Page 16 of Play the Game

I spin with my hands up as a shield from an instinct buried deep in my memories. A strangled noise fills the empty space between us, and Emory’s eyebrows furrow at my reaction. His confusion doesn’t last long when a gruff chuckle breaks through the shock of me standing beside his car.

“Here to rob me?” he sneers, walking right past me like I don’t even exist.

I let the jab go and swallow my pride. “It wasn’t me.” Spinning on the loose asphalt beneath my shoes, I watch Emory open his car door to throw his bag inside. My guard falls when I get a whiff of his freshly showered scent.

Wow.

Emory Olson is all man. He’s an animal on the ice but resembles a Calvin Klein model off of it. His suit fits him in all the right places, hugging his biceps and thighs perfectly. He’s leftthe front of his white button-down open, just enough to where I can see his tanned skin. My mouth runs dry.

His good looks are intimidating, especially when he looks at me with a tinge of anger.

Why do I find him even more attractive like this?

It should be worrisome that there’s a small part of me that likes to irritate him.

A shaky breath clamors from my mouth when I snap back into reality.

“I didn’t create that fake profile and say those things.” I cross my arms over my jacket.“It wasn’t me.”

My voice carries at the end of my sentence as I attempt to defend myself, and I start flinging out more excuses, telling him that I was at work all night and how I didn’t have time to mock up any more photos of us.

Emory’s eyebrow hitches, and a single strand of his damp hair falls to his forehead. “Can you take a breath before you pass out?”

I immediately do what he says and pull a gulpful of cool air into my mouth. The moment it hits my lungs, I go in for another round of excuses. I’m panicking. The threats and worries are piling up, and all of a sudden, I’m suffocating.

“I swear, it wasn’t me! I deleted the photo of us, and I let the entire thing go. I just came here to let you know that I didn’t start any more rum?—”

Emory steps forward, and his hands wrap around my waist.

My back hits the side of his car, and suddenly, I forget my own name.

Eight

EMORY

“Breathe,”I demand.

I’m peering down at her pale face and forcing a calm into her to the best of my ability. Scottie is absolutely unhinged, and I sort of feel bad for her. The thick ends of her eyelashes brush against one another when she locks onto me with her big blue eyes. A quick whip of something hot slashes at the back of my neck, so I remove my hands from her waist and take a step away.

A surge of her warm, sweet breath hits me in the face when she exhales, and it takes everything in me not to sniff the air like some fucking pervert.Get a fucking grip.

“I know it wasn’t you.” I roll my eyes.

I’m irritated. I don’t like that she has me all twisted up inside, and pairing that with the crazy chick from last night is a recipe for a bad fucking mood. I was one missed puck away from snapping my stick in half during the game.

Scottie peers up at me with innocent doe-like eyes, and it’s a contradiction in itself. “You believe me?” she asks with a timidness to her voice that I’ve yet to hear.

My forehead furrows. “Unless you can shapeshift into a bleach-blonde woman with fake tits and a need for a psychiatrist, then yeah, I believe you.”

I stand with my arm on my open door and stare at Scottie. She’s wearing loose jeans with holes in the knees and a thick jacket that needs to be zipped if she plans to stay warm. There isn’t an ounce of makeup covering her smooth skin, and it’s a shame how deceptive she can be, because she’s beautiful. How can someone who appears so innocent with the prettiest, flawlessly placed features be so deceitful?

After a few seconds of silence between us, I sigh and explain further. “She showed up at my house, so yeah, I know it wasn’t you. I had the police escort her off my property.” I pause when our eyes catch. “Unless you hired her to do your dirty work for you?”

Scottie looks offended, and I have to keep myself from smirking because, at the end of the day, it really isn’t something to joke about. Frustration still runs through my veins, and although Scottie is nothing like the woman at my house, the truth still stands: she tried to blackmail me. And that gives me a pretty good reason to put her on my blacklist with the rest of the women I come into contact with.

I slowly start to climb inside my car to distance myself from her because, knowing my luck, a journalist with a craving for drama will pop out of the bushes and snap our picture to spin some story about me dating a stripper.

If only Scottie was Miss America or something, then I’d jump at the opportunity to clear up my image like Ford suggested so it would stop the rumors that are damaging my reputation even more.

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