I type out a quick “see you soon” in response, slightly confused at the off-character vibe I'm getting from her messages. I mean, coming over to talk? And lacking one of her signature smiley faces? Doesn't exactly sound like a good thing. 

She was stressing big time this weekend, so that may have something to do with it. If that's the case, I've got the perfect antidote to combat the issue: a massive gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a bottle of cheap red wine. It's borderline impossible to be stressed after a hearty helping of both of those.

I try to remember if Weston has had one of his favorite hook-ups, Sticky Fingers, stay the night in a while. If so, I can kiss that bottle of Malbec goodbye. Alcohol always seems to go missing after she’s been over. 

I’m leaving my bedroom when I notice an email notification on my screen. Usually I don't give a shit about emails. Hell, I've been guilty of deleting my entire inbox just to get that annoying ass notification number to fuck off, but the subject line of this one has me curious. I mean, The Soccer Situation?

I'll read pretty much anything that has to do with soccer.

I click on the notification. It's a couple of forwarded messages, but the first one looks way too long to delve into right now. I'm about to close my inbox when I spot my name in one of the paragraphs, my interest immediately piqued.

My eyes quickly skim over the text, and it takes less than a second to figure out what this is. I stop reading, irritation surging through me at the realization that it's yet another dumbass reporting scheme to get my “story”.

Jesus Christ. Aren't they over that by now? 

And why the hell is someone sending me the damn plan?

I walk through the hall and scroll up, curious to see which sports network has the unfortunate task of trying to get me to spill. I come to an abrupt halt when I see the familiar email address the initial message was sent to. And then my stomach just fucking drops.

This isn't for some sleazy news station.

This is for Rayne's article.

What. The. Fuck?

I shake my head and try not to jump to conclusions. Yeah, I filled her in on everything that went down in high school and my shitty family situation, but she wasn't recording it or planning on using it or anything. No frickin' way she would've agreed to something like this. 

That's not like her. Not like her at all.

For fuck's sake, she's made it abundantly clear that she's in this career for the sport and the athlete—not the other petty shit—multiple times.

But when I thumb the screen down to see her response, it's like I've just taken a soccer ball to the gut and a cleat straight to my damn heart. Because her answer is right there—one simple and definite sentence that's absolutely plain as day:

I'll do whatever it takes to get his story.

I run a hand anxiously through my hair, nausea swirling in my stomach. This can't be real. There's got to be some rational explanation: it's a prank, a mistake, an extremely ill-received joke. Yep, has to be one of those. Because I refuse to believe this entire thing I've had with Rayne has been a big fat lie.

But as I head down the stairs and re-read the emails—actually read them through as opposed to skimming—I’m having a difficult time seeing how I could interpret this any other way. 

It’s not like I haven’t experienced something of this nature before. There’ve been more than a few reporters who’ve attempted to sweet talk me into revealing things I don’t want to.

But this isn’t the same. Those were just random girls hand-selected by the networks to weasel their way to my past. This is Rayne—my girlfriend. I love her, and I know for a goddamn fact she loves me, so she wouldn’t have done this. Not after I told her how much I don't want this shit out there…there's just no fucking way.

I take a seat on one of our armchairs, unable to pull my eyes off the phone screen, my head spinning with thought. So much thought that I'm completely unaware of what's going on around me.

“What do you think, Blue?”

I snap my head up to the confused looks on my roommates' faces.

“What?” I ask, the voice coming from my mouth sounding nothing like my own.

Weston raises a concerned brow as he studies my face. “Dude, you look like you're gonna hurl.”

Liam squints in my direction. “You seriously do. What's up?”

Not wanting to get into it, I lift myself up and head towards the foyer, telling them I need some air.

“I’m starting the film, so puke and rally, bro. I know you don't wanna miss this!” Cameron calls out.

The front door slams behind me as I take the stairs down two at a time. It's cold as fuck, but I don't bother going back to get a jacket. 

I'm so in my own head as I briskly walk through the yard I don't even realize Rayne's here until she's right under my nose.

“Hi,” she says with a weak smile. 

Her eyes are bloodshot, cheeks pink and tearstained. If this was any other time I'd immediately ask her what's wrong, pull her into a hug and comfort her. A part of me aches to do just that, but a bigger part of me is fuming mad, so I keep my distance.

“Sorry to invite myself over with little warning, but I really need to talk to you.” 

She steps to her left to go towards the house, but I move to the same side, blocking her path. She frowns up at me, puzzled.

“Does it have something to do with this?” I question bluntly, holding out my phone. I want to get straight to the point.

“What?” She squints as her eyes graze across the small screen.

All I want is for her to tell me this is a joke, or that someone Photoshopped this and she can't believe I would fall for that. Then we can laugh it off, go inside, and make fun of Cameron's shitty high school haircut as we sit through his games.

But when I see her face fall and recognition pass through her eyes, any shred of hope I had left disappears.

“I can't believe she sent you this,” she mumbles to herself.

I pull the phone back as she utters a defeated sigh.

“Look,” she says, guilty golden irises flicking up to meet mine. “I can explain. It's not what it looks like.”

“Really? 'Cause it seems pretty goddamn clear to me.”

“It's not. I promise,” she insists, a pleading inflection to her words.

“Did you send this email?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And were you planning on using my past in the article?”

She emits a shaky breath and looks up at the dark sky. “Yes, but—”

My jaw clenches at her answer. “Then that's all there is to know. Is that what this was?” I question harshly, gesturing between the two of us. “Just a way for you to get ahead in your career?”

She flinches and steps back, obviously hurt by my accusation.

“Are you kidding me, Vaughn? You can't possibly think that.” Her eyes pool with tears and it freaking kills me to see, but I'm so goddamned confused and hurt I continue on.

“I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to think, Rayne. I never thought you'd be conspiring behind my back to get your juicy gossip, but looks like I was wrong about that.”

She shakes her head and opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it.

“I can't trust you. And if I can't trust you, I can't be with you.” My voice sounds hoarse and weak—even cracking on that last word—and fuck if I'm not doing all I can to keep it together right now.

For a moment her eyes fire up, and I think she may fight me on this. 

Instead, the fire slowly expires and she closes her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks as she lets out a long exhale. “If that's what you really want.”

No, of course it's not what I fucking want, but I'm seething mad and need some time to process everything, so I respond with a sharp nod.

She gives me one last look, sadness and guilt etched across her gorgeous features. And when she turns around and opens the gate, I feel my heart split right down the fucking middle.

I don’t consider myself an overly emotional guy, but there are about a thousand different feelings exploding inside of me as I watch her leave—everything from anger and disappointment to despair and heartache. But the most potent of all—the absolute worst of them all—is betrayal.

It’s a feeling I’m familiar with, one I’ve dealt with an insurmountable number of times in my life. It’s one I don’t easily forget or forgive. 

And I fucking hate that the one person I thought I could trust is making me feel this way. 

I don't know how long I stand out there freezing my balls off—seems like freaking hours—but eventually I head back towards the house. I'm walking past the pool when Diego jogs out of the Greenhouse and calls out to me. I ignore him and keep moving, but he runs over to catch up.

“’Sup, man? Wasn't that Rayne out here talking with you? Where'd she go? She coming to suffer through Cam's movie marathon with us?”

“Nope,” I snap out, my back teeth grinding together.

Diego can be dense as fuck, so he keeps talking about God knows what while I follow him into the living room. He takes a seat, but I veer straight for the kitchen, mind set on one thing and one thing only.

I need a fucking drink.