Page 100 of Fashionista's Playbook

The wanna-be cop fumed against the wall and stared at Vin, who blew him a kiss.

The palm of my hand made an echoing smack down the hallway when I cracked it over the back of Vin’s head.

“The hell, bro?” He rubbed his head then his wrists. “Haven’t been in those in a while. Sucks as much as it did the last time.”

“Thank Lincoln, he made that call.”

“If Ward had kept his hands off ya girl, I wouldn’t have hit him.” Vin said nonchalantly, as if it was the simplest answer in the world as he followed me back to the lobby.

“Ward responsible for that little party in there?” I pulled up short at the door to the bar and tossed my chin toward the sign.

“Fuck if I know. I came to get a beer. Kari and her bitches were in there. I turned around, and that tool was barreling all over Moriah.” Vin held up two hands for peace. “I reacted. It happened fast, no clue what they had going on in there.”

The accusation in Moriah’s eyes haunted me. I hadn’t told Vin about her past. He was a smooth liar, always had been.That hadn’t just miraculously changed overnight. He’d spent too much time with her bitch ass sister. Seething, molten anger seized me and I no longer wanted to hit Ward—I wanted to bash my brother’s face in. I lowered my voice, spoke slowly to keep my words controlled. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” I stepped in the door, ripped the Pigmo sign from the ceiling, wadded it up, and tossed it at him. “How’d you know?”

“About what?” He kicked the sign away. “I don’t knowshit. That flighty ass sister of hers probably did it. If this stupid shit bothers her, then she ain’t cut out for this life. Think that podcast is going to go easy on her, on you?” He was getting louder with each lie. “You should be more worried about why Ward had his hands all over your girl, and the fact I got them off of her.”

He was wrong, and the insinuation about Moriah was a slap to my face. His lips were moving, but I no longer heard what he said—only the angry rush of blood in my ears.

“Travis?” Kari Tatum slumped behind me, hands clutched at her stomach. She didn’t look polished and Hollywood ready anymore. “I just wanted to say congratulations and that—”

I kicked one of the pig noses at her. It bounced off her thousand-dollar shoes and landed a few inches away. “You should put that back on, it suits you.”

I pushed open the doors to an assault of flashes and the bright, burn of LED spotlights. The media didn’t usually hang around this long or in this large a group.

“Travis! How’s it feel to be MVP?” One voice shouted.

“Are you not doing a press conference Travis?”

“Where are you going, Madera?”

“Hey Travis, over here!”

I couldn’t even hear the fans asking for autographs over the barrage of questions.

The fucking press conference.

“We heard there was a scuffle outside the locker room. Was your brother involved? And team members?”

A collective gasp went up, my heart dropped into my chest. The media were loving every minute of this. Nothing like a little drama.

“Does this have to do with the woman who went running out of here crying?”

“Travis, are you getting married?”

“Was the woman assaulted?”

I spun, unwilling to answer their questions and jerked the door open. Kari Tatum smacked against my chest. She fought for a smile the second she saw the cameras.

“Travis, I need to talk to you.”

I snorted, slid the bulk of my body around her, and into the lobby. But not before at least a hundred images were snapped of her slinking against me.

“Travis.” This time when the voice called my name, it was important. Coach Caley gestured me back toward the locker room.

“The press has ten minutes with you, let's go.”

I grunted.

---