Page 101 of Fashionista's Playbook

“And keep it about the game.” He gave the outer doors a sideways glance. “Fucking vultures.”

I followed Caley to where Linc waited outside the media room. The last thing I wanted to do was sit on that stage and answer questions about the game, no matter how big of a deal it was. What mattered, what I cared about, for real, was Moriah. Talking about her at the podium wasn’t going to happen.

“Just put it out of your mind for ten minutes.” Linc said, his voice easy, his posture—not. He was rigid as he stood in front of the doors, fingers flying furiously on his phone.

“Easy for you to say.” I had no idea where she’d gone, and she wasn’t responding to my texts. The longer I was caged heredealing with the media, the more like a feral animal I became—prowling back and forth.

Staff came in and out through those doors, shepherding players. Neither personnel nor my teammates would look me in the eye. Only Linc. “For what it’s worth, that stunt put the final nail in Ward’s coffin. I can’t afford that liability when he’s not worth a shit on the field.

“If Moriah wants to press charges, I’ll be more than happy to facilitate that. But I think I’ve kept him from having them filed on your brother.”

I didn’t give a fuck what they did to Ward or Vin. “Thanks.” I ground the word out. My entire body was rigid and prepared to run to wherever Moriah was.

“We’ve told them you’ll only answer questions about the game.” Linc moved to push open the door. “Team publicist—Isabeau—is just off stage and will step in as soon as someone gets out of line. Because they will.”

I fought to turn up at least one corner of my mouth, to hide what I was really feeling, and to look like I was happy about the game. The biggest victory of my life thus far was too clouded by concern for me to enjoy it.

The anger in my chest as I took a seat behind the mic must have left me looking crazy, as the publicist gestured to her face like I should smile.

Before I could, the questions started, and she spent more time redirecting than I did smiling or answering.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Moriah

Ignoring Travis’ text messages was more difficult than Elise’s. Though I’m sure her tearful apologies were genuine, I couldn’t bring myself to care. I’d only just started to trust her, to move on.

Slamming that door was surprisingly easier a second time.

But Travis. I inhaled a shuddering breath, held it, and blew it out slow like they teach you in yoga. The stretching of my diaphragm pushed the pain in my chest away. I utilized the reprieve to think of how far I’d come, rather than the disbelief in his eyes when I’d told him his brother had facilitated the entire thing.

Professionally and personally—I’d seen and done things I’d never imagined I could do. But some wounds wouldn’t heal, not when I kept stabbing them with an emotional knife.

Life with Travis would have meant constant attention, always living in the public eye. I knew that. But not like this. In his post-game press conference, every question thrown at him was about me, Ward, or Vin, or the fight.

I crammed more stuff into the suitcase and zipped it up before reaching for my phone. As if I needed to torture myself more.

The Outlaws’ win was huge and the hype about it was everywhere. I glanced at the screen just to see his face one more time.

And there it was, Travis with Kari Tatum draped all over him. His face was twisted in disgust but that did little to quelch the painful squeeze in my throat.

“I’m not going to come in here and say that’s not what it looks like, but—” Travis’ deep voice had always been soothing and calming. Not anymore.

He stood several feet behind me, his face tired.

“I know.” I cleared the image and dropped my phone into my purse. “But it’s still a reminder of all the things I’ll never be.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s bullshit, Moriah. She’s a—”

I held a hand up. “Just don’t.” I hefted the suitcase from the bed. It hurt too much to look at him, so I focused on the polished floor of his bedroom.

“I’m sorry, Moriah. If I’d known I would have stopped Ward and Tatum.”

“And Vincent?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“But you haven’t. I tried, over and over to tell you what kind of man he was and you always turn away from it.” The tightening sickness in my gut finally had a name. What I was feeling wasn’t the shame or the humiliation of those bitches in pig noses, the embarrassment that it was all over the internet by now. But something I wasn’t as familiar with.

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