“Does it matter? One thing. What’s one thing you hate about me? This should be an easy question, so just answer me.”
“You’re mean,” I blurted.
Cal didn’t flinch or cringe or jerk. He didn’t even blink. But I knew I’d hurt him. The sting showed in his hazel eyes.
I opened my mouth to apologize because I was raised to say sorry when you were unkind.
But before I could speak, Cal crossed his arms over his chest. “Give me an example.”
“Watch SportsCenter. I’m done with this little game. Go away.”
“Indulge me.”
“I’ve been indulging you.” I tossed a hand toward the door. “I need to get to work.”
“I’m not leaving until you give me an example of a time when I was mean. And it can’t be from high school.”
“Fine.” I mirrored his stance, my legs planted wide and arms crossed. “After the Super Bowl, your last game, there was a kid who came up to you while you were being interviewed. He was there for the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”
Cal swallowed hard, knowing exactly where I was going with this.
“He was in a wheelchair. He had your jersey on and the same hat you’re wearing right now.”
The kid’s cap had covered a head without any hair. Cal had been holding the game ball when the kid had approached. It had been clear to everyone—the reporter, the fans in the stadium and the viewers watching from their homes—that the boy had really wanted that ball. But Cal had kept it securely tucked under his arm.
“You should have given him the ball,” I said.
He dropped his gaze, not saying a word.
“You asked for an example. Now you have one. Want another? I’ve got a hundred postgame interview examples.” He was usually a complete dickhead after a loss.
“No.” He shook his head, shifting his weight between his feet. When he looked up, I expected him to look guilty. But his eyebrows were pulled together, his forehead furrowed. “You watched my games?”
I blinked. Oh. Shit.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.” I flicked my wrist. “Some.” All.
I’d watched every one of Cal’s professional games over the years. I’d watched most in college too whenever they played on TV.
I knew his next question before it came across his lips.
“Why, Nell?”
Why? Because Cal was magic with a football in his hand. He had a raw talent that was utterly beautiful to behold. And when he was playing, I always saw that boy who’d given me my first kiss.
He was in there somewhere. That nice boy who confided in me with his secrets. Maybe it was foolish of me to believe that there was a kind, honest version of Cal buried beneath the layers of arrogance and insolence.
“Why?” he asked again.
There was no way I’d tell him the truth. I opened my mouth, knowing the lie would come easily this time, when the door pushed open behind him and a ding filled the lobby. My first interview.
“Hi.” The brunette smiled as she spotted me.
“Hi. Carrie?”
“That’s me.” She waved, then her gaze darted to Cal. She did a double take. “Oh my God. You’re Cal Stark.”
He straightened. The mask I’d seen countless times snapped firmly into place. The asshole was back.
Carrie bounced more than walked to his side, taking a hand he hadn’t offered. “I heard a rumor that you moved here but I didn’t believe it. I’m Carrie.”
He tugged his hand free.
“It’s so nice to meet you. I’m a huge fan.” She was totally unfazed that he hadn’t spoken a word. She tucked her hair behind an ear. She smoothed the sides of her skirt. She licked her lips.
My molars ground together as I watched her preen. This interview was pointless.
“Carrie,” I snapped.
Her smile faltered at the scowl on my face.
“You can have a seat in the conference room.” I nodded to my left.
“Oh, okay.” Her feet moved, but her face stayed stuck to Cal. She nearly collided with the goddamn wall.
I waited until she was seated before taking a step closer to Cal.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
The walls we’d built as shields were so thick that it was hard to see where mine ended and his began.
Without another word, he turned and shoved out the door.
I watched as he rolled through the parking lot, then I shook my head and joined Carrie in the conference room.
She prattled on and on during her interview while my mind wandered.
Tell me what you hate about me.
Why did he want to know? And why, of all people, would he come to me for an answer?
-
Diary,
* * *
Today was a bad day. Cal told the cheerleaders I was a virgin and they made fun of me in gym. It shouldn’t have bothered me. I shouldn’t have let them see me cry. I should have called them whores or something. I mean, why would I want to be trashy sluts like they are? They’re all screwing the guys on the football and basketball teams. At least I won’t end up pregnant by some braindead moron who won’t make anything of his life. These rich, horrible girls with their fake tans and fake lives. Do they think I don’t hear them puking their lunches up in the bathroom? I overheard one of them talking the other day about how her parents took out a million dollar insurance policy on her legs because she wants to be a model. Who does that? I feel like I’m going to school in this parallel universe or something. At least I’m not a spoiled bitch. I hate them. All of them. But I hate Cal Stark the most. Forever and ever.
* * *
N
CHAPTER NINE
CAL
There was a flaw on the diary’s page in the lower right corner. Sunshine streamed through my SUV’s windshield as I sat parked in front of The Refinery. It made the ecru pages of Nellie’s journal appear flawless. But if I ran my finger across the paper, the texture in that corner was raised, like it had once been wet. Like it was where Nellie’s tear had fallen.
I wished I could say that it had been a misunderstanding. That I’d made a comment and it had been taken the wrong way. Or that I’d been trying to help, like the water incident. But there was no excuse.
This had just been me being a teenage prick.
Though, to be accurate, I hadn’t called her a virgin. I’d called her a prude. In the eyes of a fourteen-year-old girl, which was worse?
If not for the diary, that day would have been forgotten along with thousands of others. But this book had a way of sweeping me into the past with aggravating clarity. You’d think that a guy who’d spent his career being tackled and having his head slammed into the dirt—helmet or no—could at least be blessed with memory issues.
The day I’d called her a prude had been in the spring, close to the end of freshman year. I’d been on the football field, stretching with a few of the guys before the after-school weight training program.
The cheerleaders flocked, like they always did when there were two or more football players in a cluster. Even as a freshman, I got a lot of attention from the girls. I was good-looking. Ripped. Confident. The acne and awkwardness that plagued so many of the guys my age was never an issue. And as of the previous winter, thanks to Phoebe McAdams at a house party, I wasn’t a virgin.