Page 23 of How to Play the Player

“I’m not proving anything,” I snap. “I’m just living my life.”

Jake doesn't look convinced. “At some point, you have to admit you’re avoiding anything that reminds you of Quinn.”

He’s always had a gift for distilling situations to their uncomfortable essence.

I toss the stress ball toward the basketball hoop mounted on my wall, missing by inches.

“Don’t see how this might complicate your working relationship with her?” Jake asks.

The missed shot seems to mock my poor aim, much like Jake's logic mocks me. I retrieve the ball, turning it over in my hands. “I’ll handle it.”

“Like your little social media campaign after the NorthStar leak?" Jake’s reminder of my very public confrontation with Quinn hits its mark.

“That was different.”

“Was it? Because I’m seeing a pattern.” Jake’s voice loses its teasing edge. “She provokes you, you react impulsively, and somehow you end up in a worse position than when you started.”

I want to argue, but the evidence against me is too compelling. From that first accusation I hurled at her from across the globe to the posts I’d launched to show how quickly I’d moved on—Each reaction had been more about soothing my wounded pride than solving anything.

And now I've done it again.

“She’s not going to win,” I say, assuring more myself than him. “I just need to keep it professional for two weeks.”

“And that’s your plan? Professionalism?” Jake doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism. “From the guy who once drove forty minutes in the middle of the night because Quinn texted that she couldn’t sleep?”

The memory rushes to the forefront of my mind—Quinn in her oversizedDallas StarsT-shirt, hair mussed from tossing and turning, her sleepy smile when she opened the door to findme standing there with chamomile tea and her favorite dulce de leche ice cream. We’d stayed up until 3 a.m., her body arching impossibly closer to me as I worshipped her, and we talked about nothing and everything. She’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, and I’d watched her breathe for nearly an hour before drifting off myself. Back when I thought I knew her. Before everything changed.

“That was before.”

“Before you decided she was guilty without a trial.” Jake sighs, backing off at whatever he sees in my expression. “Look, I’m not saying she didn’t do it. I’m just saying you never actually confirmed she did.”

“The timeline?—”

“The timeline is circumstantial at best.” Jake cuts me off. “Maybe instead of painting her as the bad guy, you should actually investigate if she is one.”

“I don’t need to investigate. I already know what happened.”

Jake studies me for a long moment. “Do you? Or are you afraid of what you might find if you look deeper?”

My phone saves me from answering, buzzing with a text from Victoria, a gorgeous model I’ve seen off and on for the past three months. Nothing exclusive, nothing complicated—exactly what I’ve limited myself to since Quinn. Dating implies investment; hookups require nothing but physical presence. The distinction has kept me safely distanced from anything resembling vulnerability for a year now.

Free tonight? My place, 8 p.m.?

Normally, I’d already be typing a confirmation. Now I stare at the screen, the bet with Quinn looming large in my mind. I type back.

Can’t tonight. Deadlines.

Victoria responds immediately.

Your loss. Last chance for a while—heading to Milan tomorrow for three weeks.

The timing is frustratingly perfect.

“Good news?” Jake asks, watching me set the phone aside.

“A friend of mine wants to meet up tonight.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Ah. And day one of your celibacy challenge begins.”

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