Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
NASH
I’m quaking in my silver strappy heels as our driver gets closer to the theater where the honors are being hosted—from the chill or the nerves, I can’t tell.
I keep my hands folded in my lap to hide their shake, and to keep from reaching out to touch the lapels of Wyatt’s all-black suit.
His hair is perfectly mussed, and the cologne he’s wearing fills the car with the heady scent of man.
I look out the window of the backseat as we pass through downtown Dallas so I don’t have to make direct eye contact with Wyatt.
Reunion Tower passes by, and I wonder why I can’t shake these tittering feelings.
I haven’t had any problems with my stupid heart since our kiss, and now I can’t seem to calm the butterflies in my stomach.
Was it just easier when we were continents apart?
Did the distance allow me to focus on our friendship and not the physical spark between us?
Maybe it feels stronger now because of my lengthy absence.
“So,” Wyatt starts, and I jump, “we should probably hold hands.”
How does he know?
My eyes go wide. “Now?”
“When we walk the red carpet.” He side eyes me like I’m a criminal giving a cop the thousand-yard stare.
“Oh. Right.”
“At least some kind of formal hand position, like I’m escorting you.”
My breathing is shallow and feels like there’s nothing in my lungs.
Like they’re starving for oxygen. “That would make sense. I mean, I wouldn’t want to trip or anything.
” My eyes are everywhere—on his face, out the window, at the driver, at my manicure.
I can’t settle them or my mind. My brain is showing flashes of me falling on my face, my heels too much for my giraffe-like frame.
Wyatt takes my hand and holds it in his on the seat between us. “Hey,” he soothes. “It’s going to be okay. You look beautiful. You’re a professional athlete, too, and you belong here. I will not let you fall in front of everyone.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Do you trust me?”
“I do.” More than anyone.
We arrive at the drop-off for the theater way too soon for my liking.
I need another four-hour car ride to calm my nerves.
But in seconds my door is being whipped open and an event employee holds out his hand to help me from the car.
I take it and immediately look around for Wyatt.
I don’t trust myself to stand on my own for one second.
He’s there so quickly, the gentleman basically puts my hand right in to Wyatt’s.
He looks at me, and in his eyes I see readiness.
I try to reflect that in mine when I give him a slight nod.
He looks forward and plasters on his best interview smile as we move into the masses.
Behind the scenes is like a beehive absolutely buzzing with people going hither and tither.
People dressed in all black speak into headsets.
Other athletes and their partners stand all around us waiting for their turn.
When it’s our time to walk the red carpet, a woman comes up to us. “What are your names? For the cameras.”
“Wyatt Vandergriff and Nash Green.” She nods at Wyatt, and we move forward.
The lady calls our name to the photographers as we position ourselves in front of the custom backdrop. Instantly the flashes start. The photographers are calling, “Wyatt!” Trying to get him to look their way.
I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. The flashes from the cameras put spots in my vision. I have no idea how long we stand there. Eons, probably. The only thing keeping me standing, as I knew it would, is Wyatt’s arm tightly clutched in my hands.
He shifts me forward to put an arm around my back. I let my other hand dangle limply for a second before putting it on his chest. “Is this okay?”
“More than okay.” His voice is husky, and the lights are still blinding, but I can’t hear the call of the photographers anymore. I can only see the ocean in the blue eyes staring back at me.
Wyatt’s eyes catch the next guests moving in behind us, signaling our time to leave. He moves me back to his side, holding his arm out for me to take once again, and we move farther down the carpet where interviewers are vying for attention.
Wyatt answers all the questions lobbed at him with grace.
“Out of these three great players, who would you cut, start, and bench?” one asks.
“Do you think athletes or rappers have better jewelry?” follows the other.
We move through them, trying not to step on any landmines. Most of the reporters ignore me, like I’m just arm candy. Which is fine by me, even though I knew exactly who I would have started, cut, and benched.
Finally, finally, we reach the end of the road—er, the carpet—and are ushered inside to find our seats.
One hurdle cleared, countless more to come.