Page 74 of Free Agent

Definitely Tatum.

I was walking into my office—determined to make it a whole week that I actually stayed there instead of cutting out early for personal shit—when my phone buzzed.

I knew it was him before I even looked at the screen, which of course put a smile on my face before I could even get my hand in the front pocket of my hoodie to fish it out.

Which of course, set off my constantly-running mental reminder to check myself.

While we’d come to an understanding a month ago about how we were supposedly just “vibing”… fooling around with Tatum wasn’t anywhere on the list of things I should be doing for myself after the long-term breakup of a serious relationship.

Free agent shit.

His words that I reminded myself of often, in some attempt to maintain my common sense around… all of this.

And if I was following that thread, it wasn’t good for an undrafted player to be this thirsty about a team getting in contact.

But like… this was a very, very attractive “team”.

A very charming “team”.

So my situation was a little different.

How was I supposed to not get butterflies when the “team” looked like, talked like, fucked like Tatum Wilder? I may as well have a fucking pen in my hand, ready to sign on the dotted line.

Especially once I opened the message from Tatum to find a picture of his breakfast—oatmeal, eggs, sausage, fruit, nicely plated honestly—paired with the caption, Boooooorrrriiinnnggg.

Immediately, heat rushed to my face, and I closed the door behind me as if anybody else could see the message. And even if they could… who would even know what he was referencing out of context?

And yet… I was blushing.

I dropped my laptop bag and coffee on my desk, putting a hand to my ribs to compose myself like it would do anything about the butterflies I had going on.

“Chill, chill, chill,” I verbally urged… as if that would do anything either.

It was… hard.

After dealing with Monty, only Monty, for more of my life than not, I actually had no threshold for a healthy level of… whatever this was.

Vibing, my ass.

My whole adult life, I’d been in love.

So really, I wasn’t even sure if the warm feeling in my chest was too much, and Tatum wasn’t helping, at all.

I’d served him pussy for breakfast three mornings in a row.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, actually.

No wonder my body was humming at just the thought of him.

Just a few days ago, he had his hand clamped over my mouth in this very office while I was bent over this desk, taking stroke, after stroke, after stroke, after stroke, after stroke, after?—

Yeah…

Vibing.

More like cultivating an unhealthy obsession.

Looks very nutritious, I texted back, then put the phone face down on my desk so I could at least attempt to focus while I set up for the morning. We were on the tail end of another update, one that implemented new features versus the usual bug fixes and security improvements. It was part of why I was dressed down—hoodie, leggings, sneakers—instead of my usual slacks or dress and heels.

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