Page 13 of Worth the Scandal
Mine too.
No.
No freaking way.
The realisation hits like another football to the head.
The smirk. The wink. The arrogant charm. The air of familiarity I couldn’t quite place until now.
Kingston ishim.
Mr. Mysterious.
The guy from two years ago. The one-night stand I never forgot, well until now but he looks so different and the ball to head washard. The one who left before the sun came up. The one who said no names. No futures. Just one night.Okay that was my dumb idea, but he happily went along with it.Player.
And now?
He’s standing in front of me. Sweaty. Smug. His hair grown out and new tattoos encased over his arms and legs. Inmyhometown. Onmydad’s damn field. Inmydad’s damn team.
Put a fork in me and call me the Christmas roast.
Because I am well and truly done.
* * *
I spend the entire training session glued to my phone, aggressively texting Jen like I’m live vlogging a scandal. Because, in a way, I am.
It’s him. I got hit in the head with a football and it’shim.
Jen’s rapid-fire texts fly in.
WHAT.
THE.
ACTUAL.
Fuck.
We spiral for a full hour. We analyse every possible angle like we’re cracking a national security breach. She suggests I fake a fainting episode. I consider telling him I have amnesia. After much debate, we land on the most logical and emotionally stable Plan B imaginable:
Pretend I don’t know who the hell he is.
Genius, really. Flawless.
“It’s reverse psychology,” I type. “He thinks I remember. But I don’t. Except I do. But he won’t know I do.”
Jen replies: You are unwell. I love it. Commit.
I shove my phone into my bag with a sigh. Right. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve only fantasised about this man’s tongue more times than I’ve checked my bank balance in the past twelve months, but no biggie.No biggie? The instant heat rising in-between my thighs mocks me as I flashback to the best night of my life. This is indeed a biggie.
I gather myself in body, mind and spirit making my way toward the field, where players are packing up and filtering out one by one. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in my phone screen and suddenly feel weirdly self-conscious.
Which is not like me. I never care what I’m wearing especially around athletes.
Except… today, apparently.
To be fair, I look hot. My dark blue flared jeans hug all the right places, paired with a fitted white tee that shows just enough midriff to say confident, not desperate. My hair is loose, falling in soft waves past my chest. I even bought a Ridgebacks hat at the airport just to impress Dad.
