This question hit close to home, mostly because I felt its truth in my soul. I wasn’t running from anything too traumatizing, I was just overcompensating for my low self-esteem. Drunk Amanda liked to have fun. She didn’t care what anyone thought. She ate her feelings and knew that if she couldn’t be the prettiest girl in the room, then she’d be the loudest, drunkest, sloppiest, and funniest.

He set down his burger and eyed me for another long moment, then wiped his greasy hands on his chest. “I’m not running from anything,” he argued and then nodded at the waitress, asking for our check.

“Are you sure? Coach Howard hinted that the university needed to keep your family happy,” I prodded.

He gritted his teeth. Oh yes, talking about his family was definitely a sore spot. I made a mental note to prioritize research on them. For purely professional reasons, of course. It wasn’t like I was trying to figure him out. “I don’t have fucking Mommy issues, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” he growled.

“I’m not saying you do, I’m just saying—”

He cut me off before I could get to my point. “Just because you showed me your sloppy drunk video doesn’t mean I’m going to open up to you about my family life.” I let out a sigh and he continued. “I appreciate your help tonight. That was a fucking close call, and even though I like to have fun, I definitely don’t want to end up in prison. I’ll start being more aware if you stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I’m just a college kid making the most of his senior year.”

At that last sentence, his face turned into a full-on smolder. I could feel his heated gaze all the way down to my purring vulvarine. Shit. Why couldn’t he keep talking with his mouth full of food?

He dropped some cash on the table and peered at my full plate for another moment. “I’ll start listening more. But you’re gonna have to learn to hang. Part of my brand is being a local celebrity. This town is full of fans that want to see me at parties and bars. It’s seriously cramping my style having you tell me where to go and what to do.”

It made sense. He was like novelty ice cream: Everyone wanted a taste. And being seen in public was part of his role on the team, and as his publicist, it was my job to also fill stadium seats. “Fine. I’ll do better about bridging the gap,” I replied. I’d have to start low-key carding every girl that came up to him.

He tossed me another smile. “And if you ever wanna give someone a blowie…”

I rolled my eyes. Somehow, I knew that was coming.

“Not in a million years, asswipe.”

8