Page 7 of Play the Game

-Cherry

I sigh and shove the note in my pocket.

But for some reason, instead of heading for my car, I turn and head for the stairs.

Three

SCOTTIE

I pullmy black sheer sleeves down as far as they’ll go and trap them to my palms with shaky fingers. It will be a miracle if Emory Olson, one of the best goalies in the division, actually shows up from a stupid handwritten note on a gum wrapper that I found in the bottom of my purse.

You would think someone who has such an elaborate plan to eliminate the problems in their life would come prepared, but no. One gum wrapper and a borrowed pen from a nearby fan, and that’s all she wrote, friends.

I walk over to the mirror in the quiet bathroom and puff my rosy cheeks out before letting all the air empty into the space. My blue eyes pool with dread and fear, but I shake the feelings away and fill myself with confidence.

Emory Olson isn’t a good guy, if the rumors are true, and considering his previous team dropped him, I’d say a majority of them are. That’s why I don’t feel bad about this. I amsosick of rotten humans getting what they want instead of people like me who try their hardest to do the right thing or make a difference and yet still get shit on.

The jaded woman staring back at me in the mirror nods.

“You can do this, Scottie,” I say.

“So Cherry isn’t your real name?” His clipped scoff sends a line of fear down my spine. “Who would’ve thought?”

A scream erupts from my mouth, and my hands fall to the porcelain sink for stability. The very second I see Emory Olson leaning against the tiled wall with his arms crossed over his chest, I immediately forget the objective.

My lips part, and the only thing that comes out is hot air.

I’m not intimidated by men, but I would be a big fat liar if I said Emory Olson didn’t unnerve me a little.

Without the rink’s glass separating us as a barrier, I’m unsettled. He’s much taller and broader than I thought he would be underneath his pads, and there are so many different hues of blue in his eyes that I can’t pinpoint the exact shade. When he raises an eyebrow in my direction, his jaw becomes ten times sturdier, and the little bit of scruff along the edge does nothing but accentuate how attractive he really is. Except, the air around him is thick with arrogance, and he looks at me as if I should be kissing the ground he walks on.

“I’m becoming impatient,” he says.

I snap out of my stupor, and a rush of defiance zips down my legs to ground me.

My confidence is shaky at best, but I push off the sink and straighten my shoulders. “Do you remember me?”

Emory doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

Not off to a good start.

I thought for sure that he’d look me over a little more closely and try to rack his brain for a memory that I know doesn’t really exist, but he acts completely at ease, and it causes the room to sway.

“Well…”Shit.“You should.”

My face flushes, and I want to run out of this bathroom like a little damsel in distress because this entire scheme is an act of pure desperation, and I’m failing miserably.

“I should?” Emory asks with a lazy tone. He pushes off the bathroom wall, and you could hear a pin drop with the silence.

Fuck.

I stumble over my words but manage to pull out my phone while Emory erases the space between us. He smells good, like a freshly showered man who wears expensive cologne. He is nothing like the men I grew up around.

He’s a few feet away from me when I quickly enlarge the photo and turn the phone around so he can get a good look. He freezes mid-step and looks closer at the image. I quietly swallow and wait for his reaction.

Tight jaw.

Flickering temples.

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