Page 12 of Only Between Us

After announcing my retirement, I’d escaped home to find Naomi swapping spit with an ex-teammate, right in our driveway. Her bags were packed by the front door, and she’d apparently been anxiously waiting to dump me while I was out ending my career.

It all came together then. Where she’d been while I was in bed for months, scared and recovering from my concussion. Why she’d fought so hard against my decision to retire.

When she and I had gotten together here at UOB, I was already being hailed as the NFL’s top prospect in my future draft class. She dropped out of college to move with me across the country when I got drafted by the Rebels. Encouraged me to take every single sponsorship deal that came my way; to buy the biggest house I could afford, a garage full of nice cars I didn’t need. To attend every glitzy gala I was invited to, always with her on my arm.

Naomi had managed to build her own adoring social media fanbase surrounding her lifestyle as an NFL girlfriend by the time I scored my first touchdown in the league. I had a bona fide second career as her personal photographer, and a third making cameos in the photos and videos she’d post online.

There was always somewhere to go, some fancy party to attend. She lived off the team’s celebrity connections. Loved the attention from fans.

At the peak of my career—and right around the time I got injured—she’d been getting papped on the way to the goddamn grocery store. I thought nothing of it all until she dumped me, and it became clear just how replaceable I was. Turns out, it didn’t matter whose arm she was on as long as it was attached to a pro athlete.

There’s dead air in my ear. I’ve been so caught up in a panicked spiral that it takes me a few seconds to realize Josh has already hung up the call.

I shoot a glance at Siena, who’s still typing away at her phone. She looks entertained as hell by the entire thing, and I can’t figure it out. Whether she caught on to who I was from the jump, down on the field. Whether she was playing me, posted that particular picture on purpose, knowing the attention it would get her.

These girls are all about chasing clout.

My phone chimes, announcing a text from Josh, who seems to have sensed my downward spiral from wherever the hell he is.

JOSH:Rebels ownership wants to arrange a phone call tomorrow. They’re loving this. Don’t fuck it up.

Shit. He’s right, isn’t he? If the Rebels changed their tune this fast…

This is my way in with the team. Dating Cece Pippen. Beloved, clout-chasing ex-girlfriend of the face of the NFL.

I clear my throat, tossing my phone to the side. “Cece—”

“Siena,” she corrects with a grimace at her phone. She’s texting someone named Shyla—her friend with the cute kid? “My ex called me Cece. Sadly, it stuck.”

“Right. Well, those articles. The reason people seem to care we’re getting cozy? Why would that be?”

She shrugs. “You’re all over the news.”

“And you? Why are your pictures going viral?”

She rests her head on the wall at our backs, the stick from her lollipop protruding from her mouth. “Well, part of that probably has to do with who my ex is.”

“And the other part?”

Siena shakes her head, a wry smile playing at her mouth. “There was a video that went viral, just a few months before our breakup. I was sitting behind the benches during one of his games. A fan for the other team somehow managed to set a bevy of doves loose on the field while they were lining up at the seven-yard line, about to score a game-winning touchdown. I guess it was supposed to be funny because their team was playing the Ravens. And then—”

“That was you? The girl in the clip?” I turn to get a proper look at her. “That video was on every sports reel for weeks.”

“Slow news weeks.”

They weren’t slow news weeks. It was simply that the video taken from the stands was just that good. I remember it vividly. Doves hobbling around the field, stadium staff scrambling to catch them, both benches clearing to help.

And then, out of nowhere, the birds simultaneously take flight. They make a beeline toward the stands and land one by one around a woman sitting in the crowd, casually munching on popcorn. She visibly freezes, you think she’s about to run off screaming, and instead she… just starts sharing her popcorn with the birds. Like some Disney princess kind of shit, before they all fly off into the sky.

“ESPN named you—”

“Cece Pippen and the Seven Yards.” Siena gives a rueful shake of her head. “Insane. My social account blew up overnight. I couldn’t shake the attention as long as Tom and I were together—people would do this bird chirping sound at me whenever they saw me. They still do, sometimes.” She demonstrates, attempting a whistle that comes out as more of a wet exhale than anything else. She shrugs, laughing to herself. “I could never whistle worth shit.”

Tom. Her very famous, very talented athlete of an ex.

I try to fight the bad taste in my mouth, but I know it’s a losing battle. I feel it in my stiffening muscles, in the inches I add to the space between us.

These girls are all about chasing clout.