Page 36 of Playboy Pitcher
All trick, no treat.
Instead of responding, I turn and walk toward what I assume is the living room. Might as well get comfortable. This may take a while.
Ben is on my heels within seconds. “I’m sorry, what are you doing?”
“I’m offering myself a seat, Benson. It’s something polite people usually do for their guests.” Settling on the right side of the couch, I gesture toward the far left end where a puddle of liquid pools in the middle of the leather cushion. The rest is dripping down the front like a sudsy waterfall. “That can be yours.”
With a low curse under his breath, Ben grabs an afghan off a side chair and tosses it on top of the mess. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he sits on top of the coffee table across from me and sighs. “Out with it.”
Here goes nothing.“I have a proposition for you.”
“Shouldn’t that be my line?”
“Ben, drop the act. I’m serious.” At my harsh tone, his smirk fades. In its place, a sharp vertical line sinks deep between his eyes.
Shit, now that I have his undivided attention, I’m nervous. I didn’t think past this part. Rubbing my palms up and down my thighs, I blow out a shaky breath and try to force the words out of my mouth. It’s like swimming through molasses. I’ve only said them out loud to one other person, and evensheonly got half the story. I love Emma, but there are just some things she doesn’t need to know.
“Earlier tonight, outside the stadium…”
He clenches his jaw. “You mean when Prescott manhandled you?”
I wince at his tone and offer a guilty nod. “I owe you an explanation. A few, actually.”
God, why is this so hard?
I don’t realize my hands are shaking until he covers them with his own. “Willow, you don’t have to—”
I shake my head and pull away. “No, see, that’s just it, Ben. Idohave to. In order to do what I came here to do, you have to hear this.” I can do this. Just step up to the ledge. Sucking in a deep breath, I let it out…and then step back. “When I said I wasn’t going back to New York, it’s because…” I choke on my own guilt. “It’s because I’m not selling the Storm.”
Fucking chicken shit.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I know.Ignoring him, I regurgitate what feels like a script. “I’m not selling the Storm because my father added an addendum to his will that it seems no one had a clue existed.”
He stares at me, his face giving nothing away. “I’m listening.”
“Tucked inside this addendum is a clause that states I can only sell the franchise to one person.”
That stone expression melts into something sharp. Something worn and weathered with dark realization. “Drake Prescott,” he growls. He’s silent for a moment, then presses his fingers to his temples, as if he can’t figure out why the pieces of my story aren’t fitting together all nice and pretty.
That’s because they don’t.
“But why?” he asks, dropping his forearms on his thighs. “That makes no sense. Roger didn’t even like that asshole. He put him on waivers for Christ’s sake!”
I shrug. “He said they met up at a Braves game andbonded.” I roll my eyes, curling my fingers into air quotes on the last word.
“But you don’t buy it?”
My father and I might not have been on the best terms, but I still knew him. He ran in straight lines of black and white. He loved his team, and he hated Drake Prescott. Sharing a beer during one game wouldn’t change that. I look away, hoping he drops it.
“And that’s theonlyreason you don’t want him to have it.”
Crap.Time to redirect. Scooting to the edge of the cushion, I hold his gaze and fortify my next words with all the conviction I can muster. “I don’t want to own this team, Ben. But I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure Drake never gets his hands on it.”
“Why?”
Goddamn it! He’s like a dog with bone. Leaping to my feet, I pace in front of him, my calm facade starting to crack. “What do you mean,why? It is what it is! It’s…” Stopping abruptly, I tilt my chin up and inhale. “Is something burning?”
