Page 8 of Free Agent

The season was in full swing, and going well, so energy was high. There were plenty of celebrities, influencers, socialites, and other athletes in attendance. Hopefully nobody was paying much attention to me.

Still nerves tightened my stomach in knots as I breezed past crowds of people in the stands with my head held high. I was still an unwitting member of the professional athlete’s wives and girlfriends club. And especially since “my” athlete tended toward mess, the chances of me having a picture snapped were never zero.

So…I made the best of it, with my supermodel walk turned on, bundles swinging, my heels marching in a cadence that was every bit of that bitch as I made my way to my designated perch for the night.

Shit.

My steps faltered as I zeroed in on where I was supposed to be sitting.

More specifically, on who was already nearby.

Ah hell.

I hated ending up next to men at these things, because they always felt a compulsion to make small talk instead of focusing on the game they’d ostensibly paid thousands of dollars to see from this vantage point. If I was especially unlucky, they wanted to run through Monty’s highlights like I didn’t already know or test me on my knowledge of football as if I had fucking expert tattooed on my forehead.

Luckily, the small group of men seemed more embroiled in their own conversation than interested in paying me any mind.

Thank God.

They didn’t even look up as I approached, but my seat mate did, a huge smile spreading over her pretty ass face. The rich brown skin, full features, perfect white teeth, and big, bright eyes framed with luxurious “natural” lashes were Sierra Ward’s signature look.

As her best friend, even I wasn’t immune to the charm of those eyes, instant comfort rushing through me as her gaze locked on mine.

But… there must have been something in my expression.

I caught the slightest questioning narrow of her eyes before she put her public face back on and stood to greet me with a hug.

Immediately, cameras went off around us.

Not unexpected.

“You look amazing,” she said, squeezing me tightly. “I see you decided to give me a run for my money.”

“I couldn’t be looking like a bum next to you when all the fashion blogs post your picture tonight.”

She sucked her teeth as we took a seat. “Oh please,” she said, waving me off. “You’ll have your own posts, where I get cut out the picture.”

“Not the same thing,” I countered, taking a moment to peek around at who else was in attendance. I counted at least six A-listers with just a brief glance. “With a lineup like this, any articles about me won’t have anyone to do with my clothes. Monty made sure of that.”

“Which reminds me, you didn’t respond to my text earlier.”

“What text?” I asked, genuinely confused.

She raised an eyebrow. “Diminishing returns.”

Oh.

Oh.

When I just rolled my eyes and didn’t say anything, she smirked, reaching over to pat my knee. “Not a conversation for here. We’ll talk later.”

She was right.

These days, people were going as far as reading lips, trying to get any little piece of tea they could out of what would otherwise have been a private conversation. But there was no such thing in public anymore, and hell, barely in private.

Before I could agree or disagree to the conversation she was hinting at, the lights in the arena dropped, cueing all in attendance that something was about to happen.

Sure enough, a moment later, a voice over the loudspeaker started booming. “Blackwooooood, are you ready for some Braaaaaaawler Basketbaaaaaaaall!?

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