Her face pales as she gapes at me. Then she’s flushing dark red, her gaze narrowing. “This again? Jesus, Fiona, you have to stop. It’s pathetic. I didn’t copy your designs. I just did them better.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself to get through the day, Elena.” I lean forward, the urge to hit her so strong that my fingers actually curl into a fist. “That shit you pulled with the curtains? Pretending we’d talked about them? That’s not right. And it’s just one of many lies you’ve told. So don’t you dare act like what’s gone down is all in my head.”
“This is business. You do what you have to do to get ahead.”
“I don’t want to win that way.”
An ugly smile curls her lips. “News flash, Fi. You didn’t win.”
One punch. Surely one punch would be okay?
I keep it together by a thread. “I’m not the only one who knows.”
She flinches. “What?”
“Felix knows. He’s always known. He just doesn’t care because your mother has the contacts he needs.” I take a breath. “Which is why I’m quitting. I can’t work for a man who has no morals, or alongside a woman who uses people as her personal creative well.”
Elena’s hands fist as well. “I have talent—”
“That’s the tragic thing. You do. Real, honest-to-God talent. But instead of cultivating it, you waste your time stealing other people’s ideas.”
Her faces scrunches up, going bright red. “I used to think you were nice. You’re nothing but a bitter bitch.”
I have to laugh. “If being a bitter bitch means I’m no longer your stepping stone, then I gladly accept the title.” With that I stand. “Have a nice life, Elena.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says suddenly. “The pressure. My mom. Everyone knows who she is—”
“I don’t know what that’s like?” I gape down at her. “Are you kidding? My dad was a superstar before I was even born. My mom runs her own business. My sister is fast becoming a regular fixture on ESPN. Hell, I’m swimming in a pool of overachieving family members.”
“That’s not the same. You aren’t in those industries.” Her fist hits her chest. “I have to make my mark in this business.”
I could understand. Hell, I could almost empathize. Almost. “Our parents don’t define us, Elena. Our actions do. And yours suck.”
She goes from flushed to bone white. “Fuck you, Fiona.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling now. “You already have fucked me. And yet I’m the one walking out with my head up.”
And I do, leaving my sketches, Elena, and all her bullshit behind.
There’s a faint fishy smell in the air. I don’t want to be around when it grows stronger. Because I left a present for Felix too. Operation Rotten Fish, as Ivy likes to call it.
We did the same prank on our bitchy ex-camp counselor one summer, smearing fish oil under her bunk and on the inside lining of her trunk. Call it a little fuck you for dunking my head underwater when I couldn’t swim, and for telling Ivy she looked like a flagpole when she clearly had worries about being the tallest, thinnest girl in the camp.
By the end of the summer, the stench had gotten so bad, they had to fumigate. But the trunk remained, and so did the smell.
And though I’d like to believe I’ve grown up since then, the thought of all the fish oil I smeared under Felix’s desk and the tables in Elena’s office gives me a surge of satisfaction. Maybe part of us never grows up. I am surprisingly okay with that.
* * *
Dex
“Dexter, man, you’re living the dream!” Shockey, one of my linemen, gives me a hearty slap on the shoulder as we walk to our cars.
“Not my dream,” I grouse.
The “dream” Shockey refers to is the swarm of women currently dogging my every step. Panties in my locker. Tweets offering blowjobs, hand jobs, rim jobs, don’t-know-what-the-fuck-half-of-this-shit-is jobs. Women showing up outside my townhouse. Waiting for me before practice. It isn’t necessarily anything new. All players get this. It’s the sheer volume and intensity that’s driving me nuts.
“Dex.” A pretty brunette saunters up. She’s wearing my jersey, or what remains of it, because she’s cut the sleeves off and tied it into a knot to bare her midriff. “You look tired. I’d love to give you a massage.”
And they wait for me after practice. I shake my head, shrug off her grasping hands, and keep walking. Shockey, on the other hand, slows.
“Aw, honey, don’t waste your time on him. Why don’t you come and keep me company in my post-workout bath?”
The girl eyes me as if she’s trying to figure out if I’ll cave. I don’t break stride. My keys are out, and I’m in my car. Shockey leads the girl away, and I sit back and just breathe in the scent of fine leather.
I don’t care who you are, every guy goes a little crazy when he signs and gets his first big check. You’d have to be inhuman not to. Some go too crazy, buying everything in sight and saving nothing for later. Others get a few big-ticket items and then manage to hold back. Me, I bought a townhouse and a car.
My friends expected me to go in for a truck, maybe an SUV. They were wrong. I fell in love with a sweet little blue Aston Martin Vanquish. Drew instantly wanted one too, but Anna convinced him that he lives in New York City and doesn’t need a car. Now he has to admire mine from afar. Sucker.
I’m probably too big for this car, but I don’t care. I love her. And right now she’s my sanctuary. Okay, she will be as soon as I pluck the numerous perfume-scented notes and scraps of panties that are scattered like snow on the windshield. That people have pawed my car makes my eye twitch.
“Fucking hell…” I take a breath, tossing all of the mess onto the passenger side of my car—because I refuse to fucking litter—and slamming the door shut.
This has to end. Soon. I’m not used to being hounded this badly. I don’t like it. At all.
Worse? It’s not going away. It’s growing. I’m the butt of every damn sex joke in sports right now. Maybe I shouldn’t be embarrassed. But I am. My skin feels too tight and my stomach leaden. Every time a woman approaches me, seeking out her opportunity, it feels like high school all over again.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I turn the car on and pull out. I revel in the act of driving, losing myself in the purr of the engine and the way the car responds to my slightest touch. I’m home too soon.
Only to find my street blocked by a few reporters and groups of desperate chicks—a few guys too, who assume maybe I’m just not yet out of the closet. I drive around to the back of my property and park in the small carriage garage.
The engine ticks as I sit there, not wanting to get out.
The team’s PR department loves this mess. I’m getting attention—not for drugs or violence, but for being virtuous, which is like a hidden gold mine for them. More ticket sales, more press.
Ivy tells me I should just come out and confess to being with Fi. Or she did until I asked point blank, “And do you honestly believe they’ll leave her alone?”
No. Ivy couldn’t assure me of that.
I think of Fi, the one perfect thing in my life. I want to keep her safe, shelter her from all this ugliness. Just keep her. Forever. She’s mine. Mine to protect. And I really don’t give a shit if that makes me sound like a caveman. Because, frankly, Fi drags the caveman out of me and sets him front and center.
But the truth of the matter hits me like a hammer to the chest. Right now, with all of this shit going on, Fi doesn’t need protection from anything but me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Fiona
I meet my dad at our favorite Chinese restaurant on Mott Street. He and I have almost nothing in common, but we do share a deep and abiding love for soup dumplings and have thus hunted down the best of the best. Despite my fluttering nerves, I slide into the cracked red pleather booth with a hum of anticipation.
“What’s doing, kid?” Dad asks as he sets down his phone. He al
ready has a bottle of Tsingtao beside him and the menu filled out.
I don’t protest because he knows what I like here.
Proof of that, the waitress sets down a Tsingtao for me too. She grabs our order and leaves without a word.
“Lots and lots,” I answer before taking a long pull of the beer. It’s bordering on lukewarm, but then we don’t come here for service.
Dad grunts, focuses on his drink. He’s a big guy. Not in the muscular way of Dex, but all long limbs and towering height.
I don’t know how long he’s been in the city. I never ask. Dad’s sort of transient, seems to like it that way. When he’s here, he stays at some swanky, members-only hotel downtown. Which is fine by me.
I love my dad. I really do. Only, aside from a mutual love of dim sum, we have always been painfully awkward in each other’s presence. I don’t even know why, but it hangs over us like a cloud of bad gas no one wants to mention. And there is the fact that he’s never approved of me.
To that end, I brace my palms on the worn wooden table and take a breath. “I quit my job today.”
Dad sets down his beer. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. If you were sexually harassed, I’ll get up and hunt the bastard down, make him sorry he ever lived. If you were bored, I’ll tell you to get over it, pick a better job next time.” He shrugs. “The reason makes all the difference.”
I am warmed by the idea of my dad kicking someone’s ass for me. “I guess you’re right.” I tell him why I quit, the whole time shaking deep within the pit of my stomach. I hate admitting failure. But I hated my situation more.
While I talk, the waitress sets down a steaming basket of fresh soup dumplings. Dad picks up a delicate, pale little rose of a dumpling. The fragrance of chicken broth and ginger fills the air as he bites and sucks down the soup hidden within.
“So,” he says, “lesson learned. Don’t trust sudden friends who are after the same position as you.”
I have a mouthful of dumpling, so it takes me a moment to swallow and gape up at him. “You’re not going to give me shit?”
“Why would I do that?” His brow scrunches up, making the wrinkles in his face deeper.
“Uhm, because you always give me shit about my…” I hold up my fingers to air quote. “‘Flighty nature’.”
He frowns as if he can’t make out what I’ve just said.
“Oh, come on, Dad,” I say, impatient now. “You’ve called me Flighty Fi since I was a kid.”
“Hey, now. It was a nickname. A term of endearment.”
“Your terms of endearment suck, Dad.”
His frown grows to a scowl. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry you don’t like the term. but…” He shrugs. “You are kind of flighty.”
Shit. That shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Enough that I have to blink to clear my vision.
I push back my plate. “Do you have any clue what it’s done to me to know you think that?”
Dad pauses, dumpling halfway to his mouth. Slowly he lets it settle on his plate. “Honey…” He pauses, his mouth twisting as if he’s groping for some platitude to placate me.
I want to get out of here, but I can’t run away from this.
“It hurts, Dad. You and Mom, you’re both so proud of Ivy. But me? I’m the sad case that keeps letting you down.”
For a sick moment, I really do empathize with fuck-face Elena. Which makes my feelings sting that much more. I sure as shit do not want to find common ground with her.
Dad tosses his chopsticks onto the table where they rattle around. “You do not let us down. You’re just… You have so much potential. We want to see it come to fruition.” He leans forward, the old leather booth creaking beneath him. “Fiona, you’re my kid. Every father wants to see his kid settled. Or he ought to, anyway.”
A shaking breath gurgles in my throat. “Wanting to see me settled and being dubious of my ability to lead my life are two separate things. I know I’m not like Ivy—”
“No,” he cuts in. “You’re like me.”
“You?”
“Don’t look so horrified,” he says dryly.
“It’s just… You’re successful, Dad. People aspire to be like you.”
I swear he flushes. He doesn’t meet my eye as he rubs the back of his head. “I’m a lucky bastard who happened to be tall and coordinated enough to play the game. The agent gig, well…” He shrugs again, grabbing his chopsticks to poke at a dumpling. “I knew the business by then so I took an opportunity.”
I can’t believe he’s downplaying what he is.
“You are, though,” he goes on quietly. “Like me. I too was always searching for something to inspire me, something to get excited about.”
I gape. I know I do. Because how the fuck did he know that about me? How, when I thought he never paid any attention. My dad keeps talking.
“My problem is, I did that by screwing around on your mom. By drinking and partying too much. You?” He meets my eyes, though I can tell it’s hard for him by the way he winces. “You’re more constructive. You’re looking for meaning in life. I’m proud of you for that, Fi. Always have been.”
“Dad…” A watery laugh escapes me. “Shit, you’re going to make me choke up over dumplings.”
“Never waste good dumplings, Fiona.”
I laugh again, and he gives me a tight smile. Being easy and joking with my dad is a new thing. It occurs to me that maybe he’s shy too. I reach over and nudge his bony wrist with my fist. “I’m proud of you too, Dad.”
“Remember the dumpling,” he says, though he’s flushed again. “And never forget this. As much as I want your respect, you never, ever live your life to make someone else happy. You got me?”
He stares me down, he expression as earnest as I’ve seen it. Lump in my throat, I nod. He nods too.
We eat in silence for a while, ordering a plate of steamed pork buns. Around us, Chinese New Yorkers chatter and slurp up dumplings with a deftness that makes me and Dad look like bumbling amateurs. At the front-window counter, an old guy makes stunning little bundles of food art, occasionally yelling in Mandarin to the hostess by the register.
I soak it in, relish my meal. Four years I spent in the South, playing the part of college party girl. It was fun, but here in New York? I feel at home. I love this city. It hums through my veins and makes my heart beat. And I’m going to leave it. Because I want something more.
I’m about to tell my dad this when he speaks again.
“I’m…ah…seeing someone.” Okay, he’s definitely pink now. “Genevieve. She does PR for the Hawks.”
Just like that, I’m grinning. “It must be serious.”
Dad tilts his head in acknowledgement before slurping down a soup dumpling. “She moved into the house,” he says after a moment.
“Good. I don’t like the idea of you rattling around in that big place alone. Just, please tell me she isn’t my age.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Nice, Fi. And you accuse me of giving you shit.”
“Sorry.” It was a low blow.
“She’s only five years younger than me. Is that acceptable?” He’s not smiling, but I can tell he wants to.
“Yeah. Of course. I was being a shit.”
“Wouldn’t be my daughter if you weren’t.”
It’s my turn to duck my head in embarrassment.
“So what are you going to do next?” Dad asks.
“Dex.”
Dad rears back. “What?”
“Shit. No. I mean…” I bite on my lower lip before getting it over with. “I’m seeing someone too. Ethan Dexter.” Worst segue ever, even if it was probably correct. I really can’t wait to do him again. And again. Shit. I’m blushing now.
Dad stares at me for a long moment, his nostrils slightly pinched, then grunts. “Dexter, eh? I kind of thought you’d fall for a chef or some sort of arty type—“
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, not bothering to clarify that Dex actually is ar
ty.
Dad doesn’t pause. “But he’s a good choice.”
I blink. “Really? You think so?”
“Why not? You like him, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“He’s steady, quiet, honest.” Dad rubs a hand over his face. “Not too thrilled about the idea of you ‘doing’ him, but we’ll just pretend that was never mentioned.”
I bury my head in my hands. “I know. God, I suck at basic conversation with you.”
Dad laughs. “No shit.”
“Can we move along now?” I ask from the safety of my hands.
“Sure.” He falls silent, and I lift my head to find him studying me. “So is he the real deal?”
I’m the one who feels shy now. “Yeah, dad. He really is. So much so that I’m going to claim him.”
I cringe again. I meant it figuratively, but it probably isn’t something my dad wants to hear. I’m better off stuffing my mouth with dumplings and not talking again.
Fortunately Dad just nods. “One less thing.”
I don’t know if he’s right, because the fact is, there are things I need to tell Dex too, and I have no idea how he’s going to take them.
Chapter Thirty-Three
FearTheBeard: Can we Skype?
CherryBomb: On it like a bonnet.
FearTheBeard: Gonna take that as a yes.
CherryBomb: :-*
I confess, I fix my hair and put on some lip gloss and mascara before I Skype with Dex. Okay, I change my top too. No way am I wearing my frumpy, knee-length t-shirt with Princess on the Streets, Ogre in the Sheets across the front. Thank you, Gray, for yet another Fiona-themed birthday gift.
Instead, I wear a casual white tank and leave the bra off. If I can’t see Dex every day, I have to make the times we do connect count.
A flutter of anticipation goes through me as I settle down on my bed, my laptop propped on a pillow. Seeing him this way is a treat and a torture. No matter how good it is to talk to Dex, when it’s all done, I close my laptop alone.
The Game Plan (Game On #3) Page 21