Hate the Game

by Rose, Callie

  “Oh, yeah, she hates him. Hey, Sawyer! If you don’t show up tomorrow we’ll tell the cops you froze to death from an icy glare!”

  “If she tries to seduce you, don’t give in! She’ll eat your head!”

  “Why his head?”

  “I don’t know, I saw it on animal planet.”

  “That’s a praying mantis!”

  “She’ll eat his heart out, is what she’ll do. I saw that on The History Channel.”

  “That’s a cannibal!”

  “Where’s a carnival?

  “Sawyer’s bedroom.”

  Their lighthearted mocking followed me out onto the pavement. I deserved it though. I had thoroughly shamed them on the ice, and I would gladly do it again. I flipped the whole crowd off with a grin as I slid into my car, then circled the parking lot to find Addison. She was waiting impatiently at the entrance, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

  It occurred to me that this woman wasn’t used to taking crap. I figured I should probably tutor her in the art through repeated exposure; after all, putting up with crap is a good life skill to have. I honked at her and grinned when she jumped.

  Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun.

  7

  Addison

  “I hate jocks!”

  I was back at the hotel, packing my stuff furiously while I talked to Rebecca on the phone.

  “Oh, come on,” she said soothingly. “It’s not like they’re all the same.”

  “They are when they’re in a pack,” I fumed. “And now I have to spend two weeks in this guy’s house, and—”

  “What? You’re going to be living with Sawyer Freaking Dawson?!”

  “Staying with,” I corrected. “Temporarily. And don’t get any ideas, Becks. The guys on the team already jumped to those exact same conclusions. Loudly. I’m just going there so we can get through this process quickly and efficiently.”

  “Oh my God, you have to tell me everything. I have to know how he lives.”

  “Can I just vent for like a minute? Jeez, Rebecca, I’m miserable here!” I tossed a handful of clothes into my suitcase harder than necessary, and they spilled out over the side. “Damn it.”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry.” She sounded chagrined. “I just… like, I understand that you’re miserable, I just can’t wrap my head around why. Sawyer Dawson… ” She sighed with gusto. “I mean, okay, so he messed up pretty bad, but he’s such a good guy!”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well, okay, so you can’t just look at what he’s done over the last couple years, that’s not fair. You have to look at what he did—”

  “When he was dating a philanthropist? So the guy’s a relationship chameleon, so what? The way I see it, his true nature is what he does when he’s alone. And apparently, when he’s alone he tears up the town and goes out of his way to torment me.”

  “Torment you? What did he do?”

  “Called me out in front of a diner full of people, set me up to walk in on his team in the locker room—”

  “Oh! Were they changing?” She positively squealed.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, they were changing, and it was mortifying. One of them yelled at me.”

  “Ooohhh… ”

  “No, not… Jesus, you are useless for this.” I couldn’t help but laugh in spite of my frustration.

  “I am, I know, I’m sorry. That’s just, like, my number one fantasy, that’s all.”

  “To get yelled at by a naked hockey player?”

  “Ooohhhh… ”

  “You have issues.”

  “I do! I know I do, but I can’t help it. I like the domination.”

  “Then you should’ve been assigned this job,” I said with a sigh.

  “Nope. For two reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  “Well, for one, I’m not a journalist. That seems like kind of a prerequisite. Second, I would be so star-struck that I’d write whatever he told me to write. Seriously. He could tell me that he got his talent from an alien overlord hockey fan and his good looks from his father Zeus, and I would print that without a second thought.”

  “You would not, Becks.” I laughed.

  “No, really, I would. I bet you anything that the rest of Edwards’ team would do the same. That’s why she sent you, you know.”

  “No, she sent me because the last thing I wrote for her is going to earn the magazine an award.” I zipped up my suitcase, which I had finally managed to pack passably well.

  “Yeah, maybe that was part of it. But if I was an editor, I would send the person least likely to be swayed by her personal opinions. You’re the only person in that office who’s capable of writing this objectively, because you don’t like sports and you aren’t easily swayed by throbbing, glistening, hard, toned muscles.”

  “When you put it like that… .”

  “You’re the only person for the job, Addison. And the best writer on her staff. You got this. Just don’t let them get to you, okay? Guys are opportunistic comedians. Let them laugh and move on with your life. Keep your focus on the story, and your eyes on Sawyer Dawson’s rippling pectorals.”

  “You were almost one hundred percent supportive.” I laughed.

  “Well, I have to keep your expectations within reasonable parameters,” she said sagely.

  “Fair enough. Thanks, Becks. That actually made me feel better.”

  “Good! Into the lion’s den with you. And seriously, tell me everything.”

  “I will,” I promised. “As much as I can, anyway.”

  There would definitely be something to tell, I decided. A man like that couldn’t hide the truth from me in such close proximity, no matter how he tried to play me. Of course, there was the problem of a seven-plus-bedroom house, but I trusted that I’d be able to comb through it thoroughly within the two weeks. Assuming he didn’t hoard newspapers or something, anyway.

  That thought brought a whole new set of worries with it. As I rode the elevator down to the lobby, I realized that I had literally no idea how the man lived. Based on previous bachelor pads I’d seen, it didn’t seem unreasonable to expect a mansion-sized pigsty. I shuddered at the thought.

  “If that’s what it is, then that’s what I’ll write,” I told myself firmly. “And if that’s what I expect, then whatever I do end up walking into won’t be completely devastating.”

  I had parked right in front of the lobby, and he had pulled in beside me. As I walked through the hotel doors, I could see him rocking out to music. He was completely into it, head banging and using his water bottle as a microphone. As soon as he saw me, though, he slouched in his seat and pasted a look of boredom on his face. I rolled my eyes.

  “Hurry up!” he said. “Get the rest of your stuff!”

  “This is it,” I told him as I tossed my suitcase into my back seat. “I like to travel light.”

  He shook his head as if he were disappointed in me. “Follow me and keep up. You drive like my grandma.”

  Challenge made, challenge accepted. I got right on his tail as we exited the parking lot and stayed there as he drove up onto the freeway. As I expected him to, he immediately began weaving through traffic, pushing the speed limit. I kept up without issue.

  “I’m from New York, you cocky jerk,” I crowed. “You call this traffic?”

  Eventually, after failing to shake me for a solid twenty minutes, he stopped driving like he was trying to get a ticket. I caught his reflection in his rearview mirror, and he was scowling. I laughed, and he saw me. With a quick jerk of his wheel he changed lanes and slammed on the gas, leaving me in the dust for a few brief seconds.

  I had just started to follow him when lights flashed behind me. Cackling to myself, I pulled over and allowed the cop to chase him down. Once he was safely on the shoulder, I pulled ahead and parked in front of Sawyer’s car. The cop noticed immediately.

  “You parking for a reason?” the beefy man asked.

  “Yes. Sawyer asked me to follow him
back to his place.”

  “Asked you, did he? He tells me he was speeding because he was being tailed by a stalker. You got a response to that?”

  I sighed. “Of course he said that. I’m doing a story on him at his boss’s request. Alistair Brannigan, owner of the Gladiators. You can call him and check if you like.”

  The cop eyed me suspiciously, then pulled out his phone. “Number? And I’m gonna need to see your ID.”

  I handed him my ID and told him the phone number. He walked away for several minutes, then stopped at Sawyer’s window for several more. He looked as if he was scolding Sawyer, which pleased me immensely. When he had finished, he came back to my window.

  “Sorry about that, miss. Here’s your ID back. You have my sympathy.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing. These Gladiators think they own the place. Drive safe, now.”

  “I will. Thanks again!”

  When the officer was back in his car, Sawyer pulled forward. He paused just long enough to shake his head at me, then merged back into traffic. He seemed to have learned his lesson, and I was able to follow at a boring, if responsible pace.

  When he finally exited the freeway, the neighborhood was exactly how I had imagined it to be. Average chain stores and restaurants were nestled behind expensive, identical storefronts.

  “Like faux-marble is going to make a double cheeseburger taste more elite,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Or magically turn shopping centers into exclusive country clubs.”

  It was intimidating, which I supposed was the point. After bypassing those, we entered a housing district where the roads seemed to wind and tangle for no discernible reason. After the fourth random, senseless turn, I realized that I was going to need my GPS to find my way back out of this mess. At the far side of suburbia hell—or what I assumed to be the far side, having completely lost my sense of direction at this point—a long, high brick wall stretched as far as I could see in either direction. In the center was a gate.

  Inside, the road was far more intuitive, drawing a circle around and a line to the center of what I could only describe as a millionaire compound. In the center was a golf course, gym, and swimming pool. Around the edges, mansions were tucked in behind trees, separated from one another by hedges and acres of rolling lawn. I supposed the isolation must be attractive to people who were constantly being pestered by paparazzi, but it made me feel claustrophobic.

  The house itself, however, was impressive. I followed Sawyer down a long driveway and passed through a tunnel of trees, which opened up to a supermarket-sized parking lot. The house behind seemed to have been inspired by the White House, though it wasn’t a direct rip-off. Three stories of glittering windows sat in pale stone, and the front porch extended in a half-circle as though expecting a party.

  “Nice place,” I said as I stepped out of my car. “You know, I was almost worried back there that you would have trouble paying that speeding ticket. You clearly won’t have that problem.”

  “Yeah, about that speeding ticket,” he said, slamming his door. “Would it have killed you to pretend to be a creepy stalker for a minute?”

  “Killed me? No. But it probably would have ended in my arrest, and how am I going to write this story if I’m cooling my heels in jail?”

  “I would have bailed you out,” he moped. “I would have cleared it all up after, I swear.”

  “Oh come on,” I said with a laugh. “It’s not like you’re hurting for money. Look at this place.”

  “It’s not the money,” he grumbled. “If I get another point on my license, they’ll suspend it.”

  “So drive better,” I said with a shrug.

  He blinked at me then shook his head. “Really? That’s your advice?”

  “Sure. Drive better, live better, you know… do better things and people will quit punishing you for doing crappy things.”

  “You said yourself that the tabloids wouldn’t care if I lived better.”

  “That’s not what I said. I said they would keep beating this dead horse until it quit spitting out money.”

  “You weren’t nearly that colorful.”

  “So I’m paraphrasing. Can we go in, or am I expected to live in my car while I write your story?”

  He made a show of pondering my sarcastic suggestion, then shrugged. “Well I guess if you have to live somewhere, you should at least have bathroom access.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me then cracked a small grin. “Let me get your bag. Your room is a ways from here.”

  “I bet,” I said, looking up at the house. “How can one man possibly need that much space?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I like to spread out.”

  His tone made me look at him twice, but I could only see his profile and it didn’t tell me anything. There was something about this house, or maybe the size of it specifically, that bothered him. Or maybe he’s just annoyed at having to carry my heavy bag after practicing so hard. It’s not like I asked him to, though.

  The foyer maintained the impression that I was in a standardized, respectable, wealthy neighborhood from marble floor to chandelier. Once past that, though, his personality began to seep through here and there. A foosball table sat where one would expect a dining room table to be. Across the hall, a pool table. Various vintage arcade machines were scattered around here and there with no rhyme or reason.

  “You’d think a place this size would have an actual game room,” I said.

  “Oh, it does. I use it as a dining room. It’s actually closer to the kitchen, and big enough to spread out in. See? I fill the space just fine.”

  As we walked, I got the feeling that filling space was the whole of his intention. Nothing was particularly well organized, but there was something in every room. Random things, ugly things, and useless things were scattered in amongst things I could visualize him actually enjoying. By the time we got to the second floor, the place had started to look like the world’s most cursed rummage sale.

  “What is that?” Something that looked like a cross between a gargoyle and a totem greeted me at the top of the stairs.

  “Candy dish. See?” He pulled back the thing’s head with his free hand, and it shot out a long, carved tongue. In the center was a full-sized candy bar. “It’s a big pez dispenser, just without the pez.”

  “Or the adorable factor,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Why do you have that thing?”

  He shrugged. “Late night candy cravings? I don’t know, it seemed like the thing to buy at the time. Your room’s this way.”

  The way the second floor hallway was set up, I could see out over the golf course and the back yard at once. The back seemed to go on forever, but it was probably an illusion created by the trees.

  “You have a little forest out there,” I said. “Do you ever go out into it?”

  He was silent for a beat too long, and I could swear I saw the muscles on the back of his neck tense up. “Not lately,” he said with a lightness that seemed forced.

  “Oh? Why?”

  He shrugged. “No real reason to. Here’s where you’ll sleep.” He opened the first door on the right, and tossed my suitcase on the bed. “I’m across the hall. You’ve got your own bathroom through that door. I’ll let you get unpacked, unless you have any more questions about my stuff first.”

  “Not just yet,” I said with a smile. “But I will.”

  His defensiveness was piquing my curiosity. For the first time since I’d arrived, I was actually excited to figure him out.

  8

  Sawyer

  I pulled the crumpled traffic ticket out of my pocket and tossed it onto my desk with a scowl. Sure, it’d been childish to race her on the freeway. Twice as childish to blame her after the cop pulled me over. It still irked me that she hadn’t played along. Now that she was in my house, I was having second though
ts about bringing her here in the first place.

  I had assumed she would write off my various collections as childish waste. Everybody else had. I hadn’t even considered her asking about the back yard. It was like she had some kind of super-human radar for sensitive topics, and no qualms about broaching them. She didn’t need to know why I had an excessive house, and she didn’t need to know anything about any of the things I kept in that house. All she needed to know was that I was clean, stable, and dedicated to my team.

  “But of course she isn’t going to stop there,” I muttered to myself. “She’s gonna pick my life apart brick by brick until she finds something she can use against me. Unless… .” I paced my room, thinking. “Unless I keep her distracted.”

  But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to do that. She was smart, and she was here, right in the thick of my piecemeal life. What was she going to do, watch me eat breakfast fourteen times? There was nothing for her to see in my day-to-day life. I was too clean, and it was going to be a problem. Anybody as tenacious as Addison was would get bored quickly and look deeper. Too deep.

  “A man has a right to protect his privacy, doesn’t he?” I asked the empty room. “So what if my life is as boring as cold oatmeal right now, that doesn’t mean… wait.”

  I shoved my fingers in my hair as the epiphany struck like lightning. That was it. That was exactly it. Grinning, I grabbed a few changes of clothes and threw them in a bag, then changed the clothes that I was wearing. If she wanted to see how the stars lived, I was going to give her the Hollywood version. Sawyer Dawson, based on a true story, created by Sawyer Dawson.

  “Yo, Addison!” I shouted, banging on her door. “You ready?”

  She opened the door with a startled expression. “Ready for what?”

  “A day in the life of me, obviously. Change into something you can golf in.”

  “It’s thirty-eight degrees outside!”

  “So? I work on the ice all day, cold doesn’t bother me. Get a jacket, you’ll be fine.”