Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
And yeah, I’d like to tug on that sleek blonde ponytail more than I should want to, so I do what I’m good at—I shut the hell up, effectively ending the talk about Everly. I drink my smoothie, then head home.
As I swing the door open, I call out, “Honey, I’m home.”
But I can’t find Athena anywhere in my penthouse. Where is that she-devil? I hunt all over, checking the laundry basket, the cupboards, the pantry, the guest room, my bedroom with its sweet view of the Golden Gate Bridge, until finally I look up in the kitchen.
She’s curled up asleep on an exposed beam cutting across the kitchen ceiling.
“How the hell did you get up there?” I ask, scanning the room for the cat path. She must have jumped on the stove hood, then the top of the cabinets, then the beam. Cat parkour.
Grabbing a step stool, I position it under the beam, then climb up and snag the little critter. She unleashes a wild yowl as I pick her up.
“I don’t like being woken up either, girl,” I say softly, then carry her in my arms down the steps till I can set her on the floor, where she immediately administers bathing protocol to wash the touch of human off her perfect cat-ness.
I head to bed for a nap, smacking the pillow a few times to get it just right before I settle in. Normally, I crash right away on game days. But Asher’s remarks gnaw at me. Sure, Everly’s beautiful. Yes, she’s smart. But we don’t get along. Hell, she looked like she wanted to hurl liquor bottles from the hotel room mini bar at me the night I returned her bralette and suitcase to her room. Probably wanted to chuck my cologne bottle at my head too. Admittedly, I’d have deserved her hellfire and fury. Still, she drives me up the wall day in and day out, always asking me to do this kind of feature, or that kind of feature, this cute piece, that little piece—devising her clever ways to try to get me to break. One time, she dangled concert tickets for me if I’d share with a streaming service ten songs I listen to when I work out. I told her to ask Bryant instead. She did and he gave them his entire playlist. Another time, she even said if I talked to the media after a late game, she’d hire a limo to take my teammates and me to play pool afterward. I told her I’d require a yacht.
I was a little surprised there wasn’t a yacht waiting for me after the game. The woman doesn’t back down. She’s as relentless as I am stubborn, and I’m sure it pisses her off that I don’t play her game. But it bugs me that she thinks she can wear me down and get me to talk to the media about anything. I don’t trust them, and I’m not even sure I trust her. Before she worked for the team, she was one of them. No, she didn’t show up at my sister’s house late that night, demanding answers and harassing her, but she stuck her damn phone in my face after games, asking questions.
Then, she switched sides, and came to work for the team.
But, as much as I hate to admit it, she did help me out of a jam the other night in Seattle when Lyra landed in town. Things might have been so much worse if not for Everly’s clever smuggling of me out the back door at the arena.
I smack the pillow again. Flip to my side. Try to crash.
But something else gnaws at me now—the fact that she helped me out in a big way. I should at least say thank you for what she did. Sighing heavily, I grab my phone, and google a bakery near the arena. Then I send her a slice of cake. Chocolate, since that’s the most sinful. I ask the bakery to add a card and the words—I hear cake goes well with working on upcoming publicity plans.
Like she said to me.
With that done, I close my eyes and drift off in no time.
When I wake up an hour later, Athena’s curled around my neck, purring up a storm, and I don’t want to get out of bed.
But I do it anyway. I have a game to win.
10
THE SUMMER GARDEN DINNER TRICK
Max
Phoenix is aggressive from the second the puck drops. They’re working me hard, taking shot after potent shot on goal. I can’t get a break. Our defenders aren’t getting their sticks on the rebounds enough, and every time one of our forwards snags the puck, Phoenix strips them of it.
I’m lunging for the bullets flying my way. Slapping most down, but not enough.