Page 43 of In Too Deep

He gets to his feet, and I mirror him instinctually, clasping my hands at my waist to keep them from shaking. As Gideon buttons his suit jacket, he gives me a once-over. I’m not a stranger to people, men specifically, judging me based on looks alone, but when Gideon’s gaze sweeps over me, I can’t help thelittle shiver that runs down my spine. I keep my face blank with my chin held high, determined not to show weakness.

Again, he hums to himself, not quite a sound of approval or dismissal, but there’s nothing outwardly contemptuous on his face. Gideon reaches into an inner pocket for his jacket and pulls out a matte black card, extending it to me between his pointer and middle fingers.

“This is the best shot we’ve had at the cup in years, so I’ll be taking point on talent acquisitions this year. If anyone comes to you with questions, you’re to ask me. And you’re to call, not text. Understood?”

I take the card, grateful my fingers don’t shake. The surface is so matte and black that it seems to absorb light, which makes the glossy text stand out all the more. It’s just his name and a phone number, which strikes me as odd, but I don’t have time to unpack all the implications there.

“Do you understand, Miss Strauss? That you’re to call me if you needanything?”

Gideon’s silky voice makes me jump, and my brow twitches down at the strange emphasis. But I nod regardless.

“Yes, sir– Mr. St. Clair,” I reply, catching myself on the honorific.

Gideon smirks. “Just call me Gideon. I promise you don’t want me to be your sir.”

Yet another loaded statement I don’t have time to decipher. Not that he gives me a chance to, as he nods once more and then sweeps out of the box in half a dozen strides of his long legs.

As soon as the heavy door latches closed, I collapse back into my seat, panting like I’ve run a marathon. Gideon has always been a guarded man, and I still have no clue whether that interaction was a test or a genuine inquiry. Either way, I just barely scraped by without spilling my proverbial guts to him, which I’m counting as a victory.

And after the last few weeks, a win’s a win, no matter how arbitrary the contest.

The red-eye flight isman’s worst invention. Not nuclear warheads, not high-fructose corn syrup. No, the simple act of flying at night so you can have a “jump start” to the next day is the biggest crock of shit ever invented. It must have been invented by someone really evil, a true sociopath.

“You’re going to make the driver piss himself if you keep glaring at him like that.”

Spencer’s whisper in my ear makes me jolt, and I nearly take out his nose as I lift one of my fists up to defend myself. Thankfully, his well-honed reflexes kick in and he’s able to lean back away from the blow before it can land. I relax my resting bitch face as I look at him, and I find him smiling fondly. One of his hands twitches up for a moment, like he wants to lift his arm and tuck me into his side. His smile fades a little as he sits back, content with putting his hand on the leather seat, close enough to mine that our pinkies brush.

I glance at the driver through the rearview mirror and can see the beads of nervous sweat on the beta’s brow, evidence of Spencer’s observation. So, with a sigh, I turn my gaze out of the back passenger window to my left. Dawn is breaking over the Las Vegas strip, creating a weirdly liminal space. There are no crowds of tourists gawking at the spectacular hotels, no buskers or timeshare con artists with clipboards. Just a few weary locals dragging themselves home from work, and a strangely large number of joggers taking full advantage of the empty sidewalks.

We’re making our way to Park MGM, the hotel the league has blocked out for the players for the weekend. I imagine we’re going to be among the latest arrivals, as the events are starting in just a few hours, kicking off with a player and staff lunch where the “captains” of the four all-star teams are going to be announced. They’ve recently added a draft/gala to the agenda, instead of just assigning players to their respective teams. Tomorrow, we’ll be able to catch up on sleep before we have to be at practice and a shift in the fan experience for a meet-and-greet. Then it’s the skill competition, with the real all-star game the following evening after more practices.

By the time we arrive at the hotel and unload our bags, all I can think about it getting to my room, stripping out of my business clothes and heels, and passing the fuck out. But when we step up for check-in, my dreams are shattered as the front desk attendant looks up at us with a sympathetic frown.

“I’m so sorry for this, but with the event this weekend, we’re mostly booked up. I’m afraid that we’ve only got the space for the one room that’s been booked in the block,” she says, her customer service voice making me see red.

Maybe I’ve been spoiled by traveling with the Mystic for so long, and how seamless the check-in process is as the logistics team handles things. But I’m on the verge of tired, angry tears, this minor inconvenience pushing me to the edge. Spencer’s facegoes a little pale as he looks at me, but then he shifts back to the hotel employee.

“That’s fine. I don’t mind sharing. We’re just really tired, so can we get the keys, please?” Spencer asks, all charm and smiles.

I have to turn around and do some breathing exercises, trying to keep my cool while Spencer finishes up. To say the least, this is not ideal. Bad planning aside, staying in the same room together flies in the face of our plan to not cause any suspicion, and we’re going to have to be extra careful so people don’t get the wrong idea. But all of that can be addressed once I’m not half-asleep on my feet. I let Spencer lead me to the elevators and through the halls until he scans the card on the door and pushes it open, holding it for me to enter first.

“Oh, you havegotto be fucking kidding me,” I groan as I get my first good look at the room.

On any other day, I’m sure I would be swooning over the beautiful touches in every corner of the space. Luxurious olive-green furniture, including a cozy window seat in the living room space, a bathroom with a standing shower that might be bigger than my office back home, dark forest-green accent walls with stunning framed art. But, to my frustration, the king-sized bed is the only one in the room.

Spencer sighs as he steps in behind me, but my eyes are burning. Anxiety swirls in my gut, and I’m struggling to maintain control over my emotions. If we sleep in the same bed, we’re going to end up cuddling, or worse, and that means he’s going to smell like me, and then someone important is going to catch us. And then–

His hand closes around the back of my neck and drags me backward into his chest, his other arm banding around my torso and pinning my arms to my sides. As his fingers massage the tension away from my neck, he sways slightly, all the whileletting out a long stream of air through his teeth that sounds like waves.

“You’re okay, sugar. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

He repeats the words over and over, the low murmur combined with his spearmint and blackberry scent bringing me down from the edge of hysteria until I’m loose and relaxed in his arms.

“That’s my girl. Now, there’s no use trying to fix this now. We’re tired and not thinking straight. Let’s get a few hours of sleep and push through this dinner thing tonight. We can figure it out tomorrow, okay?” His breath brushes my cheek as he speaks into my ear.

I nod, my lower lip trembling as I struggle to absorb his gentle attention. He’s letting me be vulnerable, and there’s no judgment. He’s not asking me to explain, because he just... knows. That fills my chest with warmth. He’s right. We need to get back to center before we try to fix anything.

Taking turns in the bathroom, we change into sleep clothes before we lower the blackout blinds and climb into bed. Spencer waits for me to pick a side before he joins me, and he doesn’t waste time before he drags me back into him to spoon. He’s warm—not as warm as Eli, but I doubt anything besides an open flame would be, and I’m not about to cuddle a campfire—and his arms are so familiar. It’s easy to let my eyes slide closed, and drift off, leaving my worries at the door. For now.

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