Page 71 of Playing the Field
I nod absently. “Thanks, man.” I’ll never take him up on it, and I want him to leave me alone.
This was a bad idea. I catch Ashley glaring at me from across the room, but I dart between a few executives, earning some slaps on the back and praise over how the team is looking. I nod and thank people, moving toward the exit. I’m about three feet away when a swish of hair catches my attention across the room.
It could be any one of the women who works for the team, but it’s like I have a radar for Gracie Albright, and I’m drawn to her like a homing pigeon.
She looks goddamn amazing in that black dress she was wearing the night I took her to the Château Marmont. Even though she wore it for her date with douchey Captain Bart, I heaped so much praise on her that night that she knows how much I love it. I’m sure she’s wearing it tonight for my benefit.
But wait. I didn’t tell her I’d be here.
A second later, I notice who has her attention. I’ve googled pictures of her ex out of curiosity, and that’s definitely him. He’s taller than I would have expected, tucking his head down when Gracie speaks and bringing his face close so he can hear her.
But let’s be real. It’s not that loud in here. He’s doing what any guy would do and taking the opportunity to be closer to her. A pit forms in my gut as I can imagine him inhaling the scent of her lavender shampoo and the grapefruit oil she dabs on her neck.
A fire burns low in my gut. It’s familiar. The same feeling that launches me toward a player on the field like a puma on the hunt. I want to claim her.
When I see her there with that guy, it’s all I can do not to march up and take a swing at him. I know how he made her feel, and I can’t quell the anger burning in my chest. It’s primal, theneed to defend my woman from another man, especially one who hurt her.
Although she doesn’t seem like she needs rescuing. Doesn’t seem unhappy when he puts a hand on her arm and takes a step closer to her. Doesn’t step away from him.
I start to spiral. On the field, I can channel it properly. Here, I’m a loose cannon, swinging wild and loaded with ammo.
She hasn’t looked in my direction, so she probably doesn’t know I’m here, but now that feels like a good thing. I don’t want to know what she’d do if she saw my watchful eye. I want to know what she really wants when she’s not enjoying the physical pleasure of being with me.
That’s all I am, after all, a plaything who’s a good defender on the field and a good lay off it.
Might as well stop denying the truth.
The sex may be off the charts, but I’m not marriage material. This guy, with his dark suit, his computer science degrees, and his fancy job—he’s the kind of guy someone like Gracie should be with. Someone smart and cultured. Someone who understands what she does for a living and doesn’t need a tutorial. By the way, I still didn’t understand data analytics after the tutorial.
Ashley seems to sense what’s going through my mind. She shows up in an instant and shuttles me toward the bar, where Mick, one of our defenders, is sipping a drink. “Mick, do me a favor and take this guy out of here. I’m buying.”
“Whatever you’ve got on draft,” I tell the bartender. “And I’ll take a shot of vodka too.” Why the hell not? It’s an open bar, and the drinks are flowing. Looking around the room, I see pretty much everyone holding a drink and a cocktail napkin with passed canapés. It’s a party, one I wasn’t invited to attend. So far, I’m behaving, and I catch a few photographers grabbing candid shots of me with Mick as we chat at the bar. I shoot the vodka and take a sip of my beer.
As the alcohol hits my brain and starts having its way with me, I instantly feel better and worse.
When I look over at where Gracie was a few minutes ago, she’s gone. So is the guy.
Mick finally succeeds at steering me away from the bar. “Let’s get that drink Ashley suggested.” I definitely shouldn’t have a third drink. That one is always the dividing line between good decisions and bad ones. I’m going home like Gracie asked me to.
“What the hell, why not?” I tell Mick.
This is the kind of shit I do. Self-destructive, repetitive shit.
Why would tonight be any different?
And then a new idea occurs to me. “D’you think she figured I’d show up here tonight?” I ask Mick as we walk down the block to a sports bar where the red neon sign beckons.
“What now?”
“She asked me to be home at eight. Maybe she thought I’d come to the event and need to be escorted out of the place before I jeopardize the deal with AIFund, just like Ashley. Maybe they all see me the same.” He doesn’t I’m talking about Gracie, so I doubt he understands my word salad.
I’m making this shit up as I go, but when I hear the words, I start to believe them. “She works for the Devils now. She’s part of the corporate team. So her job is to look out for the good of the club, but she still believes I’m the angry asshole positioned to fuck it all up. I could make her come from now until the end of days, nothing’s gonna change that. It’s who I am.”
Mick stops cold in the middle of the street. We’re lucky no one is driving by, or we’d both be roadkill. “What the fuck did they put in your drink?”
I shake my head and continue walking. Mick can follow or not. I don’t care.
He keeps up as I stride toward the bar, determined to believe the thing I’ve been pushing away from the time I laid eyes onGracie Albright. Before I pull open the door, Mick grabs my shoulder. “Hey.”
