Page 20 of Play the Game

He snaps his finger at me. “You betcha.”

“Tomorrow.” I swallow my pride. “I’ll add money onto William’s books tomorrow.”

Gravel crunches, and I shove my fist with my key pointing out like a weapon into the gaping space between us. “Don’t come closer.”

My vision blurs, and my heart skyrockets. Heat pools in my lower stomach, but I’m cold at the same time. The guy's hands go up in defense, but when I look back at his face, I realize he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking past my shoulder.

I sigh in relief.

It’s about freaking time Russ starts being a decent boss.

My hand lowers, and I peer behind my shoulder. Except, I don’t come face-to-face with my slimy boss who apparently still doesn’t care about me or the rest of the girls walking to their cars at night.

It’s Emory Olson.

And for the first time since meeting him, he isn’t looking at me with that familiar tinge of vengeance. He’s looking at the stranger instead.

Ten

EMORY

DoesScottie really think she can hurt someone with her keys in her fist like that? Part of me wanted to stay back in the shadows a little longer to see her take a swing, but my body reacted without my brain’s approval.

The whites of her eyes grow large when I continue to erase the distance between us. Her soft lips part with confusion, and I hope she has some sort of intelligence behind that pretty face, because if she doesn’t play along, then I may just find myself in the same position I was in before moving out to Chicago.

The fuck you will.

I grip the thought like a lifeline because I owe this deceiving little cheat nothing, even if she does hand out coats to the homeless after dark. One good deed does not forego the rest.

My arm slides around her waist, and although she’s as tense as the pole with the broken light three feet behind us, she doesn’t push me away or try to key me instead of the stranger. “Is there a problem here?” I ask, staring at the man across from Scottie.

“You her bodyguard or something?” he jokes, slipping his hands into his pockets.

My heart pounds, and if Kane doesn’t come out of those front doors soon, I’m going to beat the living shit out of him—new teammate or not. Honestly, Coach would probably thank me after because Kane has been a real shit lately. He plays good hockey, but he’s a little fucked up in the head—hence why I had to crawl out of my bed right after falling asleep to come get his drunk ass. He called me because he knew I’d come, being the newbie and all.

To have the energy to go to a strip club and drink copious amounts of alcohol after a close game like the one we just had is almost unheard of. But then again, the fans have labeled Kane as an animal, and he’s all about proving them right.

“Bodyguard?” I repeat, pulling Scottie in a little closer. My large hand covers her shaking fist, and I slowly push it down. Even through the shadows, I see the fire burning bright in her blue eyes, but I was right: she does have a brain, because she lets me take full control of the situation. I turn back to the man and watch him assess my stature before looking me in the face again.

I raise an eyebrow, and I know he’s thinking very carefully on what to say to me next.

Scottie clears her throat which pulls his gaze back to her. “Tomorrow,” she says.

What’s tomorrow? Is she meeting up with him tomorrow? Who is this scumbag? Her boyfriend?

My jaw clicks. I came over here because I apparently didn’t learn my lesson the first time I stepped into an argument or altercation that had nothing to do with me, but now that I’m over here, I’m reminded very quickly why I should drop Scottie’s weaponed hand and walk away.

When I begin to loosen my grip, the man begins to back away. “Tomorrow,” he repeats, looking from Scottie to me. My chest loosens as soon as he disappears into the thick night, and I finally drop her hand. She turns just as quickly, and her sparkly, makeup-coated eyes narrow on me, as ifI’mthe problem.

“What are you doing here?” she snaps.

A sarcastic chuckle tumbles out of my mouth. “Apparently, protecting you.”

Her irritated glare does nothing but cause my lip to twitch.

“Excuse me?” Scottie’s arms cross, hiding some of her tattered Chicago Blue Devils sweatshirt. The team’s old logo is worn and faded, and if I were a better man, I’d take my jacket off and give it to her because I watched her give her jacket away to a homeless woman the other night, but that feels like some sort of truce, and I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

If I give her an inch, she’ll probably try to take a mile, and I’m not really in the giving mood.

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