Chapter 10
Andy
October
A harpist plucks a soft melody up on the balcony, warring for airtime while the DJ on the floor level spins a bass heavy mix for the sponsors getting wasted on Astor Hill Athletic’s dime.
A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I throw it back far too fast, still tense from the car.
I spot Grant in the distance, grinning at Ben, unshaken by the way he and Will almost brawled on the way here.
Logic didn’t play a role in offering Grant a ride, nor did it make an appearance when Gen called me an hour ago, exasperated and needing me to pick Will up. He struggled to form a complete thought when I picked him up off the curb. He should be tucked into bed, not ordering more to drink.
I imagine the bar failing to keep him upright, hallucinate him tumbling to the ground, feel the ghost of a tremor in my hand like it could almost happen.
He’s so near falling apart, and I know I shouldn’t have brought him.
When he saunters back over to me, I notice his hollow gaze, the distractedness that has him blinking more than he should, and I prepare myself for a one sided conversation.
“Is that smart?” I ask him, nodding at his cocktail.
He crooks his finger at me, dipping his head as he smirks. “If I was sober, I wouldn’t be here. And that’s not an option,” he slurs, his laugh bubbling over as he sips the drink.
I sigh, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “Does this have to do with Gen, or Liv?” Asking him in the car was less than ideal.
He purses his lips, seriously considering which is gutting him more: that Gen reamed him out before kicking him out of his own car, or that Liv broke up with him last night—didn’t come with him at all.
In the distance, her dress flashes a metallic brown at the same moment I clock the back of Ben’s head.
Jesus.
“Liv. Gen didn’t help, though. She was so mean,” he says thoughtfully, looking down at the marble tile. “Like, what the fuck did I do?”
“Well—” I start to say, desperate to remind him that Gen’s loved him for years and he did fuck all about it until she moved on with Grant, but his face just falls.
Like the sinew can’t keep it together anymore, and I save it for some other time.
“Don’t think about them tonight. Worry about all of it tomorrow. ”
The rest of his drink goes down in one swift motion before he pats my shoulder and pushes past me and toward the coat check.
The tug that tells me to follow him, to protect him from his own recklessness, is hard to push against, but I do.
I pull in a deep breath, clearing my throat, and try to take my own advice for once.
I will worry about him tomorrow because tonight, I have a job to do.
Basketball, this once sacred thing that was just for me, is something I’m now desperate for.
I want play time; I want to be good; I want my team to need me for something real.
This is a part I play willingly, and I won’t fuck it up.
Wealth litters the parquet, packs the bar, and clings to each other’s elbows.
I scan the room, trying to decide who won’t mind having their pockets wrung dry tonight.
They’ve all given to the department; tonight is about giving more.
Cutting bigger checks, pouring more of their cash into our athletics’ department because you can never have enough, right?
That’s the thought, anyway. Some of it goes to scholarships, the kind I would’ve been on if Glenn hadn’t pulled his strings and paid my way.
It isn’t lost on me that I could’ve said no to all this and that my life would’ve been okay.
That proximity to this is a luxury, not a hard won necessity.
I chose this and, once upon a time, I wanted it all. So I take a step.
“Andy Spellman,” someone says, her vocal fry dipping into something seductive. “You’ve proven to be quite the underdog.”
I sigh and turn to face her, unsurprised by the interest pooling in her gaze. Pleased by the money dripping off of her.
For my first catch of the night, I guess she’ll do.
“The season makes it tough,” I explain, smiling tightly as the dean for the School of Fine Arts rolls his eyes, mouth twitching at the chief financial officer for some company based out of the Finger Lakes, of all places. “I’d love to spend more time on the stage but—”
“But we’re not as prestigious as these guys, right?” Dean Withers winks at his wife, who grins over the lip of her champagne glass.
“Make me a better offer, Withers,” I joke, letting my mouth slide into the kind of cocksure smirk that wins me some throaty laughs.
“Promise me a lead.” I lean in, feigning a whisper.
“We won’t tell anyone.” More laughs, belly ones, so I throw up a hand and excuse myself, desperate for a minute alone.
The deserted foyer is good enough, so I lean against the cool wall and check my watch. Only an hour to go before Coach won’t rip our heads off for heading home. I knock my head back and shut my eyes, letting the stillness of the hall float me anywhere but here.
In the quiet, in the dark, I let myself feel the disappointment.
This is growing up, I think. Hard choices, realistic ones, laughing at the things you want because you can’t actually have them.
It’s all funnier when you’re the one making the joke.
Hurts less when you buff out the edges of the otherwise sharp loss with your own amusement at what you once thought your life could be.
And it’s not that I wanted to be an actor, but maybe just the time to do it at all. God, I never think of this and this is why—it fucking hurts to remember I’m not who I wanted to be.
The sharp clack of someone’s heels jolts me out of my dark thoughts, and I straighten when Sloane Fielder’s long legs rush past the massive olive tree jutting out of the floor before coming to a halt. Head cocked to the side she purses her lips, the ghost of a smile there.
“Ma’am, are you—” the door man, a nervous eyed student volunteer, stutters as he scrolls through what must be an invite list on a tablet.
“She’s with me,” I tell him, pushing off the wall.
Sloane’s scoff skits across the polished floor. “I’m not,” she clarifies.
I give the man a grim, apologetic smile as he wearily glances between us. Sloane’s eyes dare him to kick her out and, of course, he doesn’t. He walks backward and crouches behind his station, all but disappearing.
“You are everywhere you shouldn’t be, aren’t you?” I lean against a Roman column and she mirrors me, doing the same with a poorly concealed scowl.
“It’s a charity gala—you’re tellin’ me it’s actually ‘invite only’?” Her arms cross over the baby pink fabric wrapped across her torso, and my gaze can’t help but dip to the dark pants slung low across her hips.
“Kind of,” I smirk, trailing my attention up her body until I’m met with dusky cheeks and twinkly eyes that catch the light from a distant disco ball.
“So. Why are you here?” I eye her suspiciously, noting that the sliver of skin between her shirt and pants, and the floor length coat, don’t meet the dress code.
“My brother invited me.” Her shoulder hitches, her brow arching sky high, and she says brother like he’s the king of fucking Egypt.
I shouldn’t find it funny, shouldn’t be smiling within three feet of her, but I can’t help it.
“Oh, fuck off, Spellman. I’ve been to a million of these.
I’m a Fielder. Why would I ever need to crash a charity gala? ”
“Because you’re a hellion.” Shock has her eyes pulling wide, her mouth spreading into a toothy grin, a dimple deepening in her cheek, and it’s electric, watching her anticipate my words.
“Because you have a heart of gold,” I say, emphatically, my brows pulling together in earnest as she tips her head back and laughs.
“Or maybe you are stalking me,” I add, shrugging.
Mouth popped open, Sloane looks at me. I look back, my sarcastic smirk melting into something I can’t really control as my heart thrums. Her lips come together and curve just enough, and if I could look away I would but she’s drawn me in and tied me there, right to her.
“I’m secretly rescuing a drunken Genevieve from a janitor’s closet,” she finally says, her voice only softly carrying to right where I’m across from her.
“Oh.” My throat bobs; my hands find my pockets. “So, heart of gold then.”
She chuckles softly to herself, wetting her lips as she considers me. My skin warms, and I hope to god I’m not blushing.
“Who are you hidin’ from?” she asks, not a hint of sarcasm in her southern lilt.
“Who says I’m hiding?” She flicks her brows, calling me on my bullshit. “Everyone,” I admit with a small shake of my head, trying to cut the sincerity in half.
“Thought this was your scene, frat boy.” A guarded smile pulls at the corner of glossed lips as she toes the marble with her shoe.
“Yeah…I did, too,” I say, absentmindedly, wishing I could swallow the words as soon as they’re out.
Like she can sense the embarrassment, she sighs, raking her finger through her hair. “You know, there’s a song about that. About changin’.”
I huff a laugh. “Lots of songs, actually.”
She inhales sharply, anticipation lighting her gaze. “I’ll burn you some.”
“In the age of handheld devices?” I joke, heat pricking the back of my neck because anything from her is a bad idea. “I’ll be fine, Sloane.”
She rakes me over with her gaze, gnawing on her bottom lip. “You sure?” It’s another genuine question, free of social conventions or politeness or what you should say. She looks at me, and I know she means it: am I sure I’ll be fine?
“Course,” I smirk, pushing back the unruly waves that’ve freed themselves from their pomade hold.
“Hmph,” she hums, those dimples deepening again before she finally lets her gaze fall away from me. She crosses the hall without a goodbye, just puts a finger to those lips in a silent shush before whispering: “You never saw me.”