Page 2 of Playing for Keeps
That’s my cue. I step back fully. “Not tonight,” I say firmly, placing my half-drunk beer on a table. “Have a good one.”
She grins. “You’re gonna make me work for it, hey?”
“Night, Connie,” I say, brushing off the way her smile falters when she realizes I mean it. For a split second, I consider taking her home and losing myself in her for a couple of hours, but I know I’ll feel even emptier than I do now if I give in.
I slip out of the bar, the rest of the team too focused on the beer and the women to notice me leaving.
My truck’s outside, and I climb into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I should have just gone straight home like my gut told me to.
Another win. Another night, and another woman who can’t see past the jersey.
I can’t help but wonder if I traded the chance at love and family for the game. Was that the deal all along?
God, I hope not.
CHAPTER ONE
Wyatt
Present day
Ipace the foyer of the Fairmont Hotel in Phoenix, my phone pressed to my ear.
“Come on, Ash. Pick up,” I mutter under my breath as it rings… and rings… before going to voicemail again. That’s the third time. With a frustrated sigh, I end the call.
It’s the night of the charity auction that Ash promised ages ago she’d be here for. She’s had a lot on her mind lately, between all the drama with Ben and the fallout after that asshole attacked her at school, but she still swore she wouldn’t miss it. I told her she didn’t have to come, not with everything going on, but she was adamant. And now? She’s nowhere to be seen, and she’s not answering her phone either.
A knot tightens in my chest. I’m starting to get seriously worried.
I got into Phoenix two days ago for some sponsorship stuff. Ash was meant to be riding down with Ben and crashing in my spare room overnight. Maybe they hit traffic, or maybe they left late, but that doesn’t explain the radio silence.
“Hey, there you are,” Cleo, my publicist, says, striding over. “You’re up.”
I groan. “Ash isn’t here yet.”
Her brows lift. “Okay… does she need to be?”
I exhale hard. “She was supposed to be bidding on me,” I admit. “I told you I didn’t want to do this, Cleo. Ash was going to make sure some obsessed fan doesn’t win.”
She links her arm with mine and leads me toward the event entrance. “Wyatt, this is the Fairmont. The fanciest hotel in Phoenix. These women aren’t crazed fans, they’re bored, rich housewives spending their hedge-fund husbands’ money.”
“And that’s better? It’s just a different kind of crazy.”
Cleo stops beside me, laughing. “It’s dinner and a few paparazzi. You’ve done this before. What’s the big deal?”
She doesn’t get it. She’s amazing at her job. We’ve worked together for two years, but if it boosts my profile, she’s pushing me into it, whether I want it or not.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Let’s just get it over with.”
She grins and straightens my bowtie. “You know I’m right. And you look hot. These women are going to fall all over themselves for a date with you.”
“Dinner,” I correct her. “Not a date.”
“Same thing, babe,” she says with a wink before dragging me into the ballroom and toward the stage.
The function room is packed with over a hundred people seated at glittering round tables, sipping champagne and nibbling canapés as yacht trips, weekends away, and celebrity dinners are auctioned off for charity.
“And next up,” the auctioneer announces, her voice echoing through the mic. “Dinner with Wyatt Brookes, linebacker for the Arizona Cardinals.”
