I drive past, my heart beating faster, and my grip tight around the wheel. “Just go home, Amber. It’s none of your business.” Oh good, now I’m talking to myself. I sigh and look ahead, lightly pressing on the gas to increase speed.
But then the memories attack me.
That kiss. The stubble on the lower half of his face as it grazed my chin and cheek. His hands cupping my ass. His tongue rolling with mine.
I give the wheel a hard turn at the light, making a U-turn.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I send Mama a text, letting her know I’ve stopped by a friend’s house for a quick visit. I hate lying to her. We have an unspoken honesty policy. We are always honest with each other, but there is no way in hell she can know that I’ve run into my coach at a hotel on a Saturday night. It would raise way too many questions.
I climb out of the car, park across the street from the hotel and pay for a parking ticket for four hours before crossing the street and reaching the door of the hotel.
Inside, it’s serene. The place shines with gold light from the chandeliers, the floors made of marble. The walls are painted ivory, and there is a concierge by the door.
I hear glasses clinking and people laughing in unison and look to my left. There’s a bar, and it’s crowded with men in business suits and women in dresses. It’s lined up with people in casual clothing and sitting amongst the casual is Torres himself. He’s the most casual, in his blue jeans, long-sleeved black sweater, and black Nikes.
I draw in a breath, standing at the entrance of the bar. “This is stupid,” I mutter. I look down at my clothes. A tan sweater, dark jeans, and UGG boots.
I’m sure the last person he wants to see is me. And what will he even think if he sees me here? He’ll probably assume I’m stalking him because of that one kiss.
I start to turn back, that is until I see a woman come close to him and say something as she rests her elbow on the counter, practically pointing her bosom in his face.
He looks at her and shakes his head, gives a dry response, and she seems utterly taken aback. She stares at him a second longer and then walks away, meeting a group of friends who clearly came from the club next door by the way they’re dressed. She seems annoyed, openly ranting to her friends about him.
I move ahead, getting rid of my nerves. The stool to his right is open and I pull it back and then sit on it.
“So, what asshole-ish thing did you say to piss off an entire group of club banging girls?” I don’t even know how my sentence comes out so practiced, as if flirting with older guys comes naturally to me.
Newsflash, it doesn’t. I’m never this witty, but seeing him turn down one girl makes me feel like I have to compete to hold his attention. It’s silly, really. I doubt I need to compete. Me being here will be surprise enough for him.
Torres turns his head and his brown eyes land right on mine. His irises sparkle from the glowing lights behind the bar that show off the liquor.
“Wow. I must be really fucking drunk,” he says with a chuckle, then he sips the drink he has in hand. He raises a hand after draining the glass and the bartender pops up. He requests a refill and the bartender tops him off with whiskey.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Because out of all the people who could have taken up the seat beside me, it’s you. It could’ve been Rihanna, J-Lo, or even Cristiano Ronaldo, but nope. It’s you. Amber fucking Lakes.”
I raise a brow. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sips his drink and shakes his head. The music from the speakers is classical, and I have to admit, this atmosphere doesn’t suit him.
“She wanted my number,” he says, looking over his shoulder at the group of girls. The one who came up to him is now flirting with a sleezy looking man in a suit who has a wedding band on his ring finger. “I told her I don’t have a phone and that even if I did, I probably wouldn’t give her my number.”
“Wow, what a dickish thing to say.” I laugh, placing my elbows on the counter. “Why are you even here, Torres?”
“Got a room here. Came to meet a friend, but he currently has two fingers shoved between a girl’s thighs at the club next door.”
My face burns instantly. I see when he’s drunk, he has no filter whatsoever.
“You drink, Lakes?” He glances at me.
“I’m nineteen, Coach Torres. Drinking isn’t as accessible for me as it is for you right now.”