The team lunch is exactly what I expect. Scholenberg rented out some swanky restaurant that makes me feel very out of place in my casual athletic attire. Ellie sits next to me, chattering away about how epic the scrimmage was. I nod along and watch Alexis out of the corner of my eye. She still looks a little dazed. Is my hooking up with Adler Beck really that much of a shock to her? I didn’t think there would be anyone who has met me or read a single article about Beck who would actually be surprised. Excluding the shock value of his fame, I guess.

Maybe I should have assured her it was a onetime thing.

Except it wasn’t.

Chapter Eight

“I thought you’d wear something else.” That’s how Beck greets me the following weekend when I reach him. He’s standing at the front entrance of the park whose bathroom we sullied, leaning against one pillar that marks the entrance.

“You look nice, too.” I roll my eyes. Thank God I only changed my outfit twice. Okay, five times. Only because his text last night was insanely vague. I don’t know if he knows Sunday is Scholenberg’s day off, but it seemed like an intentional choice to text me on a Saturday night. All he said was: Park tomorrow?

I replied: To play?

And he responded: No. But dress comfortable. I suppose I should just be grateful he finally sent me more than two words at a time. Prior to last night’s text, our only correspondence was his request for me to meet him outside the locker room at the stadium.

“I told you to wear comfortable clothes,” he reiterates unnecessarily as I pause a couple feet away.

“I know, and that’s all I wear. This is comfortable.” I gesture to the green cotton dress and Converse sneakers I’m wearing.

“Okay.” Beck looks dubious but starts walking toward the street. Away from the park.

I follow him over to a shiny black sports car parked along the curb. I snort as I survey the seamless lines. “Of course this is the car you drive.” It practically screams sexy millionaire.

“You don’t like it?” Beck asks, feigning disappointment. At least, I think it’s false.

“I would be more impressed if you drove a wood-paneled station wagon,” I inform him.

Beck raises both brows. “That what your family has?”

“Not exactly.” Along with my trust and respect, my mother absconded with the beat-up minivan I spent the first five years of my life being shuttled around in. My dad has driven around in his company’s loaner cars for the last sixteen years, trading in for the newest sedan model every now and again. It was the kids with intact families who were dropped off in old wagons.