Page 83 of Clean Point

My chest heaved as I spoke, as anger boiled up inside of me. ‘Don’t.’

I could only get the one word out, the edges of my vision turning blurry as I focused on this asshole who dared to call her that. Who said it so casually. Who fucking came up with it in the first place. Years of disrespect boiled down to this snake sitting in front of me, and I wasn’t supposed to do a damn thing about it.

‘Don’t call her that.’

He smirked back, taking a sip of his beer as if totally unaffected. But I could see it, that trickle of fear in his eyes. I knew I was playing into his trap, but I was done caring. There was a low hum playing in my ears, drowning everything out but his sneaky voice.

‘Can I put that on the record?’

I gritted my teeth, staring him down. I wanted to throw the glass. At him, at the bar. I wanted to watch it smash and see if this anger dissipated. ‘Do what you want.’

Apparently unsatisfied with this, he decided to push his luck once more. ‘Do you want to comment on the rumours that you and Scottie Sinclair are in a relationship?’

I grabbed the drink he ordered me, downed the amber liquid and took a moment to enjoy it, looking at the empty crystal glass before placing it back on the counter, the so-called journalist watching my every move, hopefully out of fear.

I didn’t bother looking back at him. If I did, I might not leave at all.

‘No comment.’ My eyes found the bartender, who had been watching the entire exchange. ‘My drinks are on him.’

And then I left, grabbing the drink I ordered for Scottie before storming out of the bar and straight into the elevator.

36

Scottie

peace – Taylor Swift

‘Coming!’ I shouted, answering the knock at the door of my hotel room. I’d been midway rushing to dry my hair after a long, hot bath to help relax my tight muscles from the match earlier today.

The game was more gruelling on my body that I could ever remember, and since I was playing double the number of matches – taking part in both the singles and the doubles – my body was beginning to suffer. I felt like I should have dark bruises where my body felt strained.

There was a second demanding thump at the door, and I toyed with the idea of leaving it a moment longer, to annoy whoever was so impatient they couldn’t wait another goddamn minute.

Instead, I relented, hair dried, but unstyled, and opened the door, forgetting to look through the peephole to check who it was. I should be used to the stern and stormy angular face of Nico Kotas, his jaw locked so tight I could feel the strain in my own, but somehow it felt an age since I’d been on this side of his irritation. And even worse, at the very sight of him, even the grumpy version of him, my body still ached to melt into his, see if his body heat was enough to help ease those knots in my muscles.

‘I swear, I was on my way down,’ I lied, knowing I was at least fifteen minutes late to meet him at the bar.

‘Did you even check the peephole before opening the door?’ His question caught me off guard, my head pulling back.

‘No? You were a very insistent knocker.’

‘I could’ve been anyone, just waiting for you to open the door.’

I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, confusion twisting as I caught sight of the glass of clear liquid in his hand, remembering our promise to Jon to keep on our best behaviour. ‘Well, Mr Dangerous Stalker Man, would you like to come in?’

He nodded without saying anything, and I moved to the side as he stepped into the plush room.

‘Is that for later?’ I joked, closing the door. As he reached the middle of the room, he turned around, confusion etched on his features. I looked down at his hand. ‘The drink?’

His body tensed as if to remember he was even holding it in the first place, before he stretched it out toward me. ‘I ordered it for you.’

Surprise washed over me as I took it from him, my fingers wrapping around the cool glass. I knew I was late, but he was acting like it was thirty instead of fifteen minutes. I raised the glass to my nose, taking in the orange scent.

‘Tequila old-fashioned,’ he answered without me needing to even ask. ‘That’s your drink, right?’

I grinned at him, taking in the moment before nodding. I looked around the room, although I already knew the answer. ‘We should get you something to drink. How else will we say cheers to our victory?’

He shook his head, body almost rigid, his shoulders pushed back. ‘I don’t think I need another drink.’

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