“The press showed up at the clinic yesterday, following Duke. He was there because he’s reinjured his ankle, the one that was shot last year. He’s supposed to be reporting to camp in a few days and he’s hoping to be recovered by then. He doesn’t want them to have a reason to bench him. So he’s asked me to pretend he was at the clinic to see me.”

“That is just crazy.”

“Do you see now why I didn’t want to go in the first place? I don’t have time for a real boyfriend, much less a fake one with a whole trainload of baggage. And what happens if the press finds out I’m not really dating him? I’d be mortified.”

“Yet, Jose is right,” Gabriela said. “I saw the kiss he planted on you. I saw his face. He was enjoying himself. And you said you loved getting to know him at the park, back when you thought he was just a normal guy. He’s still that guy.”

“He’s not, though. He’s famous, he’s rich, and he’s a world-class athlete. I deal with people like him at the Peacock every day. Charming, until they don’t get their way. And they don’t see me as an equal. I’m a servant, as far as they are concerned. I will not put up with that shit.”

“Come on. I know I only talked to him for a second, but he doesn’t seem like that. I mean, he didn’t grow up spending his summer in the Hamptons—he’s from the Bronx. He knows the score.”

“He might be from the same streets, but he’s been treated like a prince since the day someone handed him a ball and realized he could throw. You grow up being told you’re special, there’s no way you don’t have some serious narcissistic qualities.”

“Okay, let’s say all of this is true. That Duke can be a pretentious asshole. Why do you care? Just go tonight and have fun. Use him like he’s using you.” She straightened a strap. “Look at you. You look like a million bucks, like you should be wearing a tiara. All those girls are going to be jealous, so ignore their shade. Throw your own. Duke picked you, even if you’re not really dating. Obviously he sees something in you.”

Angel made a kissy face. “Dah-link, will you bring me another glass of Dom?” She smiled at Gabriela. If she let herself, she could have fun, pretending to be rich for just one night.

“Cute. I’m going to give you something better. Maya Angelou.”

“The poet? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, girl. You seen this for years.” Gabriela tapped the framed poster on the wall beside her station.