Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Ambrosia
I have absolutely no clue what possessed me to go to my family home, but the moment I enter the den and fall face first into the couch from my childhood, I know why.
I needed my dad.
My dad’s scent lingers on the couch, cedarwood and spice.
My mom makes sure to spray his cologne on this couch for moments like these.
When I need the reminder that, even though he’s gone, he is still with me.
I bury my face into a pillow and inhale deeply, begging my tears to stay where they belong.
I will not cry over Dawson Sinclair.
I don’t even know why I am feeling all these emotions.
Why am I embarrassed? He doesn’t matter, and while, yes, he caused me to act like an unhinged idiot in front of his parents, I am still a strong, confident woman with goals and aspirations.
I will conquer! Did my meeting with the Sinclairs go well?
In my opinion, no. I think they felt bad for me, pitied the fact that their son flustered me.
They were too agreeable, too damn kind, and, ugh, I hate when people feel bad for me.
It’s always been like that. When I was young, my learning disabilities made everyone treat me like I was too dumb to succeed.
No one ever celebrated what I overcame, only pointed out what I couldn’t do.
Now, that doesn’t apply to my parents or tía.
Those three have loved me no matter what and have always praised my accomplishments as if I were winning the Stanley Cup.
But they have to. I’m theirs.
To them, I’m perfect.
To everyone else, I’m not.
I have always been a chunky girl, and while my chunk has turned to curves, I have been told many times that if only I were skinny.
I have such a pretty face, too bad I’m too big.
Too tall. Too…fucking much. It’s so frustrating and annoying, to say the least. I have gone through life with people continually feeling sorry for me, when I’m not the problem.
They are.
But in this case, Dawson is the fucking problem!
He’s a showboating, full-of-himself, too-damn-hot player, with a one-track mind.
Hockey, football, and pussy.
In no particular order.
Dawson’s antics, his heated looks, and arrogant thoughts about my theory made me look like a fool.
I reacted just how he wanted. I played right into his hands.
He wanted a reaction from me, and he got it.
I just don’t understand why. What is he gaining?
He doesn’t know me, and never once has he given me a second glance. What was so different about today?
Pathetically, I wanted him to remember me.
I wanted that night to be as important to him as it was to me.
Not the whole his getting head or even his asking to eat me out, it was him defending me.
I felt seen, I felt heard, and even in the middle of my grief when I’ve thought of that night, I smiled because of the way he’d looked at me, defended me, and told me he’d find me.
Not that he did, but it still felt nice that drunk Dawson wanted to find me.
I let out a tortured scream that I feel from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. My body shakes with anger as I scream into the pillow before inhaling my dad’s scent. If he were here, I know what he’d say.
Ro, haters are like glitter—annoying, hard to get rid of, but proof that you sparkle.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the traitorous tears falling into the pillow. The only reason I’m not mad at myself for letting them fall is the fact that I know I’m not crying because of Dawson or even that I miss my dad and his wise words. It’s from the frustration over how I acted.
Since taking over The Rowe Report, I promised I would always maintain my dad’s professionalism and make him proud.
Dawson brought out a side of me that I don’t let anyone see.
People talk about my dad all the time, good and bad, but the fact that Dawson was so unrelenting about my dad’s theory… Damn it, it made me violent.
How could I allow him to have so much control over my emotions?
He is nothing to me. Even when he called me hot before, I knew it was because he was drunk.
When he asked me out today, I knew it was because he has never been told no.
I’m the one he can’t land, and that’s killing him.
I just don’t understand the buzzing I felt when I was under his gaze.
When he let those dimples loose, I felt my stomach clench.
Of course I’m attracted to him. He’s very appealing to the eye, but I know his type.
I know men like that. They are all gorgeous and pretty to look at, and the moment you don’t give them what they want, they drop you.
Or they stay and beat you down. Calling out every single one of your insecurities so that you’ll stay with them and not look for better.
I am not dumb, and I may be wrong for putting Dawson in that category, but come on, his track record speaks for itself. Just look at the comments on all his posts or even in his thirst traps. No one has ever dated Dawson Sinclair.
Never.
Which is why I laughed so hard when he asked me out.
It kept me from crying from how badly I wanted it to be real.
To fall back into my old na?ve ways and give in to a man like Dawson.
Just for fun, just to see what happened, but I’ve been burned so many times.
I have seen firsthand how he throws away women.
Yes, that was six years ago, and I’m sure he has somewhat matured, but I can’t put myself out there for him to shit on.
I can’t allow another person to laugh at the things I can’t do.
I force myself to swallow past the lump in my throat. That can’t happen again. No, I need to stay the hell away from Dawson Sinclair.
Just as I’m about to roll off the couch to head toward the kitchen where I know there will be food, I feel nails along my scalp and a hand along my back, rubbing up and down my spine in a loving way.
“Ah, mija, did it not go well?”
My mom’s voice is soft, hesitant, as she leans into my side, rubbing my back, which means my tía is at my head.
“I have a Costco-size box of batteries if you need them for your dildos.”
I sputter with laughter, which I know is what she wanted.
I roll to my back, my mom’s hand falling to my stomach as my tía moves my hair out of my eyes, wiping away the stray tears that remain.
I take in a deep breath through my nose, and I know they’re watching me, waiting for an answer, but I feel like I may cry more if I admit what is wrong.
I let out the breath I was holding in a long whoosh.
“The meeting was fine. We went over what is different between broadcasting for the girls and the boys. It’s nothing I can’t handle and I’m actually excited for it, but when we discussed them coming on my podcast, I felt like they agreed to do it out of pity.”
Mom brings in her dark brows that are arched to perfection. “Why, mija?”
I chew on the inside of my lip, hating how I can still see the swirl of green in his hazel eyes, how the smirk made it really hard to form complete sentences and how damn good he looked, towering over me in all his glory.
Why does he have to be attractive?
Why did I like the feeling from being under his gaze?
Why do I want to hate him, yet still want him?
“Their son is so full of himself and came at me funky. Telling me that Dad’s theory wasn’t real, and that love isn’t a contributing factor to success, when he hasn’t even been in love.
But what really gets my gears grinding is it is a factor.
He is loved, with so much support from his family.
So how can he not see that love does have something to do with it? ”
Tía looks as if she might slash tires as she starts humming Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got to Do with It.”
“Did you say that?” Mom asks.
I frown. “No. I didn’t think it until now.”
She pats my face, rubbing my nose with her finger. “Ah, I hate when that happens.”
Tía nods in agreement as I continue to rant. “He was so cocky, and he kept flirting with me, which was basically offensive.”
Mom’s brows furrow while Tía arches hers. “Why would flirting be offensive?”
“Because he didn’t mean it,” I shriek, surprising all of us. “He was just messing with me! He’s Dawson Sinclair. He’s a wildly talented athlete and hot as all hell. He can have and has had any girl he wants. I’m nowhere in his orbit.”
Mom rubs my belly as Tía gives me a disgruntled look. “I think you mean he isn’t in your orbit.”
I wave her off. “Hell, both. We are on two different wavelengths. He has no clue what he wants, which is evident in his inability to choose a sport and his revolving door of females. While I am locked in and ready to soar.”
Mom’s head falls to the side as she stares at me. “Do you like him?”
I laugh, shaking my head as the sound fills the room, but even I can hear there is no humor in my laugh.
It’s forced. Shit. Do I like him? What I know of him, no, but his game, it’s inspiring.
He works so hard to be able to play both sports.
If only he focused on one, he’d be unstoppable.
His drive to eat well, train well, and keep his head mentally well is wildly attractive.
I don’t know him, though. And I think if I did, I would like him.
A lot.
And he’d break me.
Quickly, I blurt, “Hell no. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s stunning. But he is a walking red flag, and I don’t even have time for green flags.”
Tía snorts as Mom continues to eye me. “Maybe you need to get to know him.”
I meet her hopeful gaze and shake my head. “Mom, no. I don’t want anything to do with him. He is too full of himself, and he makes me want to crash out. I’ll end up in jail if I have to be around him more than necessary.”
Tía tsks at me. “Mija, my love, there is a very thin line between love and hate.”
Jesus Christ above.
“Believe me, the line is wide and pure black, and I’m sitting on the hate side,” I quip, shaking my head. “I want nothing to do with him, and I hope he listens to his parents’ segment just so he knows they believe in my theory and he’s stupid and wrong.”
Mom goes to say something but stops.
I bring my brows in tightly. “What?”
“Maybe have him on the show? Have him give his side of things. Maybe have a friendly debate?”
“It wouldn’t be friendly,” I mutter, which she ignores. Not Tía, though, she chuckles.
“Then have a poll for listeners?”
I give her a blank look. It’s a great idea, and I’d love to rip him one on the air, but that would involve spending more time with than I absolutely have to. “I don’t want to be around him, Mom.”
She shrugs, and Tía leans in. “But you can impress him with your smarts, your knowledge of the game, and then your beauty.”
I give Tía a look. I know that looks are subjective, that we are all different. I also know that my family wanted me to lean into my brain rather than depend on my looks, but I wish for once they’d say something like, my beauty could distract him.
Not that I want it to.
That isn’t the point of that thought.
I know I am a beautiful woman. I may not be what America deems the right body type, but I love how I look.
It’s taken me a long time to love myself.
I mean, it just happened last week, and it could change by dinnertime when my belly swells up from the cheesy chicken I’ll eat, but I wish my outside were good enough sometimes.
Or maybe I’m making something out of nothing, because I hate that I want Dawson Sinclair to find me attractive.
That I want to know if he truly wants to date me or if he was just teasing me.
“Pretty obvious why that’d be your nickname from me. Just one look and my heart stops.”
It doesn’t matter what he says. I’ll do everything I can to make sure I never see him again.
I have to, to protect myself.
“That won’t happen,” I say with way too much sadness in my voice. “I just hope that his parents don’t think less of me. I said that he’s too worried about getting his dick sucked—in front of them.”
Mom grimaces as Tía holds up her hand for a high five. “That’s my girl.” Of course I slap her hand because I’d never leave her hanging. “Apologize when they come in, and go from there. I’m sure if they didn’t want to do the show, they wouldn’t.”
“True,” I agree with a soft sigh. “I just wish I hadn’t gotten all flustered and lashed out.”
“It happens to the best of us,” Mom tells me, cupping my jaw.
“Daddy asked me for nine towels in an hour. I had no clue he was just trying to get my attention. On the last towel, I threw it in his face and told him I’d call security on him if he called again.
He smiled…” She pauses, such a beautiful, faraway look on her face as her eyes glitter with tears.
“He smiled and told me how about I call him instead when I get off.” I can’t help but smile and swoon.
My dad loved my mom with every beat of his heart.
When he died of a heart attack, she said it was because he loved all of us too hard and it took him out.
Did I have some trauma from that? A bit.
Thank you, therapy.
“Men have the tendency to drive us insane.”
“Which is why we drink, have drawers full of dildos, and read about fictional men,” Tía offers, and I can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of me.
When they wrap their arms around me, I lean into their embraces as I close my eyes. A plan forms in my head to apologize to the Sinclairs and hope they understand that their son is a jackass and forgive my outburst. If not, I’ll be professional and get the job done.
And completely stay away from Dawson Sinclair.
Because I’m not dumb. I am a woman in a man’s sport.
A huge fan, at that, and super knowledgeable.
Because of my love for the sport, I have been surrounded by beautiful men.
When I was younger, I’d trip over myself to get them to notice me and want me.
It’d work, but then they’d drop me faster than they could drop their gloves without even an explanation.
I was left to feel unworthy and unlovable.
No offense to pretty men, and I don’t speak for all of them, but they usually don’t want to be loyal or truthful.
My tía tells me all the time to go for someone who isn’t that good-looking so he’ll worship me.
That hasn’t happened.
I honestly don’t think it will.
And Dawson Sinclair?
He doesn’t know how to worship anyone but himself.