ESPN was on. They’d moved past talking about the game and talking about Reese, and were on to the daily highlights. It was early in the season, but there were other sports going on too. Why couldn’t they talk about one of them?

Oh. Right.

Reese. Seattle.

Made sense.

I needed to add this to the con list regarding my relationship with Seattle. Dating one of the city’s celebrated pro athletes after he’d ditched you? Most definitely a con.

My phone buzzed, and I considered heralding it in the air and yelling, “Hallelujah!”

The business guys were past drunk by now. They probably wouldn’t have even heard, but I tried to slow down how quickly I checked my phone.

I wasn’t desperate or anything.

I opened the screen, and my lungs deflated. It was a text from Grant.

Grant: That game was awesome tonight. Caught it on TV. How’s the trip? How’s your man?

Right. It was just past nine there.

I didn’t have it in me to text him back, but I would in the morning. I might need tips on how to get my carry-on back from Reese. Buzz!

Another Grant one, I assumed, reaching to read it, but no!

Reese: HOLY FUCK! I left my phone at my house. Traffic fucking sucks. I’m coming to get you. Where are you?

My hand shook. My throat trembled. Really? Had he really?

Then…whatever. I still needed to get my carry-on, no matter what.

I took a picture of the napkin the server had just put on my table. It was still intact and the logo hadn’t been shredded. I sent that picture, no words with it.

I slammed my drink and agreed to another when the server almost immediately offered.

Feeling ditched, whether it was real or not, sucks balls.

Two drinks later, a flash of brake lights illuminated the hotel’s windows as a car paused, then went to park.

I knew who it was. It was another expensive-looking car, just like his manager A-hole’s.

Another knot to swallow.

Reese was so out of my league. I had one job offer on the table, and really, if I didn’t take it, I’d be homeless.

What’d Reese see in me? The charm of my random questions? Really?

Humor could only go so far. What was I doing?

Marie had ditched me. Then I’d had this three-hour whatever-it-was.

Even though this all seemed a miscommunication, I couldn’t ignore the hurt swimming in my gut. The pain sliced me, thinking Reese had decided he was done with me. And sorry, but those thoughts do exist when you’re sitting in a bar for three hours and that phone won’t buzz back.

It was a wake-up call.

If he could hurt me with just this small blip, what would he do if I really let him in?

One more time.

One more night.