Page 8 of Force Play

Indie Moreno is a liar. She’s lying to me and she’s lying to herself. What we had was more than just one night of mind-boggling sex. What we had wasn’t just an itch you can scratch and walk away from. It could have been everything, if she would have just let it.

“It doesn’t matter, she’s not interested in me and she lives in Chicago.” I’m temporarily resigned to that answer, unable to do anything. She asked me to let her go and I’m trying.

Since she walked away that morning, the appeal of hooking up has lost its luster, and it’s really fucking annoying because I was good at fun. The best, actually.

Besides keeping things strictly platonic the last year, she lives halfway across the country. Instead of waiting around, I’ve been dipping my toe into dating. So far it’s been underwhelming.

Everyone either wants to date me for clout or there has been no chemistry.

“There is this girl I met volunteering at Sunny Acres and I’m thinking about bringing her to Dean and Mia’s house warming party next week. But I’m just not sure if it will lead to anything.” It won’t, but she’s nice, and her interest in me is genuine, so I owe it to myself to at least try. Right?

“Still hung up on the one that got away? You know, being in a committed relationship isn’t as easy as your mom and I make it look. It takes work.”

“I’m not afraid of hard work.” I’ve done the work once before; it didn’t pay off. And since then I’ve made an effort to focus on baseball. “Have you forgotten what an excellent boyfriend I can be? Just ask Hazel. I was a textbook boyfriend, even from across the country when we were in college.”

“Sure, next time I see her around town, I’ll ask. I’m sure her husband would love that.”

“Fucking Bryce,” I grumble. My high school friend, the same one that congratulated my dad on getting my mom pregnant, married my high school sweetheart. They’re both happy as can be, and in the end it worked out for the best, but fuck if it didn’t sting for a while.

“Fucking Bryce,” my dad agrees. “My point was that if you can’t get this girl out of your head, maybe it’s worth the work.”

“I’ve watched you and Mom work through the hard stuff.” And there’s been struggles. IVF to get pregnant with Dottie. My dad losing his job right after Dae was born. Raising three kids. They always come out on the other end stronger. “I’m not afraid of the effort and commitment. A love like you and Mom have is worth it.”

“Don’t forget that if whoever she is gives you a chance,” my dad says, patting me on the back before he rounds the car to slide into the passenger seat.

Following his lead, I drop my duffle bag in the back and then take my spot in the driver’s seat. When I turn over the ignition, the radio blasts 2 Live Crew at decibels unsafe for anyone’s ears, but especially my sisters’. Grappling for the dial, I crank it all the way down before turning to the back to find three sets of annoyed eyes on me.

“Sorry,” I offer with a shrug, pulling out of the lot and heading towards my favorite pizza place.

DoughThugs and Harmony has the best garbage pizza in Denver, and dueling pianists that specialize in instrumentals of top nineties hits. But today is the thirteenth of the month, which means it’s Swiftie night, and I plan to give Dottie full access to my wallet to request as many songs as her heart desires. Only for her, of course. No one else.

Putting Indie out of my mind, I focus on something I can control: spending time with my family and making my sister smile.

Chapter 2

Indie

Jay Christopher should thank the god of whatever underworld he crawled out of that there’s a conference room table between us.

The logistics of crawling across it in my skirt and heels are the only thing holding me back from strangling him.

When I was awarded this project, the previous chief human resources officer had told me it was the key to my promotion. Instead, my boss has taken a day that I’ve been looking forward to for the last year and ruined it.

This afternoon, I went in front of the board to talk about the early success we’ve seen since implementing the new succession planning model I developed for the company earlier this spring.

“Indie, you can’t expect that someone with your attitude would be selected for a promotion. We need team players. Sure, your work is top-notch, but you’re snarky, closed-off, and don’t trust people to work alongside you.”

“I don’t trust you, JC,” I hiss, my professional composure fucking off, just like I wish this asshat in front of me would. If I’m being honest, I’ve questioned my resolve to stay here every day since the retirement of my mentor, the woman who gave me the opportunity we are currently discussing. “But why would I when you’ve been peddling my work as yours for the last three years? If I was a man, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d pat me on the back while laughing at my sarcasm.”

“We’ve talked about this before, Indie. And yet, I’ve never once seen you at happy hour, getting to know your colleagues outside of the office. You need to build rapport with them, make them like you.”

First, ouch. Second, I think the fuck not. “I do that every single day with the ten plus hours I spend here. What they need is to see me doing my job; to trust that I know what I’m talking about. Not insight into my drink order at Willy’s.”

JC checks his watch for the dozenth time since we sat down. “Sorry, Indie, a promotion is not in the cards for you. Leadership is taking things in a new direction since Maggie’s retirement.”

Meaning the promotion I’ve been promised for the last three years is going to someone else. I’ve done everything he’s asked, except the happy hour thing, because that’s just plain stupid. I already give every ounce of myself while I’m here, and now they want my evenings too.

The slimy smirk that tilts up his lips makes my stomach lurch. Pushing back I rise, palms flat on the table, leaning over it so he can see the fire in my eyes. “Good luck taking credit for my work when I’m not there to explain the data and logic behind it.” I smile and give him my pièce de résistance—flipping him off over my shoulder and walking out of this godforsaken conference room, heels clacking angrily until I drop into an empty bench outside the downtown Chicago office.

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