the door behind them. I shift my disgruntled gaze from Chip to Vance.
He’s gorgeous in a pair of loose denim jeans, a casual T-shirt, and a pair of mirrored aviators that hide any reaction to seeing me he might have let slip. It’s not his good looks that catch my attention, though, but rather the sight of his right hand hanging at his side with white medical tape wrapped around his ring and pinky fingers.
Stepping further out into the L.A. air, I let the door go without thought. “Wha-what happened?”
Vance opens his mouth, appears to think twice about whatever is on the tip of his tongue, and lifts his sunglasses to look at me. “Broke some drywall.”
His response is so clipped, I almost flinch, but manage to keep my emotions in check, aside from the hammering of my heart. I haven’t seen him since that awful day at his house, and my heart doesn’t acknowledge the rift that has come between us. It beats like it did the night he sat beside me at the Lookout. It beats like it did with our first kiss and every intimate moment after. “Are you going to be okay? What about pitching?”
Beneath a knitted brow, cold blue eyes land on my despair. They used to look at me like I was human perfection, or so I’m coming to realize as I look into the harsh disconnect in them now. I never had enough faith in his words, and definitely not enough in myself to ever feel worthy of them. I was constantly looking for fault or an opening to be disappointed. I never once believed we’d get out of this together. No matter what he said or did to convince me otherwise, I always expected him to leave or that Bristol would push him away.
“I’ll be fine.” His reply, stripped of elaboration, is short and lacking what I need.
It’s sixty degrees outside, but my armpits and underboobs sweat like I’m in a summer desert as I square my shoulders and ask again. “S-so you can still pitch?” I stumble through the question, terrified of the response and sinking by the second beneath the storm of emotion in his eyes.
By some miracle, his gaze softens, and for a flicker of a second, I feel hope, which for me is usually fleeting, because hope precedes disappointment. “I’m going to be out about five weeks. Should only affect the first few weeks of spring training.”
My guilt at possibly being the catalyst for his injury lifts a fraction. “That’s good.”
He nods several times, a clear indicator he’s got nothing to add, but Chip doesn’t hesitate to fill our space with his authoritative presence.
“Thanks to Ms. Sloan here, we’ve got an appointment, Van. Let’s go.” Chip’s interruption riles the tiny hairs on the back of my neck, and it’s a fight to contain my irritation. In a world where I wasn’t trying to get Vance to see a better me, I’d tell Chip where to stick his appointment, but I’m at the mercy of my mistakes.
“Be there in a minute.” Vance’s severe tone is punctuated by a side glance he only sets on Chip long enough to make his point clearer. Trepidation again blends with hope. Vance doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.
Chip’s teeth grind behind his thin lips. He’s not a bad looking man, if you like intense, high-energy assholes, but stir his wrath even a little, and he morphs into a troll. A silent exchange ensues between them, and Chip caves first, backing away with a single nod to wait a few paces to the left.
I’m not sure what to do with the space Chip’s absence allows us, and Vance’s stiff back and squared shoulders don’t offer advice. Uncle Rodney used to tell me I’d be formidable if I allowed myself to soar beneath the power of my own wings and quit using Bristol’s strength to get me off the ground. Even though I’ve started to use them, my wings are new. I’m not sure of their capabilities yet, and I’m definitely not sure if they’ll carry me through a pleading session.
“I need to get going,” he says, his voice softer with me than it was with Chip. He takes a step toward Chip, who is lurking beside a pillar, ear pressed into his cell phone.
“Can we meet later? For coffee? I’d even choke down a protein shake if you’d agree.”
I don’t quite get a smile, but the twitch of his upper lip strengthens my confidence. My newfound wings are itching to soar.
“Nothing has changed for me, Brenna.”
“I don’t want you to hate me.”
He releases a sigh, looks up reluctantly at first, and then square at me. “I don’t hate you.”
I swallow back the tears starting to form. I didn’t cut ties with all the people who matter to me just to beg someone I don’t matter to. “But you don’t love me anymore. Is that it?”
“Loving you isn’t the problem. Trusting you is. I can’t be with someone I don’t trust.”
“I told Bristol. I didn’t tell Candid. Please don’t punish me for putting my trust in someone I’ve trusted since birth.”
“It’s beyond that, Brenna. I need one hundred percent loyalty, and I’ll never have that with you. Bristol will always come first, and I can’t live with being second.”
“You’re not.”
“I am!” His voice rises, and then, as if he’s trying to maintain some business-like decorum, he clamps his mouth shut, looks away, and then returns his eyes to mine after control is achieved. “We’re all here today because you had to spin what Bristol spewed. Where the fuck is she today? You’ll always choose her, Brenna, and I’ll never ask you not to. That’s our problem.”
I step closer to him, feeling my nerves in every pore as I reach for his shirt, and when he remains solid, I take one more step to stand toe to toe with him. Looking up, my tears spill over and I don’t bother with stopping them. “Ask me.”
With his teeth ground together, he replies, “Ask you what?”
“Ask me to stay, Vance. You did it once. Ask me again.” His non-response and lowered eyes cast a shadow over the hope I relied upon to get me to this place. I’ve grown. I’ve matured over horrible circumstances, and that growth won’t allow me to ask again. If I’ve learned anything observing my mom all these years, it’s that you can’t force something that isn’t there. The end result will never be what you wanted anyway. I press my forehead into his chest, my hand still gripping his shirt, my nose grasping for his familiar scent. I feel his intake of breath and the release that reveals his decision.
“You can’t, can you?” I squeeze my eyes shu
t, forcing tears out onto his shirt before he grabs hold of my upper arm to enforce some distance between us. Whatever I’ve felt over the last few weeks in the lingering silence between me and Bristol, the unreturned phone calls from my mother, and reading about my breakup with Vance in the tabloids, I never once thought any of it was permanent. Until now.
“I want to.” His whisper cracks, emotion breaking the soft sound of his voice. “But I can’t.”
“Van?”
Chip’s deep voice cancels out everything. The euphoria of hearing “I want to” and the crush of hearing “I can’t” crumble together upon hearing him call for Vance. I look up, pulling away from Vance to wipe at my cheeks.
“We’ve got to get in there if you plan on them taking you seriously.”
I hang my head, regret taking the place of my hope.
“I’ve got to go. I’m sorry,” he says softly.
New tears sting, but I derail them at their source, focusing on all the things my mom did wrong so that I don’t falter in the footprints she’s left for me. “Don’t be sorry. Just be sure.”
“I’m not sure of anything anymore, Brenna.”
“Van!” More forceful now, Chip’s impatient call is a command and not a request.
He looks away from me, seeming to choke up as he’s forced to make a permanent decision he wasn’t prepared to make today. Seeing any flicker of emotion other than anger cross his features is encouraging. His jaw ticks beside his ear; a sigh precedes his reply. “Dammit, Brenna—”
On tiptoes and with a forceful tug of his shirt, I steal his next word with a kiss pressed hard against his unforgiving lips. With the one-sided show of affection, my embarrassment flares, but he needs more than words, and I need validation I’m not wrong. Finally, I feel his uninjured hand cup my cheek as he gives in and kisses me back.
Hope once again knocks.
Growling, he forces me away, a hand on my wrist to part us. “I want you, Brenna. I’ve never made that a secret. But your loyalties lie elsewhere, and my expectations haven’t changed.”
“You don’t know anything about my loyalties. You have one shitty example. I trusted the wrong person, Vance. That doesn’t make me disloyal. I didn’t set out to hurt you or your family, and I certainly haven’t gained anything by what happened. That’s the difference between me and the others who’ve hurt you.”
“I don’t see a difference. Whether you set out to betray me or not is irrelevant. You did, and I can’t see past that.”
“What do I have to do, Vance? How can I prove to you that I made a bad call, not a calculated move?”
He sighs, body moving like he’s itching to bolt. “You act like the difference between the two matters. The degree of malice isn’t the problem.” He looks around, exhales a breath, and points his softening blue eyes at me. “I can’t do this, Brenna. I’ve got to get in there so I can see if there is anything left to salvage for Camille.”
Finally, pride knees me in the balls, and I square my shoulders. If my past were different and I hadn’t witnessed my mom beg too many men to stay in our lives, I’d give him more time, but it’s not, so I don’t. Spine rigid, I adopt a new stance, harden my features, and summon enough courage to walk away. There is no point in prolonging the inevitable, no matter how hard it is to accept, and I pivot on trembling ankles in shoes I can barely walk in on a confident day.
This is by far the hardest walk I’ve ever taken alone. I wish I’d seen this moment more clearly back when the option to choose him was still mine. There have been a lot of people in my world who’ve passed on being in my life, notably my Dad and Colette, but where they left bitterness, Vance leaves a lesson. Loving someone isn’t always enough.
EPILOGUE
VANCE
Stay!
It’s on the tip of my tongue moving right past all the bullshit I had to say to keep my head. I can taste the relief of the word on my tongue even as it dissipates and dies a slow, agonizing death to save me from an impetuous decision. There’s a part of me that wishes she knew. There is an even bigger part of me that’s grateful she doesn’t. One more plea and she’d have me. She’ll always fucking have me.
Sheltered beneath my fear and the stupid promise I made to Chip not to do something impulsive “like taking her back,” I bite back the compulsion to stop her as I watch her walk away. I know she’s only leaving because I’ve asked her to. I’ve never doubted her love. Sometimes her commitment, but never her love. What the fuck am I doing?
The lump I try to swallow before I turn back to Chip sits low in my throat and won’t budge despite a number of attempts, so he hears my despair when I finally speak. “Let’s go.”
“Give it a day,” Chip says reassuringly, keeping stride with me, “and you’ll be thankful you took my advice.”
How many fucking days has it been already? Twelve? Fifteen? All of fucking January? Chip should stick to giving career advice like “don’t punch the guy at the bullying benefit” or “keep your mouth shut when they ask you what you think of the rookie pitcher.” That’s the advice I need from a guy paid to manage my career. Teeth grinding together, I hold the door open and wait on Chip to enter first before responding to him. “I’m not sure you’re the right guy to be doling out relationship advice.” I don’t disguise my distaste for his interference.
He maneuvers past me, eyes expressive as he does so. “I’m the right guy for everything. Had you listened to me months ago, we wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t be on the questionable roster. Now’s not a good time to be anywhere but out in front. The team picked up Diego Silva, that kid out of Arizona playing for the Hellcats. He’s been in the minors less than a year, Van. What’s that tell you? Kid’s good.”
No, it says he wasn’t good enough to be drafted straight to the majors, but saying that would incite a riot with Chip, so my opinion remains trapped behind a bigger need to keep the peace.
He continues despite my non-participation. “You can’t afford to be injured or have distractions of any kind if you’re going to stay on top, and that includes Brenna. Kids like him are gunning for you. And girls like her are going to ruin you.”
He acts like I’m thirty-five and not twenty-five. I’m not exactly being fitted for orthotic shoes yet. In baseball, I’m a kid, but because he’s been with me for eight years now, he’s already trying to hold off my retirement and brand me a perpetual bachelor. “I’m not worried about Diego Silva,” I say, too casually for his liking, skipping right over his Brenna insult.
Camille flanks me as the smell of coffee replaces the L.A. exhaust fumes and the entrance doors swoosh closed. She’s anxiously awaiting an update she was decent enough not to eavesdrop on. Her soft spot for Brenna tends to be a source of contention when I’m trying so diligently to move on.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I warn her. Her questioning blue eyes aren’t going to get her far today.
“Like I know you made a mistake and I think you’re a dumbass? Is that the look I’m giving you?”
“We’re late.” I avoid her eyes and proceed toward the desk, hoping she’ll take the hint and drop it. I don’t need Brenna’s fan club president barking at me any more than I need the petitioner for her execution telling me to “give it a day.”
“It was her sister, Van. Not Brenna. You yourself have been guilty of trusting the wrong people. She’s human and therefore prone to mistakes.”
“Maybe you should focus on cleaning up your legacy and leave my relationships to me.”
“Wow!” Angered, Camille drops off, leaving me to walk to the front desk alone.
At the desk, I speak to the receptionist with aloof indifference, my mood preceding me. While she looks for my appointment, I run a critical gaze over her. I’m not on the market, but I’m curious to know if she can even spark an ounce of my interest. Brenna has been every waking thought I’ve had for the better half of a year, and I’m wondering now if my dick knows how to respond accordingly to an attractive woman.
&
nbsp; She smiles, her painted lips curving up and out in a pleasant enough smile to win just about anyone over—except me. I feel nothing except gratitude that she didn’t turn me away for being late.
At the elevators, Camille is conspicuously quiet, her silent treatment annoying as hell but still preferable to Chip’s arrogant verbal assault on Brenna’s character. He is my Bristol.
“When we get in there, you need to distance yourself from Brenna and her spin doctoring.”
“You don’t know that it’s spin doctoring.” Camille departs from her silence to argue with Chip, a pastime she’s enjoyed since meeting him. I don’t respond, my focus on keeping myself from imploding.
“When you become a publicist, you can argue with me.”
“When you become human, I’ll take your opinion under advisement.”
I scratch my forehead, eyes pinched shut to ward off the mounting headache their arguing feeds. At this point I’d take a fight with Brenna over this shit. At least with Brenna, my heart instead of my head would be challenged.
The drive from L.A. to San Jose is filled with thoughts of Brenna, and the angry rap music is unable to drive any of them away. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m so fucking lost, even my driveway is a surprise when I finally pull in a little past dark.
Donning the splint that wraps around everything on my hand but my middle and index finger, I curse its limitations and the pain that ensues as I tighten it. In public, I wear the tape to minimize the gossip. In private, this black contraption limits my movements for as many hours as I can stand it. Whether it’s Brenna or my hand, nothing is particularly pleasant to think about these days, but in less than an hour I’ll have a better idea of what I’m facing with my hand at least.
Inside the house, despite the efforts I’ve made to flush Brenna out of my life, she’s everywhere, and no number of tossed pictures or broken knick-knacks has mattered in the end. She isn’t just in the things I’ve accumulated, and there is no way to toss the quiet, still the memories, or bleed my heart of her presence. At first my anger ate up a huge portion of her absence, but now it only tides me over a few hours each day.
Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1) Page 30