Kissing.

The headline reads: Skyler Thorne – Training for the Tournament, or for a Romp in the Woods?

Fuck.

“Dad, it’s not that bad. I’m going to talk to the president and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Damn right you are! But first you’re going to explain to me why the HELL you are kissing Skyler Thorne?!”

I cringe, remembering that he still doesn’t know how friendly our relationship has become.

“Listen, it’s not a big deal, Dad,” I reassure him. “I know it looks bad, but we’re just having a little fun.” I try desperately to grasp words that will make him okay with the situation. “She was having a tough time trusting me, but the closer we got the more open she got. She agreed to let me help her with poker, but she was resistant. I think this is the best way to get her to open up, to really see what her weaknesses are.”

Douche.

You are a fucking douche shovel.

The words leave an acidic taste on my tongue as they leave my mouth, but I know I have to say them. To my dad, at least. But then again, is it really a lie? I still intend to go through with the plan, so what else can I really say about what Skyler means to me?

Yep. Douche.

Dad sighs on the other end which causes him to go into another coughing fit.

“You okay, Dad?”

He coughs a few more times before responding, “I’m fine. But you won’t be if you don’t pull your head out of your ass and focus on the tournament and your mission at that school.” He sighs and I imagine him pacing in his office, running his hand through his graying hair. “Listen, I’m sorry, I know this isn’t an easy task. But I just… I really need you to focus. I need you to do this for me, Oliver.” There’s that damn name drop again.

“I know, Dad,” I say, my voice trailing off. He may be an asshole, but I love him, and I know how much this means to him. And I know how much UCLA means to me. I need to focus more, but it’s not that easy.

Not with Skyler in the mix.

“It’s only the side of your face and it’s dark, so hopefully no one will be able to place you. But you can’t be careless and let this happen again. You may not be known in the poker world, but you’ve played enough that they’d find a story to run if someone recognizes that it’s you hanging out with Skyler Thorne.”

Shit, I hadn’t even thought about that. What if they did find out who I was? If she found out who I was?

“I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise. I’ll handle it.”

“Good,” he says pointedly. It’s quiet on the line for a few moments before he clears his throat and adds, “Hope school is going well. I have to run. Keep me posted on developments. When’s the next time you’re watching her play?”

“Soon,” I lie, though I hope I can somehow make it a reality. I need to rein this shit in. Fast.

“Okay. Let me know when you have things squared away.”

“Uh huh,” is all I say before ending the call.

I sigh, tossing my phone to the side and moving to the end of the bed where my keyboard stands. My fingers work before I have the chance to tell them what to play. They glide over the keys, the soft and sad music filling my room. I think of the way Skyler felt when my hands were all over her, when my fingers were inside her. I think of how I felt waking up without her, or for the two weeks when I didn’t know where we stood. I picture her face in the firelight last night, something missing in those sparkling blue eyes of hers. What is she hiding? Does she know what I’m hiding?

My thoughts shift to UCLA, to the dream I’ve had for so long and what it means to me – to attend my dream school, graduate from the program I’ve always imagined, live in California and write shows that people love, that people crave. These are my dreams, they’re what my entire life has been built on… but are they still everything I want?

I pound the keys harder, closing my eyes tight and letting the questions pour through me and into the song. I should write this down. I should play this for Skyler.

I should let Skyler go.

Every thought flies at me at once, colliding with each other and scattering around me.

Things are far from squared away.

My head is still throbbing as I shuffle slowly downstairs, my fingers kneading my temples methodically. I wish I could say I had a hangover, that my headache was alcohol-induced, but unfortunately the three beers I had last night have nothing to do with this pain. I was up late – too late – thinking about Kip.

Shocker, I know.

Last night was supposed to be easy, but it wasn’t. I held him at a distance, but I know it’s not going to last for long. He sees it. I don’t know how or why, but he sees my poker face and he’s going to call me on my bluff. That has never happened to me before, not with anyone.

And it sure as hell can’t happen now.

To make things even peachier, the damn paparazzi are hunting for photos of me again. Most of the year, I can fly under the radar. I’m one of the few players still in school and they respect school property and my age. For the most part, anyway. With the tournament getting closer, I should have known this shit would start.

When I saw the article pop up on the tournament website this morning, it made me sick. I hate the perception of female players. It’s always about how hot we are or who we’re screwing, never about how well we play the game. It’s stupid and offensive, but clearly it’s not changing. Now, not only am I submitting Kip to this twisted game of Erin’s, but I’m feeding him to the wolves that are greasy photographers on a mission.

I can’t do this.

When I round the corner into the kitchen, my fingers still working my temple, I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of my Big. She’s standing at the counter, hands clasped around a mug of steaming liquid, hair falling all around her face. Slowly, she lifts her eyes to mine. They’re swollen and puffy and my stomach sinks because I know I’m the reason they look that way. And I’m probably about to make it worse.

Because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t play this game. I want to be with Kip and not as a game for her. For me.

“Hot chocolate?” She lifts the mug slightly, shrugging her shoulders.

I prop my ass up on the counter. “I think I need something stronger.”

Erin smiles, but it’s a faint smile. Silently, she turns to the cupboard and grabs another mug, starting a cup of coffee on the Keurig. “It’s funny, you know. Parents. Kids. The whole relationship that exists there.”

I listen as the coffee machine works, chewing on her words. “I’m not sure I’m following, Big.”

She sighs, running her hands through her hair. Maybe I’m not the reason her face is tear-stained, after all.

Not completely, anyway.

“I mean we grow up looking up to our parents. We envy them, build our dreams and our goals around who they are or who they aren’t. But do we ever really make them happy? Or proud? They say we do, but would they really tell us if we failed them?”

She hands me the mug once the coffee finishes pouring in. I hold it between my hands and let the steam waft up to my nose, warming it from the chilly morning air. “I don’t think we can fail them,” I finally say. “I think just by existing, we make them proud. They see themselves in us.”

Erin scoffs, shaking her head as she takes another sip from her cup. “All my parents see when they look at me is a blurred, imperfect reflection of what they wish I was. I feel it. They don’t say it, but their eyes do. They’re ashamed of me.”

Why on earth would anyone be ashamed of Erin? She’s gorgeous, intelligent, and president of the best sorority on campus. She has her shit together.