Page 29 of Shootout Daddies
I look at the spreadsheet. Every cell screams liability. But also… opportunity.
Allyson watches me read, then leans one hip against the table. “Still with me?”
“Barely.” I glance up. “But yes. This is what I signed up for.”
“Well, technically, you didn’t.” Her tone is dry. “But now that you’re here, we may as well make the most of it.”
There’s a long pause.
“You ever work with athletes before?” she asks.
“No.”
“They’re like divorce clients with more muscle and less shame.”
I can’t help but smile. “Sounds charming.”
“Some of them are great. Some of them are disasters in motion. Try not to get attached.”
I file that away.
The meeting wraps after she gives me three team contact cards and a schedule of weekly check-ins. She tells me I’ll be meeting the GM and the marketing director by the end of the week, possibly at a charity gala.
And then I’m out.
Back in the car, I check the itinerary. There’s a stop scheduled at a dealership uptown. The team’s gift, apparently.Something about making sure I have appropriate transport for the job.
I’m not complaining.
The dealership is glass-walled, lined with polished floors and white cars under spotlights. A man in a blazer greets me like I’m royalty and gestures to a slate-gray Audi parked near the side.
“This is yours,” he says, keys in hand. “From the Icemen.”
I walk a slow circle around the vehicle. The interior is leather, pristine. Touch screen display. Miami plates already installed.
It’s excessive. It’s completely unnecessary.
And I like it.
As I slide into the seat, adjusting the mirrors, I glance at my reflection in the driver’s side glass.
For the first time in almost a year, I don’t look like a man trying to hold himself together. I look like a man with options.
I think Miami was the right call.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rhett
My phone buzzesagainst the bench beside me, screen lighting up with a new message.
I glance down mid-lace, tugging the skate tighter across my foot as I unlock the phone with my thumb.
A notification from a new group chat flashes up: “Storm Troopers.”
I smirk. Of course she named it that.
There’s one message, and it’s from Ivy.
