Offside by Kelly Jamieson Page A

photographs to prove
it —she and three guys in a pool at the house of famous actor who
would remain nameless, in the water, but clearly she’d been
topless. Those images had been all over the internet back a few
years.
    His smile disappeared and his eyebrows
drew together above his nose. He made a small noise like a
grunt.
    She looked down at her plate. “Sorry,
Matt. I can’t change the past.”
    “Christ,” he muttered. “You think I
don’t know that? Fuck, if I could change the past I wouldn’t have
spent weeks in the hospital and months in rehab.”
    She lifted her gaze. “That wasn’t your
fault.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We don’t
get do overs, no matter whose fault it is. People make mistakes.
Shit happens. It’s how you deal with it that matters.”
    She nodded slowly. Once again, his
lack of judgment baffled her. She wasn’t used to that. She’d grown
up constantly not living up to expectations and being punished for
that.
    “And I’d say from the looks of things
that you’re dealing with it pretty well,” he added.
    She experienced a funny ache in her
chest and pressed her lips together. “Thanks. I’m
trying.”
    “And it’s not like I haven’t done
crazy shit in the past too,” he added.
    “Yeah,” she said slowly. “But when the
media got hold of your crazy shit, they made you out to be a stud,
whereas I was made out to be a slut.”
    He stared at her. “Fuck. You are so
right. That is not fucking fair.”
    She looked at him, all big and
gorgeous with his boyish smile and tousled hair, not judging her
and saying things like “what’s done is done” and “that is not
fucking fair” and making her feel so good about herself. Something
inside her melted and cracked, like a hard shell breaking open and
warm softness spreading through her body. And she found herself
experiencing an overwhelming urge to hurl herself into his arms and
kiss him all over his face and hang on to him with everything she
had.
    She inhaled a long, shaky
breath.
    “We’ll stop and buy you a swimsuit,”
he said, setting his empty drink up on the table. “Let’s
go.”
    She gaped at him as she followed him
off the patio. Was he serious?
    Once more mounted on the bicycles,
they pedaled on. Manhattan Beach and Hermosa Beach had a cozy feel
despite the pricey ocean-side homes. People played volleyball on
the beach and they took another break to stop and sit on a bench to
look out at the ocean.
    “Is this fun for you?” she asked Matt,
leaning back on the bench. The sun warmed her face
deliciously.
    “Yeah.” He turned to look at her, his
eyes hidden behind sunglasses as were hers. Their helmets sat on
the bench beside them. “Not you?”
    “No! I mean, yeah, it is fun.
Strangely. I feel really…relaxed. Tired, but good.”
    Also intensely aware of him sitting
beside her, one of his arms along the back of the bench behind her,
his long muscular legs in faded blue jeans stretched out in front
of him, crossed at the ankles.
    She’d asked for low-key, and this was
perfect. Scenarios of him being mobbed by paparazzi or eager fans
had formed in her head, and she’d envisioned how unpleasant things
could get if people recognized her, with him.
    “I guess this isn’t like going to a
big party at some Beverly Hills mansion, or a Hollywood club,” he
said.
    “No,” she agreed. “And that’s just
fine with me. I’m not sure why I even found that fun, back when I
used to do those things.” The meaningless frantic pace of one party
after another, all of them blurring together into a fog of alcohol
and drugs and music and faces that she could barely remember. She’d
laughed and danced and now she couldn’t even remember what was so
funny or who she’d been with some nights. “I was wondering if
that’s the kind of fun you like to have these days. Rich, famous,
handsome young hockey player.”
    He snorted. “I’ve done it,” he said.
“Won’t deny that. I like going out and having