She chokes a little on the water she’s drinking. “Jesus, Scott. You really don’t bother with any small talk, huh?”

I don’t answer the rhetorical question. “Have you?”

“Uh—yeah, I guess so.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Well, it’s not exactly black and white. That’s why there are a million songs and books and movies about it. No love story is exactly the same, the way no two people are exactly the same.”

I like things to be black and white. That’s why I love soccer. “Then how did you know you were in love?” I press.

“I don’t know, I just did. It became something I just knew. Like my favorite color or whether a ball is going to get past me when it’s flying at my face. He made me happy. Made me a better person. I felt like I could tell him anything. All that sentimental shit people wax poetic about.”

“Hmmmm,” I muse.

Cassidy slants me a side glance. “You asking for any particular reason?”

“Nope. Just wondering,” I lie. She lets it drop, another reason she was an excellent choice for the query.

I like things to be black and white. Adler Beck is a whole lot of gray. Overwhelming, confusing gray.

And I don’t know what to do about it.

If I should do anything about it.

Chapter Seventeen

“You’ve had a busy few weeks, Adler. You just recently returned from coaching a clinic at CFOC’s junior women’s camp, correct?”

“Yes.”

“That must have been quite the experience.”

“It was. I had a chance to work with some very talented athletes.”

“I’m sure you were a big hit there,” the sportscaster replies.

“Only one player tried to get me fired,” Beck responds. The guy interviewing him laughs, obviously reading it as a joke.

There’s a loud hoot from the direction of the couch, and I give up on pretending I’m not eavesdropping on the interview Emma’s watching on her laptop as she lounges on the couch. “Wonder who that could be?” she calls out.

I scoff as I hit the “delete” button for the thousandth time. Which is approximately how many times I’ve been grilled about Beck since we left CFOC.

“I still cannot believe you had sex with Adler Beck and didn’t tell,” Cressida comments from the stool next to me where she’s typing her own essay. “If it had been me, I would have told everyone I know.”

Yup, Emma kept that secret for about twenty-four hours.

I grit my teeth as I watch another sentence disappear. I’m flying home tomorrow for my dad’s wedding, and this essay is due the following day. I know myself better than to think I will get any work done on it once I depart in the morning.