Page 22 of Penalty Shot

Was there a trace of shock and hurt in Randall’s expression? I must be imagining it.

Randall is a commitment-averse playboy. A professional athlete with the face of a prince. He could trade me in for any number of women in that bar. And there were a lot who’d volunteer, practically flashing their chests to match the seductive smiles. Women and men.

But as Randall and I re-enter the bar holding hands, it feels right to conclude the evening the way we planned. Like me, he doesn’t carry the baggage of expectation. He gets it. Randall would never make me feel like shit the second I turn my attention to something that’s crucial for the future of my career.

Unlike Miles.I shake the thought, because that isn’t fair to Randall.

He’s not the one who eroded my confidence and mocked my dreams. That was Miles, my boyfriend from two years ago. When I couldn’t keep up with what he thought a “good girlfriend” should be, he blamed my career choices.

This is a hobby. There’s no reason to spend day and night at the theater.

Directing community theater isn’t a real job, Elise. Real jobs compensate you with something other than applause.

When are you going to grow up? If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now.

I was lonely, Elise. Can you blame me for finding comfort elsewhere?

You led me on, Elise. You never intended to work on ourrelationship.

Those were some of the last things he ever said to me. Miles accused me of never prioritizing him, never consideringhisdreams, never truly committing to our relationship.

And you know what? He was right. He deserved better, but so do I.

Following my dreams is a choice that comes with consequences. I don’t want to relive the disaster of my dating life, but remembering Miles’s unfaithfulness and contempt fortifies my determination. I’ve been honest with my lovers since.

With Randall, I never pretended this would be anything but casual. I don’t lead people on. We have a few more hours of fun and no one gets hurt.

Lily, who isn’t hiding her curiosity about “the talk,” pulls me to the bathroom as soon as we approach the group. At one end of the long row of sinks are three young women, sharing lipstick and opinions on how to determine if the guy you want to go home with isn’t a serial killer.

“Take a picture of his driver’s license,” one of them slurs loudly. “And text it to us.”

“What if he refuses? I would never givemyprivate information to anyone. If he gets hacked, he’d blame me!”

It strikes me as fascinating, this correlation between female friendships, public bathrooms, and risk assessments. Maybe I can work out a scene in the play that—

“You walked in all lovey-dovey. Does that mean you’re going to keep seeing each other?” Lily interrupts my mental scene revision.

I make a sound between a snort and squeak—a sneark?—before declaring, “We are not lovey-dovey. I told him I’ll be too busy to keep seeing him. We’ll spend tonight together before going our separate ways.”

She raises a perfectly arched brow. “If you say so.”

I shrug. She doesn’t have to believe me for things to unfold as I intend. I’ve made myself clear. I don’t lead people on about what I’m capable of committing to a relationship. The answer is clear: nothing.

“Hand me your keys,” Lily states. “I’ll take your car and return it tomorrow.”

“We’ll stay till you’re ready to go. I’ll bring you home and meet up with Randall later.”

“That man is not going to wait a minute longer before he presses you against a wall.”

The memory of my body pressed against his insistent arousal must be telegraphed on my face.

“Oh, my god, you are so lucky!” she exclaims loudly, snagging the attention of the three women. “Hand me your keys, Elise.”

“Are you sure?”

She rolls her eyes, because it’s easier than repeating herself. I drop my keys in her upturned hand.

“You’re here with Randall Haughland!” One of the women from down the counter scrambles over, pulling her skirt down because it keeps riding up with each step. “He’s so hot! Is he nice?”