Chapter 14 Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
At first glance, it seemed like Vincent and I had reverted to our old ways after the arcade—lighthearted insults and the occasional eye roll peppered with shameless attempts to win the bet.
He walked around shirtless so often, he might as well have been allergic to tops; I did yoga smack dab in the middle of the living room, dressed in my best ass-flattering leggings and a sports bra.
I buttered him up by joining him on Tuesdays for Bake Off while he “coincidentally” needed to cook at the exact same time as me every night.
We both knew what the other was doing, so we were on guard. But that didn’t change the fact that something had shifted imperceptibly since our afternoon together. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it was there, a slight ripple disturbing the glassy surface of our relationship.
It wasn’t the renewed threat from his intruder, though that had definitely put us on edge.
The police didn’t think the photo on his car was “actionable,” whatever that meant, so Vincent had doubled security at my flat.
More cameras, more locks, and a motion sensor system that scared the crap out of me when I came home one Saturday afternoon to find a laser pointed at my forehead.
He kept his Lamborghini, but he also bought a discreet black Range Rover for everyday errands because the Lambo was too recognizable and he didn’t want people following him home.
It might have been overkill considering we hadn’t had issues with fans showing up at my flat so far, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
We were on the same page when it came to his intruder, so no, that wasn’t the issue.
My thoughts swirled as I tried to relax with a hot shower.
Was it his reaction to Mason? If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Vincent was jealous, but I’d casually mentioned how Mason and I were texting, and he’d continued eating his dinner like I hadn’t spoken.
What else could it be? The silly secrets we’d shared? The mere exposure effect from seeing him all day, every day? The glimpses of the man beneath the player, and the annoying realization that I couldn’t dismiss him as another overhyped jock with an overinflated ego and the depth of a kiddie pool?
A part of me already knew there was more to him than what he showed the world. We’d had too many conversations for me to truly believe he was all brawn and no brains. But seeing him let his guard down at the arcade, if only for a little bit, drove that home deeper than I would’ve liked.
It doesn’t matter. A bet was a bet, no matter how much I’d softened toward him. I couldn’t forget that with the emotional stakes of it all—the potential humiliation of losing to Vincent DuBois, coupled with the knowledge that he would be right and that I couldn’t resist him after all.
Soft moments had to remain just that. Moments.
I turned off the shower with a squeak of metal and dried off. I wrapped a towel around myself, stepped into the hall, and—fuck.
Vincent rounded the corner at the exact same moment that I exited the bathroom. We froze in unison.
This wasn’t the first time we’d run into each other fresh out of the shower. However, this was the first time he’d seen me practically naked. I’d forgotten to do laundry earlier, so the only towel I had on hand was a minuscule one that barely covered my private parts.
Vincent’s gaze slid down the length of my body before it came back up to my face. His jaw ticked, but he didn’t say a word.
Heat suffused my cheeks. I was tempted to dash into my room and lock the door, but if I turned, he’d probably see my butt hanging out from under the towel.
I wanted to win the bet, but not at the expense of my dignity.
“You’re dressed up,” I said in an attempt at small talk. Cool. Casual. Totally not freaking out over the fact that my nipples are one shrug away from popping free. “On your way back from a date?”
Instead of his usual trainers and T-shirt, Vincent wore a perfectly tailored blazer and dark jeans. The jacket emphasized the broad width of his shoulders, and I detected the subtle, spicy scent of his cologne.
He looked good. Really good.
His inscrutable expression fell away, replaced with a hint of his dimple. I winced, mentally kicking myself for making it sound like I cared whether he was out on a date or not.
“Just got back from a meeting with my agent, actually,” he said. “Zenith wants to have dinner next week, so we were coming up with a game plan.”
Surprise replaced my self-consciousness. “So the rumor’s true? They’re looking for a new ambassador?”
“Seems like it. My agent says they’re putting out feelers now. The CEO and the rest of the exec team will be at the dinner, and Lloyd thinks that means I’m already on their shortlist. He did some digging around. He’s pretty confident it’s down to me, Alarik Filipovi?, and Rene Martin.”
Alarik Filipovi? was a twelve-time Grand Slam champion while Rene Martin was the reigning king of F1.
They were tough competition, but Vincent was a legend in his own right.
Besides, he was a hundred times more charismatic than either of those men, though I’d never tell him that. His ego was inflated enough.
I opened my mouth to make some sort of quip about him always coming in third since Sports UK recently named him the third-best player in the Premier League, but the words died in my throat.
One, that was kind of mean, and two, he didn’t look cocky. He looked anxious. A frown creased his brow, and tension disrupted the usually confident set of his shoulders.
“Are you nervous about the exec dinner?” I asked instead.
“A little.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I really fucking want this sponsorship, Brooklyn.”
My chest clenched. I was so used to arrogant, self-assured Vincent that this moment of raw honesty hit me harder than expected.
“Listen. I have no idea who they’ll choose in the end, but out of all the athletes in the world, you’re in the top three shortlist. That’s already incredible,” I said.
“Clearly, they see something in you, or they wouldn’t have invited you to dinner.
As long as you don’t dump a glass of wine over their heads or, I don’t know, choke to death at the table, you’ll be fine. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
Vincent’s face softened. His dimple made a brief reappearance. “You giving me a pep talk, buttercup?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” I arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you this nervous over a potential sponsor. What’s so special about Zenith? Besides the money.”
Thanks to his current brand deals, he was already raking in millions on top of his hefty Blackcastle salary. He wasn’t exactly hard up for cash.
“The validation, I guess,” Vincent said after a long pause.
“It’s not the best motivator, but I like how stable and long-term their deals are.
They don’t chase trends the way most other brands do.
If Zenith chooses someone to be their ambassador, it means they have faith in them and the longevity of their career.
And…I suppose it would just be nice to work with a team who believes I’m worth that much investment of their time and loyalty. ”
Investment, faith, loyalty. His words struck me hard.
Was that why I’d been dragging my feet on the Blackcastle offer? I’d wanted it for the validation, and I got it. But was Jones really invested in mentoring me and helping me grow, or was I destined to spend my time at the club working twice as hard for half the recognition?
I swallowed past the sudden knot in my throat.
“I get it,” I said. “But—I’ll say this once and only once—you’re Vincent fucking DuBois. You’re the captain of Blackcastle. You’ve won a World Cup. You don’t need validation from outside brands.”
It was a pep talk for myself as much as it was for Vincent, and my words came out fiercer than I’d intended.
There was a beat of surprise before the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Turns out you’re pretty good at pep talks.” Another pause. Then, “You should come with me.”
“To…”
“The dinner. I can bring a plus-one, and Lloyd doesn’t count. I was planning to fly solo, but I’d feel a lot better if you were by my side.”
I ignored the way my pulse sped up. “What am I, your emotional support nutritionist?”
“No,” he said with a straight face. “You’re my emotional support flatmate.”
Laughter bubbled in my throat. Damn him and his ability to make me smile even when I didn’t want to.
“So?” he prompted. “You in?”
I hesitated. Going as his plus-one sounded an awful lot like a date, even if it was to a business function.
“It’s not a date.” It was as if Vincent had read my mind. “I’m not even paying. Zenith’s picking up the bill.”
“Cheapskate.”
“Freeloader,” he corrected. “If you’re going to insult me, get the term right.”
My lips twitched. “What if my dad finds out? He’ll want to know why we went to a brand dinner together.”
“Brooklyn.” Vincent leveled me with a disbelieving stare. “Do you think your dad gives a shit about Zenith or marketing?”
He had a point.
My dad was laser focused on the game itself. He considered everything else a distraction, including the pre- and post-match press conferences, which he’d labeled as a “ridiculous waste of time.”
Fortunately, his tunnel vision meant it was easy to hide my flatmate situation from him. Unfortunately, it meant I didn’t have a good excuse for saying no.
“Fine. I’ll go,” I said. “But if the food is shit, or anyone at the table uses the word ‘synergy,’ you owe me a meal and twenty pounds.”
Vincent chuckled. “Deal.”
His response lingered in the air. My skin pebbled with goosebumps, and I realized with horror that I’d been in my towel this entire time.
My tiny, barely adequate towel, which I’d somehow forgotten about.
The same revelation appeared to hit Vincent at the same time. His smile vanished, and we hastily stepped back from each other.
“Well.” I pasted on a smile. Pretend you’re wearing real clothes. “Goodnight.”