Page 110 of Playboy Pitcher
Conveniently, not long after that, I was handed an aggravated assault charge. All wrapped up in a neat red bow.
I try to keep an even expression, but the smile spreading across his mouth tells me I did a piss poor job. “She was bargaining with me, you dumbass. Willow used you to revive the team so she could negotiate for more money.”
My blood is boiling, and if I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to end up in jail again. “I’m leaving. Get the hell off my car, or you can fall under it. I don’t really give a damn.”
Drake grabs my elbow. “Career ending injury, huh?” Shoving his chest, I jerk my arm back, clenching my jaw as searing hot pain rips from my elbow to my shoulder. “Win it for Willow,” he says, mocking the newest fan slogan. “She used you to get back at me. It didn’t matter who she punished as long as it was a pitcher. The player got played. Welcome to the club, asshole.”
I refuse to let him see how much he’s getting to me. How his words rub salt in an already open wound. “You don't know a damn thing about me.”
“You’re right. I don’t. It appears I gave you way more credit than you deserve.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Use your brain, LaCroix. We both got fucked by the same vindictive woman.” His smile widens as he kicks my tire with his expensive dress shoe and backs away. “Who do you think leaked your marriage certificate?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“This is bullshit!”
“Mr. Montgomery, please sit down.”
“Go fuck yourself, Jack.” Hoyt’s palms press firmly on the conference table. It’s like he’s using it for support, or maybe forcing his hands not to leap over eight other people and strangle me. Shifting his narrowed gaze away from Jack, he settles it on me, and I quickly look away. It doesn’t matter, though. I can feel his disappointment burning into the side of my face.
“Hoyt, don’t,” I beg, but it doesn’t matter. He’s pissed, and with every right. I just blindsided him.
I’ve blindsided everyone.
Well,almosteveryone.
Drake sits beside me, grinning like he just pulled the plug on a rich relative’s life support. He’s leaned back in his chair with his fingers entwined, tapping his thumbs together like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I’ve never hated anyone more in my life. All of this was for nothing. The moment he walked through those conference room doors nearly four weeks ago, he knew how this would end. It’s why he remained so calm when I refused to sell. Why he didn’t flinch, instead, remaining eerily in control.
Because he was.
I want to blame my father for the situation I’ve landed myself in. It would be so easy; he’s dead, and, after all, it was his addendum that allowed this to happen.
But I can’t hate him for trying to protect me. He sacrificed so much for me, and what did he get in return? Silence. Hate. Bitterness. Yet, it never stopped him. He kept sacrificing and sacrificing until he drew his last breath.
I don’t have many regrets in life. I find them to be a waste of time. But sixty hours into my twenty-ninth year, I’m down to two.
And I’ll never be able to make things right with either of them.
“Don’t you, ‘Hoyt’ me, Willie-girl!” he bellows, his face turning the color of a beet. “This is bullshit, and you know it. I don’t buy your story for a minute.” He’s daring me to contradict him—to lie to his face.
I could, but I won’t.
It’s past time I created a few ground rules for myself.
“You don’t have to,” I tell him, glancing down at my hands. “You just have to accept it.”
“I ain’t acceptin’ nothin’.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as his gaze shifts beside me. “I can smell this jackass’s shitty stink a mile away,” he says, pointing a finger at Drake before swinging it at me. “And you sellin’ the team to him smells like a goddamn outhouse.”
Jack leaps to his feet, his hand on his red tie as if it’s his source of power. “Mr. Montgomery, if you can’t control your outbursts, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Banging my fist on the table, I glare at him. “I’m still the owner of this team.” Drake clears his throat beside me, and I grit my teeth. “At least for today,” I add. “The only thing you’re going to do is sit down and shut up.”
I think I see a flicker of a smile on Hoyt’s face, but I don’t dare risk looking. He’s already mad enough at the way I just blurted everything out at the beginning of the meeting. I had to. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. It hurts like hell and might take a few layers of skin off, but pulling it off slowly only prolongs the pain.
“As I explained already, I called Jack this morning and his team will be drawing up a new contract. Tomorrow afternoon, Drake and I will meet with him along with Ned, where I’ll sign it, completing the sale of the team. As of the close of business tomorrow, Drake Prescott will be the owner of the Miami Storm.”
