I had been anticipating this night with Brett for the past few days. I had decided not to text him; I didn’t want him to think I was falling for him. Unfortunately, he didn’t text me either, so I’m wondering if this is going to be another booty call. We didn’t go out for dinner before the show; he explained he had a meeting with Hal. I watch Brett staring at the stage through the corner of my eye. His cheekbones gleam from the dim light of the runway and I inhale the scent of his aftershave. I swear the more I see him, the more I want to pounce him. As delicious as he looks in a football uniform or a towel, I squirm seeing him in his dark blue suit and white dress shirt. Clarissa sits on the other side of me, with an empty chair next to her.

Brett takes his eyes off the stage and looks into mine, “Since my meeting with Hal, I haven’t had anything to eat.”

“You haven’t?” I ask. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch.”

“Oh, I thought you would have had dinner with Hal.” Dammit, I had dinner with Clarissa.

“No.” He crosses his large arms across his chest. “It’s eight. I’m starving. Truth be told, I could skip this show.”

I turn and look at Clarissa who is pulling something out of her bag. I move closer to Brett and lower my voice to a whisper, “I think that would be a bit rude, I mean these tickets are Clarissa’s.”

He leans closer, “I know.”

“How about afterward?” I ask.

He sighs. I can sense he doesn’t want to be here. But we have front-row seats, something every fashionista in New York would envy. “Sure.” He gives me an awkward smile.

I turn and notice that Clarissa has put something on the seat next to her, I tilt my head to get a look. It’s a pop surrealist comic. It has a model being done up by stylists and makeup artists on one side; her photos being retouched by Photoshop, and photographers finding the ‘right’ pose and lighting. On the other side, is an all-American girl with the finished photo taped to her bathroom mirror, trying to copy the look with cheap drugstore makeup. She has a sad expression as she looks at herself in the mirror. Her thoughts are put in thought bubbles. On the model’s side of the piece, the words ‘This week’s trend and …’ are at the bottom. On the other side with the all-American girl, the words ‘last year’s ‘it’ girl.’ Then it hits me, it’s the same girl. But she’s barely recognizable without all the makeup and experts. I have to hand it to Clarissa, it’s a fantastic piece and speaks volumes of the reality. Many of the girls we see tonight will be forgotten names in five years. Lots of people in the audience are staring. The piece is making many people uncomfortable.

I lean toward her, “I don’t think many people like your piece, Clarissa.”

She chortles, “Well, I’d think not. The modeling industry isn’t glamorous. These girls become depressed when they are told they are too old at twenty-four. Could you imagine being told you’re beautiful all the time, having fame, then within a season become a no one. Forgotten. Some of these girls screw their way to the top, too. But all these girls feel like the typical American woman by the end of it. Beauty is short-lived in this world.”

“Original idea. Usually artists go for the model versus reality take.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s been overdone. Who doesn’t know that these images are edited? This industry is lucky I didn’t expose the girls that sell their bodies to get ahead. That would have definitely made people uncomfortable.”

I furrow my brow, “I thought you were looking for reactions. Why didn’t you?”

“Not every model sleeps around to get ahead. You didn’t sleep around to get ahead as a journalist did you, Lexi?”

“Absolutely not,” I say, affronted.

“Yeah, so I wouldn’t do this with actresses and journalists, either,” she explains. “I’m not here to give models a bad name. I want to shed light on the reality that many models end up leading typical lives like everyone else.”

The lighting on the stage changes and music begins to play. Then we hear the announcers voice, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we present to you the Marc Jacobs Holiday collection.”

The moment he finishes, Izzy Avery flaunts herself onto the runway in a large red ball gown. She looks drop-dead gorgeous with her long flowing black curls. There’s a way to make sure you get a gorgeous guy every night. Become a model and strut on a runway. All eyes are on her and I see some men in the crowd stunned by her beauty and the way she carries herself. She floats down the runway. I wish I had the talent to make a dramatic entry. Then I see Izzy notice Brett and I. I look sideways at Brett, but he is not watching the runway; he was busying himself with his phone. He puts his arm around me. “Checked in with Gianni’s,” he whispers, showing me his phone. “I know the chef. He told me he can arrange a table for us after the show.”

THWUMP.

Both of us look up from his phone. One of the models has fallen on the stage. Clarissa has an expression of disbelief on her face. “That bitch! Izzy tripped that other girl.”

“Maybe it was an accident,” I say.

“Doubt it,” Brett says huffily. He regains his composure. “That other girl is Hannah Fray. Izzy’s new competition.”

As we speak, a gorgeous fellow wearing a suit scoots down the runway and helps Hannah to her feet. Everyone claps, and Hannah gives a cute little curtsy and the two exit the stage.

“Oh, he was a model,” I say, realizing why he was so dressed up.

Clarissa starts giggling, “Oh my God, he’s not just a model. He’s James Tipton.”

“Not familiar with the world of male models.” I roll my eyes.

“He’s royalty in the modeling world.” Clarissa puckers her lips. “I’d give my left tit to sleep with him.”

“Pfft,” I say dismissively.

Brett chuckles, “It’s true, Lexi, the guy is a household name.”

“Why? Cause he has a nice body?” I ask. “Most athletes have nice bodies.”

A naughty smile plays on Clarissa’s lips, “There’s a world of difference in athletic male bodies and male models.”

“How would you know?” I ask, my nose wrinkling. “I mean, they all have sculpted bodies.”

“Yes,” Clarissa says, “but a male model takes damn good care of his skin. It feels smoother than granite.”

“Should I get you a mop?” I say teasingly. “You’re frothing at the mouth, Clarissa.”

“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.”

I look over at Brett, “I think I prefer rugged, masculine features over soft womanly skin.”

Brett bites his fist, trying to hold back his laughter.

The show finishes around nine and Clarissa begins to pack up her artwork. “There’s an after-party I was invited to. You two want to go?” Clarissa asks the two of us.

Brett and I exchange a look. I would feel rude if I rejected Clarissa’s offer; she did get us the tickets. On the other hand, Brett is hungry, and we were going to eat. “Well, uh, Brett hasn’t eaten yet,” I say.

Clarissa laughs. “No worries. They’ve got amazing food at the place where the after-show is being held. Those skinny models aren’t going to eat it.”

Brett looks at her confused, “I thought you were a feminist?”

I look at Clarissa beaming, “Nah. Clarissa is always trying to make a statement … or be funny.”

“Ah. This girl has got my number.” Clarissa wraps an arm around me. “Anyway, not all the models are that into themselves. I’ve heard Hannah Fray is the sweetest girl from the Midwest you’ve ever met.”

“Hey, that was the image Lexi was going for,” Brett says, joking.

I guffaw, “Yeah, but that’s what the public wants to hear. No doubt Hannah isn’t from the Midwest.”

“Let’s go find out,” Clarissa says, “I’m sure that Izzy would have a conniption seeing people pay attention to someone else.”

“Izzy did open the show,” I say. “She’s still a big thing.”

“‘It’ girls don’t last too long in the Big Apple,” Clarissa says.

I look over at Brett, “Want to check out the aftershow?”

He hesitates, feeling the pressure, “Well, uh, so long as they have food. If there isn’t enough we’ll have to leave.”

The aftershow is at a club called The Peacock. It’s a new place and Clarissa is excited about it. “This place has got everything. Of course, there’s a VIP service, but they also have a pool bar, and professional dancers on small stages set up around the club. Celebrity DJ’s are there all the time, too.”

When we arrive, I’m taken aback at how huge the place is. It’s an old building with an opulent glass-dome ceiling. There’s a long lineup. I cringe. It looks like it may take several hours to get in.

“We’ll skip this. Follow me.” Clarissa leads us down an alleyway to a back entry. She knocks on a large steel door. The door creaks open an inch.

“Who is it?” booms a husky voice.

“The biggest badass bitch in town,” Clarissa yells. “Oh, and Lexi Driver and Brett Brock.”

“Are you messing with me, Clarissa?” asks the voice.

“Nah. It’s them.”

The man opens the door widely, “I’ll let you all in. I’m sure all the media would love to report that an athlete and Lexi Driver came.”

I give the large man a funny look, “I am the media.”

“You aren’t now, girl.” He sniggers. “You’ve been the talk of the town for your top-notch journalism.”

Clarissa snickers. I look over at Brett, who pipes up, “Miss Driver has decided to no longer expose the biggest secret in town.”

The man howls, “Come on in.”

We walk past the man and through the kitchen. I see trays of canapés on carts and Brett takes one and pops it into his mouth. “Brett!” I exclaim. “They haven’t served that yet.”

“Meh, what are they going to say, I can’t have one?” he says casually.

“Excellent point.” I reach for one.

We step out of the kitchen and walk through a dark corridor. My jaw drops. I’ve been in plenty of clubs, but nothing like this. It’s clear to me that this is where the well-connected in New York are partying. I can’t imagine what the cover may have been if Clarissa didn’t know the right people. The place is decked out in miles of sheer drapery hanging from its tall ceilings. There are life-sized garden statues on pedestals. There’s several small stages with aerial silk dancers suspended above them, tumbling and posing in midair from silk fabrics hung from above. The glass dome is in the center of the club. A huge square bar sits beneath it, filled with dozens of bartenders serving drinks. The bar separates the large building into four wings. In the first wing, there is a large dance floor, surrounded by several couches. Another wing has the pool bar, filled with several cabanas with bottle service. The third wing is interesting—it’s a beauty bar. Tons of girls are sitting at vanities, getting their hair and makeup touched up by stylists as they serve the girls champagne. Finally, there’s the VIP section. It has its own bar, filled with premium liquors. There’s plenty of booths with couches and celebrities. I can see many of the models from the show there.

“Let’s get a booth in the VIP section.” Clarissa points to a hostess with a hooked nose standing next to a podium by a small set of stairs. There is a large man standing next to her, the size of a linebacker. The pair reject people from entering; I cringe when I see them turn away Missy Etheridge, a morning talk show host. Clarissa leads the way and Brett takes my hand. A pleasant wave of excitement crawls up my spine, making me feel like a giddy teenager being kissed for the first time. But I quickly remind myself that we had agreed it was a casual relationship. We stop at the entrance and the hostess turns her nose up at Clarissa.

“Are you hoping to get in here?” She looks aghast at Clarissa.

“Yes. I’m Clarissa Montag. Check your list.”

The woman looks down, checking the list. “Ah, um … you have three guests?”

Clarissa looks frustrated, “Look behind me, I have two guests with me.”

The woman looks up from her list and notices Brett and I for the first time. “Oh! Brett Brock!” She’s speechless. She looks him up and down, lost for a moment. “I’m so sorry,” she says, straightening. “Mr. Brock, did you have a seat reserved with us tonight?” she giggles. I want to throw up.

“No.” Brett looks confused, “Clarissa is the one that has the invite, I believe.”

The hostess looks back to Clarissa, her face hot with humiliation.

Clarissa stares daggers at the hostess. “Are you going to escort us in at any point?”

“Right, Mr. Brock is your guest.” She gazes dreamily at Brett.

“I’m also here with Miss Driver, Brett’s date.” Clarissa’s eyes bulge. “Stop gawking at him and seat us already.”

I start cracking up, holding my hand to my mouth. I’ve never seen a woman so flustered. Brett is hot, but this woman has gone from surly to flirty to embarrassed in less than thirty seconds.

“I will take you to your seat,” she says, still entranced with Brett. She walks from behind the podium and grasps Brett’s hand. It feels as though Clarissa and I are invisible as she leads Brett up the small set of stairs.

The large bouncer glares at us, “Thanks for bringing him in,” he says. “All that girl is going to do now is try to abandon me to talk to him.”

Brett continues to hold my hand as the hostess leads us through the crowd. She turns and stares up at him longingly. She talks to him about how well he’s been playing recently and how she and her family watch all the Blazers’ games.

“Shall I hold your other hand,” asks Clarissa, pointing down to the hand-holding chain the hostess, Brett, and I have made. We look ridiculous.

“What is this? Daycare?” Clarissa asks jokingly.

“I’m not letting go,” I mutter. “The moment I do, she’s going to drag him to the back and pounce on him.”

Clarissa nods, “Expect this chick to try to pounce on his balls for the rest of the night, Lexi.”

We finally get to our table and take a seat on the large cushy couch. I sit next to Brett, and Clarissa sits on the other side of me. There’s an awkward silence as the hostess stares dreamily at Brett, unmoving.

“You know what would be nice?” Brett says, “Some food.”

The hostess continues to ogle Brett. “Oh, I can get you something. What would you like, Mr. Brock?”

“Lots of food for me and my friends,” he answers. “Whatever you can get your hands on.”

“My name is Laura, Brett,” she giggles. “If you need anything at all, let me know.”

Clarissa pipes up, “I would like—”

But Laura ignores her as she turns on her heel heading for the kitchen. Clarissa turns toward us with an expression of disgust, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Brett, but I’m not sure I’m going to take you out with me in public ever again.”

“Don’t worry too much about Laura. She’ll drop by a few times, I’m sure. But in time, I’m sure she’ll get the hint.”

A bartender takes a seat across from us with a bucket of ice and sets down several glasses on our table. “Hello Clarissa, Lexi, Brett. Welcome to The Peacock. I’m Gwen, I’ll be your bartender this evening. If you need anything, let me know.” Gwen glances up at Brett, with a shy, half-smile. But she isn’t as starstruck or daft as Laura. “I’ll start you all off with some drinks. What can I get you, ladies?”

“Get me a craft beer. Any kind will do,” Clarissa says. “Oh, and could you sneak me an ashtray?”

“I’m sorry, Clarissa, but there’s no smoking allowed up here,” Gwen says.

I’m amazed Clarissa had the audacity to ask; there is a citywide ban on smoking in a bar. Though there are few places that overlook the ban, I don’t see a single person here with a cigarette. The owner won’t allow it to happen in this swanky club.

“Come on, Gwen.” Clarissa winks. “There’s got to be a place for us pot lovers to go?”

Gwen juts out her hip, “You want me to show you?”

“Yeah, it’s my first time here.”

“I’ll take you, Clarissa,” Gwen says, “but let me get them something to drink first.”

Brett turns to me, “Would you like some wine? It would probably go nicely with some food.”

“Sure.”

“A bottle of Dom Pérignon,” Brett says. My eyes widen.

“What?” he says, noticing my expression. “We are about to be bombarded with some of the most snobbish people in town. Trust me, they’ll all be drinking the best. Why should we drink anything less?”

My jaw goes slack before I answer, “Clarissa seems to have no problem drinking a craft beer, and neither do I.”

He guffaws, “She can share our bottle, but I doubt Clarissa will want to be ruining the taste of her pot with Dom.”

“Damn right, I don’t.” Clarissa nods.

“Alright, Gwen, a bottle of Dom and a craft beer for Clarissa,” Brett says.

“Will do.” Gwen gets up and heads over to the bar. Laura comes back and as she does, I notice a bunch of designers and models begin to make their way to the VIP section. “Here you are, Brett.” Laura beams as she serves Brett. “I got you a plate of canapés, some cheeses and steak.” All three plates are set down in front of Brett.

Brett gives her an annoyed look “Uh, thanks, I think. Did you forget Lexi and Clarissa?”

Laura’s face goes bright red, “Right. Uh, I didn’t have enough arms. I got them the same kinds of food. I’ll be right back.” She scurries off and I look over at Brett, “Do you ever get tired of that?” I ask.

“Yes. It would be nice to have a night out in public without someone treating me like she is.”

Gwen arrives back and pours champagne for the three of us and hands Clarissa a bottle of beer. She then leads Clarissa somewhere toward the back to smoke her weed.

“Funny, Tristan loved that sort of attention.” I watch the pair walk off. “Tristan loved it when a girl fell over themselves to talk to him. Seemed insulted if someone didn’t know who he was.”

“He’d fit right in with Izzy Avery.” He hands me one of his canapés on a napkin. “If she couldn’t get the attention of everyone in the room, she’d question it for the rest of the night.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s only scratching the surface with her.”

“How is it you know Izzy Avery so well?” I ask, hoping he will confess to the fact that they used to date.

“Well, she used to spend time with the team. She wanted to get to know a few of us boys,” he says.

Damn. Be straight with me Brett.

“Enough about Izzy. What did you think of the show?” he says, changing the subject.

“Well, fashion isn’t my thing.” I shrug my shoulders.

“Nor is it mine. Just trying to make conversation,” he says uncomfortably.

“Sure, but you and I wouldn’t sit around talking about fashion. For us, football is life. This isn’t our scene.”

“Yes, but talking about football so much lately is giving me a headache,” he says with a worried expression.

“Too much pressure?” I ask, patting his thigh.

He looks down at me, his crystal blue eyes piercing mine. “Yes, it’s been stressful these past few weeks.”

“I understand. I’m sure you’ve been getting nothing but lectures from the coaches.”

“That’s only the half of it. I mean, all the guys are happy with me the moment we win a game, but once we get back to practice, they are all criticizing choices I made on the field. I don’t get it; we won, why can’t they be happy? Dion’s name constantly comes up, too.”

I’m puzzled by this; my impression was that most the players on the Blazers didn’t like Dion. Dion was abrasive, didn’t listen much to the coaches, and threw God in wherever he could to make himself seem like a man of noble character. He annoyed the players with his showboating and stingy ways. “I thought most the players on the Blazers didn’t like Dion. Hell, I’ve heard he’ll take the boys out for drinks, run a tab then skip out on his portion of the bill.”

Brett cuts into his steak, “Yeah, he was a real dick, but the players are used to how Dion does things. They know what to expect from him and what Dion expects from them. They are still adjusting to me.”

“That will take time.” I take a sip of my Dom. “Mmm,” I murmur, feeling the bubbles tingle my lips. “The easiest way to get the boys to love you is to take them out for drinks and pay the entire tab. You’ll immediately be number one in their books.”

“That’s a smart idea, Driver.” He takes a bite of his steak. “Truth is, I should be out with them tonight. Coach Dietrick keeps talking like I need to build a stronger relationship with them. Dion could be such a whiner at times and I sense the guys like me more, but they need to understand I’m not Dion.”

I smooth my hair with my hand and curl up onto the couch, getting comfortable. “You need to tell them that, Brett. You need to remind them you are not Dion and they should expect that you will do things differently. Explain that if the Blazers win, nothing else matters. Remind them that they will adjust to you as they do when other players get traded to the team. Tell them that every time they get traded, they need to adjust. This is no different.”

He ponders my words a moment. I sense my advice has surprised him. “That’s a good idea. Thanks.”

“Don’t forget, you’ve already won their respect by winning these past few games, this shouldn’t be a difficult conversation. Do it immediately after winning a game.”

“You’re quite the manipulator, Driver.” He flashes his pearly white teeth. I shudder inside, wishing I could cup his perfect face in my hands and plant a kiss on his lips.

“Hardly manipulative. My words are common sense. They aren’t good players if they can’t be flexible. Players and management come and go on teams, and the team dynamic changes every year. This is no different.”

He puts his arm around my shoulder, “Maybe I should get you to come in the locker room to give a pep talk.”

I look across the VIP section and see Izzy Avery standing by the bar. She’s wearing a sexy bordeaux number and has her hair up in a bun, with two chopsticks holding it in place. She glares at Brett, and he quickly removes his arm. “Where is Laura with your food?” He pokes his head above mine, his eyes darting around the room.

I snort, “I doubt Laura is coming back to serve me. I’m sure she has forgotten I’m here.”

“You can eat my food,” he says. But I don’t answer. Izzy is still at the bar, but she has turned her back to us. Clarissa emerges from a nearby crowd and stands next to Izzy.

I stare down at Brett’s vibrating phone, “Are you gonna pick that up?” I ask.

“It’s just a text. Probably Coach.” He takes his phone and scrolls through his message. “Yeah. Uh, Coach wants to go over some plays in the last game we had.”

I look at Brett suspiciously, then to Izzy. “I’m going to go see what Clarissa is up to at the bar. We got Dom here, she should be enjoying it with us.”

“Uh, I’m sure if Clarissa wants some she’ll come over. Don’t leave me by myself.” He pouts.

I smile, “I’ll be gone only a minute.” I get up and stride to the bar, watching Brett through my peripheral vision. He’s looking down at his phone again. As I approach the bar, I look over Izzy’s shoulder and see that Izzy has her phone out. As I suspected, she’s texting Brett.

I notice at the top of her screen she has nicknamed Brett, ‘Captain Huge Cock.’ I crash into the bar, holding my hand over my mouth, restraining myself.

“I thought you were going to enjoy some drinks with Brett,” Clarissa says noting my presence. Izzy glances back at me, and quickly scurries away with her phone.

“Well, we got Dom over there Clarissa, I thought you’d be wanting some.”

“Pfft, I don’t think I could tell Dom from the cheapest champagne after the weed I smoked. I was thinking of getting the two of you a drink. Any preferences?”

I look over in Brett’s direction. I can barely see him. He’s surrounded by models. What were you thinking, Lexi? Leave him alone for a minute, and other girls are going to pounce. I notice Izzy is among them. She’s sitting right next to him on the couch, where I had been. She’s eye-fucking him with a stare that is making Clarissa blush. “Yikes. Looks like you got all IMD, Elitist, and Chic Models against you,” Clarissa says. “I can’t see him. Do you think he can still breathe?”

Christ. I have no idea how I’m going to break up the swarm of Queen Bees. “Where the hell is that James Tipton fellow? I thought all the girls loved him. Why aren’t they hanging off him?”

Clarissa points to another crowd of women at another set of couches. “I think James is somewhere in there.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “I need some help here. Maybe I should call some other pro athletes and invite them here.”

“You can’t be serious.” Clarissa purses her lips. “The fastest you could get anyone downtown and into this bar is two hours. Are you going to wait that long to sit next to Brett again and talk to him? Nah, you got to take care of business now, Lexi. Drink! What kind of drink do you think he might like?”

I stare at Clarissa in confusion, “Are you—he has Dom—why would he want anything else?”

“My point exactly, a man doesn’t buy a bottle of wine that costs over a thousand dollars unless he’s trying to impress the lady he is with,” Clarissa says with a suggestive expression.

I guffaw, “Maybe, but the guy makes good money, he can afford Dom.”

“Whatever. He got an expensive drink to impress you. You get a drink to impress him. Now what are you going to get him, Lexi?”

My eyes bulge, “Geez, Clarissa, I got a herd of grade-A meat trying to take the man I’m interested in, and all you can suggest is getting him a drink?”

“Drinks start conversations,” Clarissa offers. “Besides, if you get something that speaks to him, Izzy will have to move her ass, so you can serve it to him.”

I’m weirded out by Clarissa’s plan, “You think—”

“Who cares what I think!” Clarissa interrupts. “Izzy Avery is a man-eater and right now, you’re giving her a chance with Brett. That girl has SERIOUS stalker issues. Even after she dumps a guy, she’ll harass the next woman he dates. Last year, she was secretly dating an actor, Aidan Platt. She broke off the relationship. Shortly afterward, he started seeing some other woman. The two get it on one night, fall asleep, then wake up at three a.m. in the morning. Guess who is standing over the bed?”

My mouth hangs open, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Izzy has a reputation for ruining careers and lives. Sure, it could be a rumor, but would you want to take that chance?”

I stare over at the crowd of girls, then wave the bartender over, “Excuse me, bartender?” I yell.

He leans across the bar, “What can I get you?”

“Three sake bombs,” I say, keeping my eye on Izzy.

“Sorry, but we don’t have any chopsticks to hold the sake shot over the beer,” he replies. I drop my gaze and look at the bartender. His mouth falls open and he gives me a strange look, “Hey, are you Lexi Driver?”

“Yes.”

“I follow you on WeTweet!” he says excitedly.

Oh God, I don’t have time for this. I got to get over there now, buddy.

“You know what, you asked a question I posted once!” He goes on staring at me in awe.

“Glad I could oblige,” I reply. I glance at Izzy again. She’s playfully giggling at something Brett has said.

“You know what?” the bartender yells, trying to get my attention again. “Maybe we got something in the back. Can’t be too hard to find some sticks.” He goes through a threshold behind the bar and emerges a minute later with several popsicle sticks. “Not ideal.” He waves them in front of me, “but it will do the trick. Sorry, I could only find four.”

“Not a problem. I think I know where I could find some extras.”