Page 5 of Everything In Between

FOUR

jersey

I feel like I’ve seen him before, but I can’t locate his name in my brain.

It’s impossible not to notice the confidence of his presence.

He’s a beast of a man, but he holds his tall frame so elegantly, like it’s nothing that he’s towering over the other men on stage with him.

I blink a few times, appreciating the way his broad shoulders fill out the shape of his jacket, which holds no sign of a wrinkle.

His hands are delicately placed in the pockets of his dark navy slacks, which are hugging the contours of his muscular thighs.

His physique stands out against most of the other men around him.

He’s handsome, that’s for damn sure. Intimidating, athletic, stunning.

His eyes are raking me from top to bottom, leaving a trail of tingly awareness over every inch of me.

The heat in his eyes makes me feel desired, sexy.

My whole body lights up, and suddenly, I worry I might self combust up here.

My palms turn clammy, and my chest rises as I take a deep breath, trying to cool myself off as this man tilts my world on its axis.

I cannot faint up here on stage under the weight of his attention.

He’s just a man.

An attractive man, absolutely. But just a man.

Glancing away, I focus on the crowd, plastering on a smile and hoping I don’t appear as frazzled as I feel.

The moment—though lasting only milliseconds—seems to stop time and I’ll admit I forget myself for a moment.

I’m thankful the moment has broken because I can’t fathom the world catching onto whatever passed between us and dissecting every little detail.

Suddenly, I’m ushered off stage and back to my table. As soon as I’m seated, I reach for my water glass and take a big gulp. Bethany disappears, and a few minutes later, stands in front of me handing over a drink in a martini glass.

“What is this?” I ask her, peering at the raspberry-colored liquid.

“Cosmo,” she replies simply before disappearing again.

I take a sip. The sweet flavored alcoholic drink hits the spot and eases some of my frazzled nerves.

Finally, after what feels like forever, it’s time to announce the winner for Song of the Year. The prestigious category I’m nominated for.

While I’m hopeful all my hard work will pay off in another award to stick up on a shelf, I can’t help but think that the other nominees deserve the same recognition. Every one of us in this category have worked our asses off.

The person presenting the award stands back as the screen behind them lists off the nominees. I squeeze my friends’ hands when my name soars across the screen, and a second later, they play a clip from my song up for nomination—Good Times Roll.

To be perfectly honest, if it had been up to me, this song wouldn’t have been the lead single on my latest album, but Callum and the rest of the production crew were dead set that this was the one, confident it would get me the win for the third year in a row.

I had no choice but to go along with it.

The song had been an item of dispute between me and the label since I first recorded it, and while I like the lyrics, I think the production of it is all wrong.

Good Times Roll is a song that, if given the proper attention, could have been a ballad for the books.

But as per usual, Callum and his eccentric tastes took it a little too far.

His goal with the sound made it too poppy and synthesized for my liking.

And to be fair, it worked in his favor. The song was an immediate hit, topping the charts within that first week of release.

Every time I hear it or have to perform it, I can’t help but think that if I had been in control, I would have taken a more somber route, while still giving respect to the genre that I belong to.

But again, it wasn’t my choice.

Nothing ever is.

The presenter steps back up to the microphone and holds onto the envelope containing the name of the winner.

“And the winner, for the Song of the Year goes to . . .”

My breath catches in my throat, and I squeeze the hands of my friends. My heartbeat thrums in my ears and my chest tightens with anticipation. The room falls silent, and I count my breaths, waiting to hear the verdict.

“Meghan Connelly, Summer Lovers!”

The venue erupts in cheers and the video on the big screen pans to Meghan, who is a few tables down. She stands, looking absolutely shocked.

I release my friends’ hands and clap, standing up and plastering on that big smile, showing support for her. Meanwhile, my stomach threatens to jump up into my throat as it constricts with a weird mix of disappointment and satisfaction.

I didn’t win? I didn’t win!

I swallow, forcing my apprehension down and making sure my face has the mask of excitement, knowing cameras will be on me to catch any hint of ill wishes.

Inside, I’m starting to work through the consequences that will trickle my way from this loss, and how my management at Silver Shadows will respond to me not clinching the win this year.

While I’m surprised and a little disappointed, I’m truly happy for Meghan.

She’s newer to the game, this only being her second album, and although she’s been caught on camera saying that I’m old and washed out, and I need to step down to let newer artists achieve the same attention, I don’t hold any ill wishes toward her.

She deserves it, just as much as the rest of the nominees would if their names had been called.

From what I know about her, she spends hours writing and perfecting her own songs, piecing them together in a perfect blend to create a masterful album. She has more creative liberties than I do, so of course she should win the award over me.

She’s what I would consider a real artist, while I am simply a chess piece on the board that is Silver Shadows Records.

When the excitement from the award dies down, I sit back in my seat and get comfortable, ignoring the way my ears ring at a pitch that makes my head spin.

Already I can hear Callum grumbling about what we need to do better to secure the win for next year.

He’ll pace back and forth, wearing a hole in the carpet of his office. He’ll say bigger, better, stronger.

And I’ll be at his mercy.

The conversation hasn’t even happened yet, but I’m already dreading the aftermath.

I have three years left on this extension. Three years of bigger, better, stronger.

I tell myself over and over again that I can do anything for three years, right?

That may be so, but it’s still a depressing thought.

After the ceremony ends, everyone seems to get up all at once. Not me. I stay right where I am, letting the hustle and bustle around me settle before I venture out.

The rest of my group waits for my lead, staying in their seats until I push up and turn to them. I give them what I hope is an encouraging smile, fighting off their looks of pity at the loss.

“Well guys, better luck next year. I guess.”

Bethany gives me a sympathetic smile and Kelsey presses her lips together. She knows Callum is going to have a conniption.

Together, we leave our seats and head back to the main floor where everyone seems to be gathering.

On my way down, Bethany steps close to me and points across the venue.

I follow her direction to see what—or who—she’s pointing out.

My eyes fall on the man who was up on stage with J-Money for the award.

He’s talking to the R&B singer who won Best New Artist this year.

She’s tiny, and he’s gigantic—she barely clears his chest, but he’s leaning down to hear her better, listening raptly to whatever she’s saying, giving her his full attention.

“There’s Hayes Vogt,” Bethany whispers. “The football player your brother was talking about the other day.”

Hayes. I knew I recognized him when he was up on stage with me.

Before I can mention that I have any interest in talking to him, or ask him for his autograph for my brother, I hear my name being called across the insanity of the crowd.

“Jersey!”

For a second, everything falls silent. My attention is still on Hayes Vogt, who glances up at the sound of my name.

His piercing gaze locks on me but softens when he takes me in, eyes flickering up and down by body.

His strong jaw ticks and then he takes half a step in my direction, apparently done with the conversation he’d been having.

Something flutters in my chest at the sight of him moving toward me, a determined expression forming on his face and a smile forming on mine.

Against my better judgment, I spin away, deciding I can get his autograph after finding out who has called me. I’m surprised to see Meghan Connelly standing a few feet away from me.

She embraces me in a hug before I can wrap my head around what’s happening. Cameras click and flash all around us, trying to catch the moment as it’s occurring.

I hug her back, trying to hide the confusion on my face when she pulls me back and holds me at arm’s length.

She gives me a warm smile which doesn’t quite meet her eyes and has me wondering if it’s all that genuine.

She sounds like she’s reading off a script when she says, “Oh, Jersey, it’s such an honor to have been nominated right next to you for the Song of the Year. ”

“Thank you,” I tell her, keeping my voice level. “Congratulations on your win. It was well deserved.”

She bats her hand, as if to brush off the compliment. “Truly, it should have been yours. Your song was everywhere last year. I didn’t even think mine stood a chance.”

Despite my suspicion she’s fishing for compliments, I give her a little smile. “Your song was great.” I hope she can hear how sincere I am. “You deserved that award.”

“Ugh, you’re the sweetest. I’m sure you’ll take it again next year.”

I give her a half smile. “We’ll see. You might be on a winning streak.”