by Natalie Wrye
“Of course it is.” “And we want to make sure they have access to our best resources.”
“You are one of our best resources, Emily. Or you could be…if all goes well with Sevin.”
There’s a warning beneath his words, an unspoken threat.
The thought that Stephan Knight, my boss and one of the most well-connected men in Chicago, is calling me at midnight on a weekend makes the threat even more vivid.
And for the hundredth time, I remind myself that I asked for this. Wanted this. Worked for this.
My career is everything to me. Especially now.
My heart skips a dangerous beat as I remind myself that my boss is a walking, talking crystal ball, and even now he was probably watching me somehow, having snuck cameras inside my apartment to mock me—the new girl alone on a Saturday night, sipping ramen in a tattered t-shirt in her living room.
He answers my unspoken speculation.
“We’re making Sevin priority number one. I want you by his side every step through this.”
“Of course, Stephan. Whatever it takes.”
“I’m counting on you.”
The vote of confidence feels false. But I’ll take it.
Because career rule number one…
Don’t piss your boss off.
So, instead of telling him to eat a Chicago hot-dog sized dick for calling me at an ungodly hour, I simply smile and put my practiced corporate face on.
The knowledge that this—the late nights, the lonely meals, my couch, some nineties Meredith Brook music and noodles—has become my life makes my chest tighten for the smallest of seconds, and I pull my back straight, glancing over the shiny steel and silver of Chicago’s Millennium Park, outside my windows, reminding myself…that isn’t this what I once wanted?
A career that was shiny? Sterling?
I swallow my pride and the remnants of ramen still in my mouth.
“I appreciate your faith in me, Stephan,” I, at last, utter. “I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t, Miss Armand. We take care of our clients. Professionally, of course. You’ll do well here at The Firm. As long as you remember that.”
The March Chicago weather outside of my living room window is still cold, I know. But Stephan’s last statement is colder.
By the time he hangs up, my apartment feels hotter than one of the Hemsworth brothers sun-bathing in Hell.
And I’m still staring at Sevin’s most recent message. My newest client. A man who could make or break my shiny, sterling corporate career.
A man I absolutely, definitely, undoubtedly need to stay away from.
Chapter 4
SEVIN
Wednesday night
I check the messages on my phone, pretending I’m not searching for Emily’s reply.
Unfortunately, I’m not the world’s greatest actor.
My phone has been unnaturally busy today.
A “touching base” text from my trainer. A quick call from my batting coach.
Ten messages from Kayla since this morning. Another two unanswered calls from Sawyer. And five texts from a New York-bound Naomi.
As for my hazel-eyed elevator buddy?
Exactly none.
Not that I’ve been searching for one.
I stare at her picture on the MyNeighbor app like a loser, hating how just the sight of her has my stomach tying in knots. I toss my phone as far as it can go, letting it land on my couch.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.”
“Note to Sevin…” Sawyer mutters from the corner of my living room as I walk towards the bar, suddenly in need of another drink. “Once you finish one of those gin bottles, use it as a ‘Swear Jar.’ You’re completely on edge.”
“Fuck being on edge. I’m over the edge at this point,” I grind out between gritted teeth, fingers closing around the gin. “Because Naomi’s flight has already been delayed. Twice. She’s locked on the island of Manhattan after spending a couple of days to see family. And while it’s finally starting to warm up in Chicago, in New York? It’s Game of Thrones weather. Full-on Winterfell.”
Sawyer arches a brow. “Well, Ned Stark did say ‘Winter is Coming.’”
“Which means she won’t be there for an important meeting I’m having tomorrow with my lawyers. I’m totally fucked.”
“My least favorite way to use the f-word.”
I rub a hand through my hair. “I should have had the meeting with my lawyers when I still had the chance.”
“And risk being late for Friday’s game? Coach could barely take that loss against the Bruisers. The Serpents are the second best team in the conference. Hell, he won’t tolerate any of us wiping our asses the wrong way. Especially you.”
Damn. Sawyer’s right. As much as I hate to admit it.
Coach had already called me this morning, checking on the status of my knee. His voice was gruff.
Even with every certainty that I was ready for the regular season, even with all the assurances from my doctor, trainer and physical therapist, I could see the old man still had his doubts.
I was a former New York Fever player, an MVP. But I hadn’t yet proven myself with the Cougars, and the fleshy jowled curmudgeon was never going to let me forget it.
The urge to flip to the sports news articles about my status as a Cougar is stronger than ever, as Sawyer pokes and prods at my sanity in the living room of my apartment.
We’re only supposed to be in Chicago for the next thirty-six hours, but I’m already exhausted from the back-and-forth of not just the travel, but of mentally skimming the sports pages again and again, the potential headlines about me burned into my brain every time I close my eyes.
“Sevin Smith: A hidden love-child in his secret past?”
“Sevin Smith: Sports star. Famous face. Father?”
“Sevin Smith: A Different Type of ‘Daddy’ than You’d Think!”
I close my eyes and see each one, even now.
Sawyer sits forward from the armchair he’s perched in, his stare full of mischief as he glances up at me. He rubs his large palms together, a smile forming on his face.
“You might want to look on the bright side to having that babysitting Naomi sidelined for a bit.”
I find myself sighing. “What’s the bright side?”
“We can finally have that Playboy party we talked about. There’s nothing like a little ‘rabbit action’ to make a man forget all his woes.”
I spin on my heel. “Is your mind permanently in the gutter or does it sit and fester there all day? I’m genuinely curious.”
He closes the magazine in his lap, standing to his feet. He shoves one hand in his jeans pocket. “Look, Sev, you don’t have to tell me…” His voice trails off. “I’m an asshole for trying to make light of everything, and I apologize. But if I didn’t make jokes, you’d slip back into that scary place you’d been right after we got drafted. And I never want to see you in that place again.”
My shoulders slump as I stare at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad?” His blue eyes round. “In what was supposed to be the happiest times of our lives, you were stomping around as if someone had kicked your puppy. For an entire month, you had the patience of a disgruntled grizzly bear.” He points at my lightly bearded face. “And the shaving habits to match. Guess you never outgrew that part, huh?”
“I’m just…stressed, that’s all.”
“Okay,” my old friend sighs. “Then be stressed. But remember it’s only baseball, Sterling.”
A thought that turns me into ice.
Because baseball was part of my fucked-up, wanting-to-get-drunk soul. Always had been.
Any time that little round sphere full of leather and yarn was tossed in front of my face, my fingers itched to wrap their scrapped lengths around a bat.
That feeling when I stepped on a diamond. That damned rush.
It was silly, really. I was a goddamned adult in love with a kid’s gam
e.
But there was something about the game that had inked itself into my skin like a tattoo.
A childhood game, for fuck’s sake, was undoubtedly my biggest reason for breathing, and sending that little white ball over a home run fence was as natural to me as existing.
“Only baseball”?
Never.
Telling me, a man who dreamed of being a shortstop since he was old enough to hold a bat, that baseball was a game—only a game—was like telling me not to wake up every morning. Like telling the jungle cat not to hunt and feed.
As if a code hadn’t already been in the cat’s DNA; baseball sure as hell was in mine.
Sawyer sighs as I stay silent. “I’m just saying, Sterling: You’ve got a bit of a dark cloud hanging over you, and I think the damn thing is starting to drift over me too. A party might help, I don’t know, poke a few holes in it to let in some light. The damn post-draft day beard you once had is back. You seem to have developed a special relationship with that bottle of gin, something I’ve never seen you do. And your attitude is hella on ice. You might want to look into thawing it a little bit.”
But I can’t thaw my attitude. Not now.
There’s too much uncertainty in the air.
Sawyer isn’t wrong. The problem is…the only cracks I’ve seen in the ice forming have come from the few times I’ve talked to Emily, the sexy hazel-eyed beauty from the elevator.
I can’t get the brunette out of my mind.
Her light, feathery laughter. Her small smile.
Her witty quips and sharp tongue were enough to interest me, draw me into her, not to mention those round, saucer-like eyes staring back at me.
Gold, brown and green in the most gorgeous way, those hypnotic irises waylaid me with a single stare. I’d thought about ripping those doors apart in those moments that she exited the tiny steel cage, pressing and holding her against the wall, letting her feel just how crazy she made me.
God knows I would have, if sense hadn’t grabbed ahold of me first. Unluckily for me, however, I’m starting to think that maybe I should have said to hell with sense. Insanity was much better anyway.
Because it’s been four entire days since I’ve messaged her on the MyNeighbor app, and, unlike any other woman I’ve interacted with, she doesn’t give a shit. Because she still hasn’t replied.
I’m starting to think I came off too strong. Or maybe not strong enough.
Either way, her obvious lack of reply has left me twisting in doubt, and dammit if I’m not used to doubt in my life anymore as Sterling Sevin Smith. I haven’t had to worry about doubt in over nine years.
I turn to the devil on my shoulder AKA Sawyer, deciding that maybe he’s right. Maybe a distraction is just what I need.
I know no rock record I have on vinyl will cut it for the type of night I need.
I cross my arms. “Forget tomorrow. How many Playboy bunnies can you get to my apartment in an hour?”
The sandy-haired devil grins, a sloppy smile spreading over his lips. He leans over to slap my shoulder, the hit sharp.
“Now we’re talking…” He nods. “Just leave the rest up to me.”
And I do. Every single detail.
Less than forty minutes later, we shake off the Arizona jet-lag and the exhaustion of the week to tidy up my apartment, and in that time, Sawyer has managed to call every centerfold in the city, racking up a crowd worthy of filling Chicago stadium…with half the clothing.
My penthouse fills with every size F bra in the state, as if somehow the double D’s are out of style.
Cheesy strobe lights dancing around the ceiling, the sounds of sixties band Spirit’s song “Animal Zoo” beating against the wall, Sawyer’s little “shin-dig,” as promised, blossoms into a full-on rager.
There’s enough silicone in my living room to fill a rubber factory, and with a full glass of vodka and cranberry in my hand, I roam through the expansive penthouse, letting my gaze bounce around the rooms and halls.
Bunnies and ‘Baseball Annies’ line the kitchen and living room walls, making it nearly impossible to move through. A few of our current teammates and some of our old ones—those playing for the city’s second team—stand at the center of a few female circles, smiles wide, eyes glazed from all the alcohol that continues to flow from hand to hand.
It’s like the night before the draft all over again.
There’s me—pretending not to care about a woman. And there’s Sawyer, lavishing in all of the cleat chasers’ attention.
Even Lenny’s here, my old teammate from college in New York.
Fresh in from Milwaukee, the grizzly bear of a man comes lugging my way, one side of his wide mouth curving up into a smile that reminds me of how carefree I’d been just nine years ago.
He leans in beside me, his big body nudging mine near the kitchen counter. He nods to my drink.
“Question…” he starts. “I just need to know: Have you magically transformed into a fourteen-year old girl in the last few years, Smith?”
I frown. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re babysitting the hell out of that drink.”
I fight the urge to snort, nudging him back. “I forget how utterly lame you can be.”
He motions to the rest of the room. “It’s like Baskin Robbins in here. Thirty-one flavors of everything you could ever need.”
I raise my eyebrows, glancing down in my own drink. “I’m on a diet.”
“From what? Beautiful women?”
I shrug. “You could say that.”
“If you truly mean that, then you’re more anti-fun than I thought, Smith. Jesus, what happened to you?” His eyes narrow on my face, his long curly hair drooping near enough to brush me. I shove him back. “It’s not Draft Day or anything. You can have a drink, you know.”
He doesn’t get how much I know. Unlike Naomi, a witness to the wreck I’ve been these last two weeks, no one knows how badly I want to drink right now, how badly I want to make impending thoughts of my career’s end go away.
But the thought of me drinking myself into oblivion right now, of being too tipsy and missing one of Emily’s messages is enough to make me want to take it slow.
Lenny takes a slurp of his own drink, downing half a glass in one gulp. I watch him swallow. “And no one’s saying you have to gorge yourself on this…” He glances appreciatively over the penthouse. “Buffet in front of us. But would it hurt you to have a sample?”
I want to tell Lenny that I haven’t sampled anything from a buffet like this in over six months, but I don’t want to give the big man a heart attack. Instead I tilt my vodka glass towards my lips, taking a healthy sip.
The clear-ish pink liquid slides smoothly down my tongue—a bit tart with a bite.
Lenny slaps me on the shoulder. “There you go, Smith. Live a little. Welcome to, what we like to call, fun.”
As if my entire career teetering on edge isn’t enough fun for one lifetime.
But after glancing down at my digital itinerary for the seventh time tonight, I realize that Naomi isn’t going to make it to Chicago for this meeting with “my lawyers” AKA The Firm.
I’m monumentally screwed. And alone.
While the Northeast is getting slammed with snow, preventing any travel in and out of the city, I know that by the time the damn unexpected storm lets up, I’ll be knee-deep in shit.
I take another sip of my drink, swallowing harder this time, and more liquid sloshes down my throat.
Sixty minutes later, the liquid isn’t just sloshing; it’s ‘water-falling.’
I’m on my third glass of vodka and the drinks just keep on coming.
Good ol’ Sawyer and Lenny only encourage my encroaching debauchery and with several ounces of alcohol in my system, I find myself chatting up a busty blonde with sizable cleavage. Her golden skin practically glistens underneath the blue-white strobe lights, and I struggle to maintain conversation as she launches into the subject of the voting for ‘Bunny of the
Year.’
The room swirls for a second as I listen, coming back into focus just as quickly. I straighten against the wall, regrouping mentally as our talk meanders.
“So, is it trueee?” The bunny drawls.
“Is what true?”
“Are you as good on the baseball field as they say?”
“Better,” I say, grinning, the alcohol making my ease with talking grow. I lift my glass to my lips again, just as the bunny grabs it. She wraps her fingers around mine.
“That isn’t the only place I hear you’re really really good.”
The bunny’s intentions are clear, as see-through as the shirt on her busty frame.
If only she were the flavor I really wanted.
The thought of my elevator ride-buddy Emily has me lowering the glass in my hand, the memory of stroking myself to thoughts of kissing the quick-tongued brunette making every muscle in my body freeze from the unexplored tension twisting through it.
She’s the one I’d rather sample tonight. Not this ‘Bunny of the Month.’
Not used to having liquid courage like this, I hand off the drink to the buxom blondie, making my way for the door.
Chapter 5
SEVIN
Wednesday night
Phone in hand, the MyNeighbor app now on the screen, I scroll to Emily’s profile, noting the apartment number under her account. I take the elevator the single floor down, my pulse pumping.
I’m a wreck without some Jim Morrison or Zeppelin to calm me down, my mind racing a million miles a minute. I stare at my cell phone screen hard enough to break the glass.
Sweating beneath my t-shirt collar, my fingers are tingling, hair wrung and disheveled as I run one hand through my dark strands and use the other hand to pound on her door, my ears straining to listen for any noise inside.
I wait.
Nothing.
I knock two more times, fighting my need to break the damn door, when I hear the sounds of shuffling footsteps from behind me.
Like in the locker room at the fitness center.