Page 50 of Player Misconduct
One more deep breath.
My pulse is racing so fast it feels like I’ve just sprinted from the hospital to the arena again, balancing a medical kit and a dozen crisis reports. Except this time, the thing I’m trying to stabilize is myself.
The glove compartment looms in my peripheral vision of my fifteen year old car, closed but not forgotten. Isla’s pregnancy test is still inside. I don’t open it.
Instead, I reach for my lipstick—Vivi’s favorite shade, a soft coral that promises confidence even when you’re running on fumes. I swipe it across my lips in the visor mirror.
My hand doesn’t shake, but my breath does… just a little.
“You’ve survived worse,” I tell my reflection quietly.
It’s not even a lie.
I survived a messy divorce, professional humiliation, and a cheating husband who turned my life into tabloid fodder. I survived starting over in a new city where no one knew my name or my shame.
But somehow, this feels harder.
Maybe because it might turn out not to be just about me anymore. I might have someone else to consider now.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I can stop it. A reflex. A protective instinct I don’t have to train, it’s just there.
It’s not anything, I remind myself.
It’s probably just stress. Or hormones. Or Vivi’s overly perfumed hair spray still clinging to my lungs.
The valet line moves again.
My turn.
I shift the car into park as a young valet jogs toward me, his jacket collar turned up against the drizzle that’s threatening to start again.
He smiles politely as he opens my door, holding out a hand. “Welcome to Bergtolli’s, ma’am.”
I take one last look in the mirror.
Lipstick perfect. Hair smooth. Smile… a little faulty but I can work with it.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself.
Then I open the door and step out into the cool night air. The kind that hums with equal parts possibility and disaster.
I clutch my purse a little tighter. My heels click against the wet pavement, every step a reminder that I’m walking straight into something I probably shouldn’t.
“Just don’t trip on your own heels and we’ll survive the night,” I mutter under my breath, forcing a tight smile as the valet gives me a courteous nod.
I circle the front of the car, blinking against the gleam of the restaurant lights, and there he is—Tarron McCoy.
Tall. Composed. Effortlessly magnetic in a tailored navy suit that probably costs more than my rent.
He’s standing in the entrance, waiting for me, like no time has passed at all.
And just like that, my pulse stumbles, because for the first time in three years, I’m not looking at the ghost of my past.
I’m staring straight into it.
The man responsible for my no-player rule.
The only man who’s ever truly broken my heart.
