When I come out of the bathroom, a familiar-looking girl is waiting outside the door.

“Buck!” She wraps her arms around my neck.

“Hey.” I pat her back, fully aware she’s wearing nothing but a tiny string bikini, and there’s absolutely no ass to the thing. I can feel her boobs against my stomach. There’s too much skin. My dick wants to react. I think about dead kittens and roadkill to stop a hard-on from forming.

Eventually she lets go and takes a step back. It’s not enough. She’s still too close. I keep my eyes on her face and try not to see her cleavage. I wrack my brain for a name, for something beyond the customary “Honey” I’m used to. I’ve got nothing.

“It’s been a while,” she says. “I haven’t seen you at the bars. You hanging somewhere new these days?” Her desperation isn’t attractive.

“I haven’t been going out as much.”

She pops a hip and pouts. Her lips are red like cherries, or blood, or Satan’s ball sac. “That’s too bad. I think some of us are going to the club tomorrow night. You should come.”

“I’m out of town. Maybe another time.” I step out of the way so she can get to the bathroom. “I should, uh . . . give you some privacy. The fan doesn’t work in there.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, but I don’t care. I need to get away from this mostly naked chick who I evidently have a brief history with. I leave her to do her thing and head back to the pool. It’s no better.

A few girls have gotten in the water. Two of them are latched onto Randy, their hair pulled up in ponytails. More of them are losing their shirts and shorts, so it’s skin, skin, and more skin. Some chick hands me a beer, and I take it, since it’s the polite thing to do.

Unwilling to get back in the pool with all the half-naked girls in there, I drop down in one of the lounge chairs on the patio.

“Oh my God! You’re Buck Butterson! But your real name is Miller, right?”

A curvy brunette is standing right in front of me, and her friend, a skinny blonde, looks horrified. I’m shocked she knows my real name.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—God, I can’t—you’re amazing. I love you. I mean, you’re an awesome player. Chicago won after you got traded! And that was bogus on Miami’s part. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. The media can suck it. Anyway, you were outstanding during the finals. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can stop myself.”

I smile. She’s a real fan—the kind who gets genuinely excited about the game, and not just about my dick.

“It’s cool.” I extend my hand.

She grabs it and squeezes, shaking harder than necessary. “Jessabelle.” Her cheeks go a vibrant shade of red. “But my friends call me Jellie.”

“Like peanut butter and jelly?”

“But with an -ie on the end. Is that weird? It probably is. Is it okay for me to call you Miller? I know you go by Buck, but if it’s okay—”

“It’s cool. You’re cool. Take a breath.”

“Wow. Great. Awesome. You’re so blond. You’re like a real-life Ken doll, but your hair’s not plastic. Who’s the girl who always posts stuff about you being a yeti?” She glances at my arms. “You don’t have that much hair.”

Fucking Vi and her comments on Facebook. “I only turn on the yeti moon.” When all I get is a blank look, I say, “My sister thinks it’s hilarious to post that BS.”

She nods like she understands. “She’s funny, right? Do you think I could get a picture with you?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I don’t consider her outfit—she’s in a pair of booty shorts and a bikini top that barely covers her nipples—or that I’m only wearing a pair of swim shorts.

She pulls her phone from her back pocket and hands it to her friend. Then she drops down in my lap and wraps herself around me. Before I can stop her, Jellie’s friend starts snapping pics.

“Whoa! Hold up!” I raise my hands in the air so I’m not touching her anywhere. Well, except for where she’s touching me with all her bare skin, which is a lot of places. “You can’t post those.”

Her friend stops clicking away and once again looks like she’s about sink into the cement. I move Jellie off of me, touching as little of her as possible. “I have a girlfriend. My lap isn’t your chair.”

“Oh! Oh shit. I thought that was a rumor. I mean, God. You’ve never had a girlfriend, and I thought maybe since there weren’t any pictures in the last few weeks you were done . . .” she trails off.

“We’re not done.”

“Not even after last night?”

What would she know about last night? “I was out with the guys.”

She gets this weird look on her face. She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I just . . . you’re an awesome player.” She snatches the phone from her friend and starts deleting pictures, or that’s what I assume she’s doing. I don’t want to be a creepy asshole and stand over her shoulder to make sure she deletes them all.

“It’s cool. I just don’t want problems. You know?”

“Sure. Right. Of course.”

I let her friend take another, far less problematic picture of us standing next to each other, somewhat awkwardly, while smiling. “Well, if you ever break up and you’re looking for someone to make you feel better, you can always hit me up on Facebook.”

She holds up the phone so I can see her profile. Her avatar is mostly her boobs. Below is a picture of her sitting in Lance’s lap. Up until this point I kinda liked her, in a player-to-fan way. Now she’s just another bunny making chairs out of us.

CHAPTER FOUR

FLASHITY FLASH WATCH YO ASS

Twenty minutes later, I’ve abandoned the beer, and I’m nursing a mineral water, flipping burgers on the BBQ. This seems to be the safest place to hang out, away from the bunnies in the pool who are buzzed enough to stop protecting their hair. Randy comes over with my phone. “I think you need to check this.”

“Is it working again? I got nothing an hour ago.”

He drops the device in my palm. “Yeah, man, I turned it on, and it’s good to go. You got a shitton of messages. You might want to look at your flight details—you know, to make sure you got the time right.”

That was probably the one thing I forgot to do—turn it on—but I keep this to myself because I don’t need to look like an idiot. Usually I can count on Amber, my Personal Assistant to send me a million messages—most of them audio—so I don’t forget important things like flights and dates and events. But since she’s away on some portaging trip in the middle of nowhere for the next two weeks, I can’t count on her managing my life, which means I have to do it myself.

“That’s a good idea.” I don’t like the look on his face as I pass him the flipper. I key in my code; he’s right about the messages. A lot of them are from Sunny. Some are from Violet. And there are voice mails. Several of them.

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Take your time. I’ve got this. ’Sides, I need a break from the bunnies. It’s like mating season.”

I pat him on the back, bypass the kitchen where some of the bunnies are hanging out, and head for the stairs. I hit the spare bedroom on the second floor and lock myself in.

I start with the voice mails. They don’t require reading so they’re easiest to deal with. The first message is from Vi. I hold the phone a foot away from my ear, and I can still hear her screaming. She’s loud when she’s angry.

“You’re a fucking asshole! What the shit is wrong with you? Do you have any idea how much shit you’re in? Alex is going to rip your balls off, not that it matters since they’re the size of raisins, and your dick can only be seen by a microscope. You better call me as soon as you get this. You’re fucked. Get ready for the ass-kicking of a century, you yeti bastard!”

I have no idea why I’m in so much trouble, but I figure it’s in my best interest to listen to a few more of the messages before I call her back. The time stamp on that one is from early this morning—either two or five. I’m too worried about what’s made her this mad to absorb the numbers.