by K. Bromberg
He knew what I needed to hear.
I think of the years I endured verbal abuse from my own dad. The constant pushing from a man who never made much of himself so he needed me to be and do what he never could. I recall the moment, a few months after Carson took me under his wing, where I realized what a cancer my own father was in my life.
I swirl the drink in my glass and rest my arms on the bar, head angled down, and try to ignore the sickening feeling in my gut. I definitely don’t deserve Carson Vega in my life.
I know I’m letting my mentor down, but he’s letting me down as well. At least that was the double whammy gut punch I felt when I got the phone call late last night as I headed back to the suite after the match.
I’ll find a way to make this up to him.
I know I will.
FINN
“FUCKING FINN. ALWAYS STEALING THE pretty girls.”
“It’s a bullshit story meant to sell headlines,” I mutter. The image of Stevie staring at me is now burned into my memory. The image all over social media I simultaneously wanted to tear my eyes from and couldn’t stop staring at.
The problem is I’m not sure why.
“Story or not,” my close friend and NFL pro-bowler, Gabe, says, “she was in your arms looking at you all lovey, dovey.”
“I’m her fucking babysitter is what I am.”
He snorts. “So you’re into the kinky role-playing then? Does she wear the schoolgirl uniform when she comes over so you have to bend her over your knee and spank her into submission?” His laugh fills the line.
“Fuck you.”
We banter like this. It’s what we do.
So I’m not sure why it bugs me this time.
“Oh.” His laughter stops as he feels out whether the words are playful or serious. “So the look was genuine, then?”
“What look?” I stop outside the entrance to the casino. On one side of me, there’s a half-dressed woman walking around in stripper heels trying to sell photos with her and on the other, a man dressed up like Michael Jackson, busking for money. I don’t pay attention to either because I’m so focused on Gabe.
“The one the whole world saw tonight. The look that says Carson is right.”
“Come again?”
“Well, isn’t he how the two of you connected? I thought he stepped in to rep her and then all of a sudden I see that you’re there, so I assumed—”
“He handed her off to me. That’s right. What exactly did you mean about Carson being right though?” I hold my finger to my open ear and try to find a stretch of somewhat quiet so I can hear what he’s saying.
“Clearly you’ve been working too much and haven’t been paying attention to the life that’s all around you.”
“Gabe, get to the fucking point.” I’m tired and want to know what the hell he’s talking about.
“Did you see that Tori Belcher and Ronnie Feldman are engaged?” he asks out of the blue about the WSL soccer player and MLB pitcher.
“Yeah, I sent them a congratulations message. What does that have to do with me?”
“What about Tommy Tuttle and Simone Grandy?” An NFL pro-bowler and an Olympic gymnast. “They were married last year.”
“Gabe,” I warn.
“Do you know what they all have in common?” My sigh is my only response. “They met after Carson—wink, wink—pushed them together through some project.”
“Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes and give a shake of my head he can’t see.
“I’m serious. He’s getting sentimental in his old age and keeps giving everyone the speech about finding someone to enjoy life with as he’s shoving them together,” he says as I dig in my pocket and put some money in a panhandler’s cup.
Carson knows me better than that. He knows how I am, how I—
“How was it the two of you came to work together again?” Sarcasm drips from his words.
“It doesn’t matter how we came to work together.” I sigh. “It matters that there’s nothing between us.”
“You’re such a fucking liar, Sanderson. You think I’m buying that shit when the evidence is there in full fucking color?” He laughs and I groan.
“Whatever.” I shove a hand in my pocket and decide to walk around to another entrance to the casino to buy time.
“Whatever? I think the evidence is in the fact you haven’t hit that yet.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning once you fuck a chick, you move on. The only woman you didn’t do that to was Chase Kincade, and you played cat and mouse with her for months before you dated her for a while.”
He’s right. I don’t want to admit it so I keep my mouth fucking shut.
I pursued Chase for way too long. I like to think it was the hard-to-get thing that fueled me on when normally I would have dropped interest, but it was more than that.
I liked Chase. I liked her a lot. She wasn’t a fall-at-your-feet type of girl. They’re a dime a dozen these days. Instead, she was combative, independent, determined, feisty, and told me how it was.
Kind of like Stevie is.
I push the thought out of my head just as quickly as it drifts in. Chase is nothing like Stevie. Not in the least.
Besides, when push came to shove and shit got too serious, I cheated on Chase. Cheated on her with a random chick because it was so much easier to have her make the call and dump me.
So much easier than admitting I was freaked the fuck out that I liked her more than I admitted and was waiting for the other shoe to drop. That I was waiting for her to leave me like it had been ingrained in me my whole life.
“Let’s get something straight, here, Stevie isn’t Chase. I’m temporarily in charge of getting Stevie’s career back on track. The last thing I need to do is sleep with her.”
“I think that’s exactly what you need to do.”
“We . . . never mind.” My hesitation says it all and fucking hell.
“Oooooh,” Gabe shouts into the phone. “That means you want to then.”
“All I was going to say is that we have a professional relationship but I figured it wouldn’t do any good to say it.”
“I have a professional relationship with my agent too, but I don’t look at her like you looked at Stevie tonight.”
Fuck.
Just fuck.
“You’re being an asshole,” I mutter.
“Yep, just like you always are to me. Jesus, man. She’s really got you all twisted up,” he says and I admit nothing because there’s nothing to admit. “Nothing says Finn Sanderson is done with a woman like him admitting he slept with her. So fuck her, already. Get her out of your system so you can move on. She’ll hate you for it, but it will make working with her that much easier.”
“Spoken by a man who clearly has a superior moral compass.” I enter the casino and am assaulted by the unmistakable scents of Vegas. “Aren’t you the same man who thought it was a wise move to date your quarterback’s ex-wife?” When he doesn’t answer, I say, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Touché, my friend. Touché.” He chuckles as I make my way to the elevator in this maze of a casino. “When do I get to see you again?”
“When I’m done with this babysitting job. I think I’m going to work from the West Coast for a while—”
“Your house in San Diego?” he asks, his voice excited. We had way too much fun—er trouble—the last time he visited.
“I think. I’ll let you know.”
“Sounds good. Hey, Finn?”
“Hmm?” I enter the elevator.
“Do me a favor. Thank Carson for the matchmaking service, then fuck her and get her out of your system. This much confusion isn’t healthy for a man.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as he hangs up and I’m left walking down the hallway of the hotel, thinking about shit I never thought I’d be thinking about when I woke up this morning.
Like if Carson set this up like it’s a dating game.
Like why I walked away from Stevie wh
en she tried to kiss me, and it has nothing to do with me being her agent and needing to stay professional.
Like why right now all I keep thinking about is the expression on my face in that viral image. I’m not sure how I feel about it.
The problem is whether Carson set up this whole thing or not, it fucking worked.
I’m the one entering the suite and staring at her closed door, wondering if she’s in there and wanting to see her. I’m the one thinking way too much about almost kisses and missed opportunities that first night.
Then again, if I listen to Gabe, if I had slept with her that first night, none of this would even be crossing my mind.
I’d have washed my hands of her in that aspect and moved on. Well at least I moved on.
And kissed goodbye a six-figure package.
“Rough day, sugar?”
I startle from my thoughts about my earlier phone call with Gabe, glance over, and smile politely at the waitress as she cleans empty glasses and bottles off her tray. Her smile is soft and her eyes are kind—a total contrast to the ridiculous feather and jewel outfit the casino makes her wear that fits in with their motif.
“Something like that,” I murmur and take a sip, replaying last night and my phone call to Carson earlier through my head.
You’re disappointing me, son.
“It’s slow. I’ve got time if you need an ear.”
She must think I’m pathetic, sitting here drinking whiskey by myself in the middle of the day as if I were a gambling addict after a rough night of losses.
There’s a cheer that goes up from the other side of the casino and I glance that way before answering. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I’m good.”
I was counting on you to help me out and last night was proof that you were the right person for the job.
“Okay. Should I get you another one then?” She tips her head to my half-empty glass.
“Nah. I have client meetings I need to get to. Phone calls.” It’s not a lie, but the last thing I want to do right now is work. “I should get up to my room.”
“Okay. Well, best of luck with them.” Another round of yelling goes up and she stands on her tippy-toes to look and see but shrugs as if she can’t see anything.
“At least someone’s getting lucky,” I murmur.
She laughs and pats me on the shoulder. “I hope whoever she is, she’s worth this misery you seem to have found yourself in.”
My smile falters. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been doing this for over ten years. I know a man in misery over a woman when I see one and you, sir, are the perfect picture of just that.”
I open my mouth to refute her but leave it be.
It doesn’t matter to her.
But hell if it doesn’t matter to me. I slide some tip money across the bar with the intention of heading up to the new room I booked last night. The one that gave me a little more space from her so that I could clear my head and prepare to call Carson.
The call I made but the confrontation I didn’t have. Why didn’t I ask him if Gabe was right and that he set this all up?
Isn’t that the question of the fucking day?
Is it because I was afraid the answer would be yes or because regardless of the answer, there’s an undeniable attraction and chemistry between us?
Even now, I’m fucking thinking about her.
“I just don’t think we gel well, Carson. Last night was a fluke and she pulled it off, but I’m not the right fit for her.”
Right fit for her my ass.
But it was my excuse. My reasoning.
And it’s a damn good one to smother how I feel about last night. The look on her face. The one captured by the camera and spread around the world.
Stevie is falling for me, and I can’t have that.
I quit because of her.
Not because of how I feel at all.
“Thanks.” I smile and rise from my seat, drink still in hand, as a chant breaks out that I can’t quite make out.
Of course, I look.
Anything to take my mind off my current misery and avoidance is clearly welcome. And lucky for me, the crowd chanting in a circle is in the direction I’m headed.
But it’s only when I get closer that I notice it’s mostly men stretching on their toes and craning to see, with phones held above their heads to record whatever’s happening.
It’s only then that I catch on to the chant.
Ste-vie!
Ste-vie!
I catch a glimpse on one of the phone screens being held up. I know that head of blond hair.
Oh. Shit.
STEVIE
THE SHOTS OF TEQUILA ARE lined up on the edge of the poker table. Four are empty and six are sitting there waiting for me to fail.
“Stevie.” I hear my name, an angry sound against all the encouraging ones. “Goddammit, Lancaster.”
The crowd around me parts as I wiggle my bra out through the armhole of my shirt and fling it onto the poker table, the black lace a contrast to the green felt. I should be worried about what item of clothing I’ll have to remove next time I lose a hand, but I’m not. I’m more focused on the tequila that will taste like acid as it goes down.
But not drinking it means I feel. And I don’t want to feel. I want to drink another shot to help push me back into the numbing abyss I’ve been living in.
I grit my teeth when Finn breaks through the crowd—the owner of the voice—and meet his eyes as I down another shot.
The crowd around me cheers while I stare at him, a fuck you lift to my eyebrow as I turn back to the dealer and smile. “Shall we?”
I don’t know shit about poker—how to play, the terms, what to do—but I know the rules of this bet were when one player loses a hand, they have to remove an item of clothing and take a shot.
Needless to say, the man across from me is fully clothed and I’m sitting without shoes, socks, and now my bra.
“Stevie. Let’s go,” Finn demands as he pushes his way through the crowd toward me.
“Leave her the hell alone, man,” comes from the right. The voice’s owner, a big, burly guy, stops Finn’s progress.
“I’m fine. I’m good.” My head swims with the tequila, and I wave a hand at Finn as the dealer deals the cards. I close my eyes for a quick second, and then try to focus on the cards without lifting them too high. I don’t want to meet the pair of eyes across the table from me.
The asshole who badgered me as I walked through the casino. Telling me how last night had to have been rigged because there’s no way I beat Ian Greshenko without it being fixed. The prick who got in my face and told me I wasn’t good enough to have won. I hate men. I truly hate them all.
And then I exploded. A dare from him, a challenge from me one-upping the stakes, and here we are—strip poker on the floor of a Vegas casino.
Vivi and Jordan would be proud that I created my own Cards O’ Fun without them.
Besides, this—the alcohol, the challenge, the adrenaline pumping through me—is what I needed to feel like me again after the blow I got this morning from Carson about Finn.
“Stevie. This isn’t what you need—”
“You gave up the right to know what I need or don’t need when you quit on me.” I shout the words at him across the table, not really caring who hears or how it makes him feel.
“Your boyfriend coming to save you from the embarrassment? Pretty little princess needs rescuing?” my opponent, Hank, asks from his spot across the table with a smug grin.
“He’s nothing to me,” I mutter as I glance at the cards in my hand and the two sitting face up on the table in front of me. I have a shit hand. No pairs. No straights. No flushes. With a measured breath to not show my hand, I push two, one-hundred-dollar chips into the pot and hope I can bluff my way into not having to remove another item of clothing before the last card is turned over.
“Two hundred?” Hank lifts an eyebrow and glances over to Finn, who is making a scene I don�
�t want right now. Ha. I guess I’m making a scene too, but what do I care. That’s par for the course with me. I wonder if Finn would appreciate a lecture about how to act in public. About how you need to be on your best behavior since it’s not easy to repair a damaged reputation. “That’s all?” Hank taunts. “Must not have a good hand.”
“I believe I’ve already put one thousand in the pot. Think what you want to think, but you’re the one who’s getting close to losing his pants.” I lean back and smile at him, praying for at least a pair of Kings with the river card.
“I think you’re bluffing.” He matches my ante and the dealer turns the river card over. Hank fist-pumps with a shout while I cringe.
I’ve got a big fat nothing. The crowd around us doesn’t know it and starts chanting my name again for me to turn over my cards.
Either that or for me to remove another item of clothing.
I take the shot of tequila before I turn over the cards and the crowd roars when they see I have nothing to beat Hank.
“A bet’s a bet,” I say, swaying a little when I stand, my hands going to the button of my denim shorts.
“Party’s over.” It’s the last words I hear before Finn’s hands are pushing my hands off my waist and forcing me back from the table.
I shove him but he doesn’t budge an inch. “I’m not your problem anymore,” I grit at him as I reach for another shot that he slaps my hand away from.
“Christ, woman.” It’s a swear below the hum of people shouting at him to leave me alone, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch when I push his shoulder as he simultaneously grabs my bra and remaining chips off the poker table before trying to escort me out of there.
Fury courses through my veins. “Leave me alone. You don’t get to tell me—”
“Like hell I don’t,” Finn says before picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I’m a sack of potatoes who doesn’t have a say.
“Put. Me. Down,” I shout, my legs kicking and my hands slapping at his butt as he tightens his grip over my thighs while walking through the casino like nothing is amiss.
People are staring.
At least I assume they are because I’m face down being treated like a little kid, but not a single person steps in to help me out. Instead, I see flashes from phones taking pictures.