Page 3 of The Player's Club

“Shit!” I’d followed him and hadn’t even considered that he’d drive away. I sprinted back to my own car, fumbling with my keys, and peeled out of the parking lot.

Nearly out of breath, I called Roy. “He uses a decoy!” I yelled into the phone, scanning desperately for Mac’s car up ahead.

“What the hell are you hollering about, woman?” Roy yelled back. Although my boss had lived in LA for nearly two decades now, he still retained his Southern accent, especially when he was pissed off or talking fast.

“Mac! He used a decoy. I’m following him right now!”

“Seriously? Are you sure it’s him?”

I finally caught sight of Mac’s Corolla, two lanes over and a half-dozen cars in front of me. I grinned, probably looking like a totally insane person. “Yes, seriously!”

“Who’s the decoy, then?”

“No freaking idea.”

I was so focused on catching up to Mac that I didn’t see the car in front of me stop. By the time I did, it was too late. I heard the crunching sound of bumper-meets-bumper before I registered what I’d done.

“Elodie? Are you okay?” Roy asked.

I swore a blue streak. “I’m fine, just a fender bender. But I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” I hung up before he could say another word.

As I got out of my car, the driver in front of me doing the same, I sighed and watched as Mac drove off.

“What the hell, lady? Do you know how to fucking drive or what?” the driver snarled, looking like he’d happily brawl with me in the street.

Why do I want to stay in LA again? I sighed deeply.

ELODIE

A week later, I once again waited in my car at Blades Arena. Except this time, I didn’t stand around with all the other paparazzi outside near the door. I waited in the spectators’ lot, with a perfect view of the beat-up Corolla that Mac drove. It was a rust color. Or maybe it was red and had faded to that shade. I was so damn confused.

“You’re sure that’s the right car?” Roy, who was on the phone, asked me. “Because we can’t miss him again.”

I rolled my eyes, glad my boss couldn’t see me right then. “Yeah, it’s the right one.”

“Because if you’re wrong and follow some rando—”

“It’s his car! Trust me. But I gotta run, Roy. I think people are starting to leave the stadium. I’ll check in with you later.”

The fact that the usually unflappable Roy Fink was freaking out about this whole Mac-car situation just made me even more nervous. It didn’t help that I’d had to fess up to the fender bender thing being my fault when I’d arrived at work the following morning.

Roy had taken one look at my car, raised one of his notoriously bushy eyebrows, and given me a look that made me want to squirm like a child in trouble for stealing candy.

Don’t get into another accident, for the love of God, my boss had warned me just an hour earlier. I don’t want to pay workers’ comp because you can’t pay attention to what you’re doing while driving.

Well, I wasn’t driving right now, was I? I was just sitting in my car, sipping a latte that I’d probably regret later, considering it was already past five o’clock, and waiting for Mac to emerge. But there was a good chance I might need the energy tonight, even if I didn’t get any sleep later.

I heard the sounds of the crowd, even as far away as I was in the spectators’ lot. Thanks to social media, I watched a livestream of the Mac doppelgänger come out. Once again, a jacket was draped over his head, and he quickly hurried to his car without engaging with any fans or media.

I paused the livestream a few times, scrutinizing the doppelgänger. I’d studied a few different videos of Mac—and his stand-in—over the course of the week, trying to see the minute differences between the two men.

I’d quickly realized that the doppelgänger always wore a pair of white New Balances that the real Mac had never been photographed wearing. Considering Mac had had a brand deal with Nike for years now, you would think he’d have done a better job dressing his decoy. New Balances made zero sense.

“Sloppy, sloppy,” I muttered to myself. In this age of social media and recording everything, somebody should pay attention to these details. Then there was the fact that Mac always left with his dragon tattoo on full display. Whoever had concocted this scheme hadn’t really thought all this through enough.

I finished off my venti latte, wishing I’d given in and bought a snack to go along with it since I was now shaky from too much caffeine. I waited and waited, but no real Mac came out. All of the paparazzi and fans had left now, and I had a brief panic attack that I had, in fact, pegged the wrong car as Roy had feared.

But then I saw him: Mac Mackenzie, in all his glory, walking up to that junker of a car and sliding behind the driver’s wheel. At least this time he wore a jacket that covered up his dragon tattoo. I watched as he glanced around the parking lot, as if he knew someone was watching him, and I slinked down into my seat. A chill ran down my spine as he glossed over my car without even noticing me.

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