Page 91 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I slam the door as our tongues tangle, revel in the sound of her moans as I carry her upstairs, and when I drop her onto our mattress, strip her clothes off, and then part her legs, kneeling between them…
I see about being inspiring.
“Roberts!” Coach calls as I leave the ice the next day.
Something about the look in his eyes has my stomach churning.
“Yeah, Coach?”
He just tilts his head, indicating I follow him, so I do—through the maze of corridors, neither of us stopping until we’re at his office.
He pushes open the door and I trail him inside.
“Shut it behind you.”
Fuck.
What has Courtney done now?
“Grab a seat,” he mutters and I drop into the chair across from his desk, worry burning the back of my throat. “I need to warn you about something.”
Fuck.
“What?” I rasp.
“The social media team came across this?—”
He holds out the tablet and even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I take it, I hit play.
“…and in other news, our own Gray Roberts is a bona fide hero. My sources confirm that he rescued a woman from a serious house fire at great risk to himself…”
“Fuck,” I whisper, setting the tablet on the desk.
“Toni”—the team’s publicist—“is already getting interview requests.”
“No fucking way.”
“I figured.” He studies me closely. “I heard about you and…”
“Faye,” I say quietly.
“Faye,” he repeats and I don’t miss the question there.
“She’s my…” A beat. An exhale. Not fighting the truth. “She’s just mine.”
A nod. “I heard about you two in the locker room. I didn’t realize you were serious.”
“We are.”
“Courtney?”
“We’re done. Paperwork is filed. She’s out of my life.”
He leans back in his chair, goes back to studying. “Let’s hope, for everyone’s sake, that’s true.”
Isn’t that the fucking truth?
“No interviews,” I say as I push up to my feet.
