Page 53 of Play the Game

His laugh is loud, and I can’t tell if it’s sarcastic or not. “Actually, I am. My sister talks back to me all the time, but it doesn’t usually stop me from getting what I want.”

I take that as a challenge.

A devious smile slides onto my face. “Well, consider me your first, because I’m coming back to feed Shutter whether you like it or not.”

“Shutter?” His head falls in disbelief. “Of course you named him.”

“See you atyour place.” I taunt, pulling on my door with all my might.

My car pops with a loud noise when I turn it on, and Emory scoots backward like it’s a gunshot.

To his benefit, it resembles the sound.

I speed off in the direction of his house but not before I catch him looking at Shutter and all the spilled cat food I just wasted.

Twenty-Four

EMORY

Next on mylist of things to do for my wife was to get her a new car because I’m truly terrified of the one she drives around in. But somehow, instead of purchasing a new vehicle for Scottie, I got her a fucking pet instead.

I park behind her 1999 Honda and know she’s already inside the house. She’s probably pretending to be asleep, like this morning when she was obviously avoiding me. The meowing starts up again, and I turn to stare at my new companion.

“If you do that all night, I’ll take you back to the dumpster.”

He meows again, but I prefer that over the hissing he was doing when I tried to get him into my car. I ended up scooping up the cat food that Scottie very graciously spilled all over the parking lot and lured the nuisance into the backseat.

“Don’t bite me,” I warn, reaching for him. He backs his skinny frame into the passenger door in fear, so instead of grabbing him, I open my door and step out onto the sidewalk to wait for him to glide out.

I casually step up the porch stairs and stand near the door with his laser-focused gaze glued to my every move. I walk halfway inside and stand there, wondering if he’ll follow me.

I’m not a cat person.

I’m not even a dog person.

Truthfully, I don’t think I’m a people person either.

I never even had a pet growing up because we were too busy. We spent all of our days at the rink, practicing and traveling to weekend-long tournaments, only to come home on Sunday to do it all over again the next week.

I smell Scottie the second I step into the entryway. Her scuffed-up white Converse are sitting beside the door, right next to my hockey bag, and I listen intently for any movement. A black furball rushes into the house before I can shut the door. He sniffs Scottie’s shoes before letting out a high-pitched meow.

Next thing I know, Scottie slides into the foyer on fuzzy socks that have cherries all over them, an oversized T-shirt, and tiny shorts. Her hair is in a bun on the top of her head, and the smile she wears is enough to make me do a double take.

When she sees me staring at her mouth, she quickly fixes her face and snaps back into the defiant brat she is when it comes to me.

“You’re thatconcerned about me going to the strip club that you kidnapped Shutter?”

“Kidnapped? Don’t you mean adopted?” I shut the door behind me with my foot. Shutter scurries away, darting behind Scottie’s bare legs, only to glare at me from afar. “I told you”—I drop my keys right beside hers on the small table by the door—“I always get my way.”

Scottie’s sarcastic laugh is barely audible. She bends down and scoops Shutter into her arms, and I’m a little perturbed that he doesn’t hiss at her like he did to me.

“Did Mr. Cocky scare you?” She rubs her nose along his face. I can hear his purring from across the room. “Did you get him a litter box?”

I’m quick to answer. “No.”

I didn’t even think of that.

I open the door behind me. “He’s an outside cat.”

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