Page 2 of The Player's Club

“There are writing gigs in San Francisco, you know.”

I scoffed. “What, writing about Silicon Valley tech bros? No thanks.”

“There are lots of remote jobs you could do. At least think about it.” Now, Todd sounded like he was pleading with me, which made me wince.

The crowd started getting noisier, which meant that Mac must be emerging from the stadium.

“I’ll look online again,” I said even though I knew there was nothing out there that interested me.

Is it the job, or is it the guy? My brain asked me. The question had been a niggle in the back of my mind for some time now. But I did what I always did and shushed the thought. I loved Todd. I just didn’t want to live in San Francisco. End of story. Right?

“I sent you over some job links,” Todd said. “Did you get that email today?”

I had, but I hadn’t opened it yet. “Yeah, I saw it, thank you. Hey, I have to go—”

“Did you even open the email?”

I gritted my teeth. I was trying to get through the crowd, but considering I was what some people would call a petite flower, I wasn’t having much success. A tall man nearly elbowed me in the face, and it was a miracle I didn’t land straight on my ass.

“I have to go! Bye!”

I hung up before Todd could respond, knowing he would be pissed later.Oh well. I had a job to do. Even if Todd thought my work was silly and pointless, it was money. And I was too independent to rely on him to support me. I hadn’t even wanted to move in with him here in LA when he’d asked.But in the end, it made financial sense.

I saw movement up ahead, followed by the flashes of cameras, but all I could make out was a tall figure with a jacket covering his face quickly exiting the stadium.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered. I tried my best to push through the crowd, but by the time I got to the front, Mac was already getting into his fancy BMW and driving away.

Mac was normally pretty friendly with the paparazzi, a lot more accessible than many other celebrities. Usually, he stopped to chat with fans and reporters. Apparently, he’d been in a hurry tonight. The other paps around me grumbled in frustration.

A tall, slender woman who I’d seen around LA before stuffed her phone into her bag, clearly unhappy. “Avoiding the press won’t help him,” she said to another reporter.”It’s only going to piss people off and make them take a bigger swing at him when they finally get more of the story.”

“He’s probably hoping the speculation will die down,” the other reporter commented, shrugging.

“He’s not in Idaho anymore. This is LA. It’s only going to get worse. People are clamoring for some type of explanation. You don’t get to fuck a married woman and then act like it never happened. Especially when your uber-religious parents are out here asking for prayer requests for their son’s salvation.”

Both reporters snorted.

Mac had always been a media darling. He had more than four million Instagram followers and a million on TikTok. He knew how to keep his audience engaged, both on and off the ice. It also helped that he was handsome, charming, talented, sexy as hell—

I shook myself. So what? I might have a little crush on the guy. It wasn’t like I was the only person in America who swooned when he posted a sexy selfie on social media.

Now that Mac had disappeared, the fans and reporters began to leave the area surrounding the exit to the stadium. I was reluctant to take off, though. I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because I would be going home to an empty house with only cobwebs in the refrigerator.

Maybe I should get takeout on my way home, I thought, finally making my way to my car. I began scrolling the various apps, trying to find coupon codes because I was a cheap bitch even though I was also a lazy bitch who didn’t want to cook. I finally decided to order sushi from one of my favorite places near my house when I saw someone leaving the stadium through a nearby door.

At first, I didn’t recognize him. But then I noticed the very obvious dragon tattoo on his left bicep, and I blinked in surprise.

It was Mac. And I watched as he bypassed the players’ car lot and walked toward the spectators’ parking lot instead.

I didn’t hesitate. I got out of my car and followed him. Maybe I was mistaken—hadn’t Mac already left? At least that was what the hoard of people waiting around seemed to think. But it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the first Mac had been a decoy.

That tattoo was unmistakable. You should know. You stared at it in that cover photo for long enough.

If it really was Mac, someone should tell the dude he really needed to wear a jacket. Otherwise, why bother going to the trouble of having a decoy? That tattoo was too damn recognizable not to cover up. Then again, he probably thinks everyone who cares has already left the stadium.

I watched in amusement as Mac went to the dingiest car in the lot, an old, beat-up Corolla that had seen better days. I was half convinced the poor vehicle was older than I was. What the hell?

As I stood there staring in disbelief, he turned the ignition on and began to drive away.

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