Page 78 of Played
“Nate.” I close the door behind me and cross the floor, walking toward his desk. “I received your message.”
Nate looks up from his computer monitor, and instead of his customary smile, he’s stone faced. Curiosity gives way to irritation. I don’t know what put that expression on his face, but it can’t have anything to do with me. Still, I feel like he about to be on some bullshit. He’s been a little distant since that conversation in the luxury box after the game Adina came to. While I love my father-in-law, him running me or how I parent will never be a thing. So I’ve been giving him room to get up out his feelings.
Looks like he needs some more.
“Solomon.” He gestures toward the two armchairs in front of his large oak desk. Part of me wants to sayNah, I’ll stand. But I’ma behave. Once I sink into one of the chairs, he props his elbows on the desktop and temples his fingers. I hope he isn’t expecting me to fidget or speak first. Hell, he called me here. And those kinds of games don’t and never have worked on me. After several silent minutes where we wage visual combat, he finally says, “I’m going to take it you haven’t watched television or been on social media anytime today.”
I shrug. “I don’t really have the time or patience for that. Why? What’s happened now?”
Pictures from Ciaran’s birthday party at the club started leaking the day after. More and more popped up in the four days since. And some of them featured players, well ... partying. They included them with drinks in hand and women hanging off them. But so what? Even Coach didn’t say anything to us about them. We’re grown-ass men, and we all have lives. And none of us are saints.
Yeah, Nate can be a bit old fashioned and reserved, but c’mon, damn. He works around hockey players for God’s sake, notgolfers.
His eyes narrow, and his lips flatten in so much disapproval that shit could be tattooed on his face. Instead of answering me, he turns his computer monitor around and clicks his mouse. I immediately recognize Twitter—oh, excuse me, X—and there’s a still of a video. Above it,someone named @kaykaylive posted “Solomon Young gets it in! Yooo! Where do I sign up to get me summa dat?”
Nate clicks his mouse again, and the video starts to play. For a second, I’m not recognizing what I’m watching. Like my brain refuses to accept the signal my eyes are sending. But a few more seconds in, and I can’t deny what’s on that screen.
Me.
And Adina.
In the private VIP bathroom at the club.
I have her pinned against the wall, so my back is to the camera. And thank God, but I remember that night with crystal clear clarity. Just like I do every moment, second, I’ve been inside her, had my hands on and in her. She’s topless, and her dress is a ring around her waist. But her nakedness isn’t really visible. Just the tops of her shoulders. Never in my life have I been grateful for how big and wide I am. From the very top of my ass being visible and how I’m working my hips, it’s obvious we’re fucking. That’s bad enough. But if anyone saw her bare breasts or her pussy ...
Fury razes a path through me, incinerating every rational thought. And when I bury my face in her neck, and her face, saturated in pleasure, becomes visible in the video, the fury transitions to pure rage. I need to hit someone. Destroy them for recording a private, intimate moment and posting it on social media for people to perv over, comment on, and jack their fucking views up.
The video lasts for maybe ten seconds at the most, but it feels like ten minutes. The longest and most humiliating ten minutes of my life. This is worse than when someone captured a picture of us kissing. This feels ... dirty. Ugly.
A silence coated in ice covers the room. I can feel Nate’s glare burning a hole in the side of my face, but I continue staring at that fucking screen even though the video stopped.
Adina.
Has she seen this? Does she know about it?Jesus.I need to call her, warn her. She’s going to ...fuck.
“You don’t have anything to say?” Nate snaps.
I tear my gaze from the monitor and meet his glacial eyes.
“What do you want me to say? To apologize? For what? I didn’t do anything wrong. The muthafucka who snuck into that bathroom and recorded us without our permission and decided to post that shit should apologize. In the very least. They deserve to pay. And let me find out who it is ...”
I scowl. I bet I can get in touch with the owners of the club and see if they have any security footage from that night. As soon as I leave here, I’m calling my attorney and getting her right on that.
“Are you kidding me, Solomon?” Nate looses a harsh bark of laughter and falls back against his chair. “What the hell? Has that woman pussy whipped you so hard that you can’t see what’s happening right in front of you?”
My chin jerks back, and I slowly straighten in my chair. Heat streams up my spine, up from my gut and into my neck, my face. I fist my fingers on my thighs, then move them to the arms of the chair, curling them around the wood. I need something to hold on to so I don’t go across that fucking desk.
He’s Kendra’s father.
He’s your employer.
You love him.
That last one saves him more than the other two. Because I don’t give a damn. No one disrespects me.
“Nate, I get I’m your employee and your son-in-law, but don’t ever speak to me like that. Give me the same respect I’ve always given you. That’s my only warning.”
The anger doesn’t leave his face. Red floods into his cheeks, staining them. With a muted curse, he shoves back his chair and shoots to his feet. He marches over to the floor-to-ceiling window and stares out at the view of downtown Providence. Although I doubt he’s really seeingor appreciating it. Like me, he’s probably trying to get a grip on his temper.
