Page 27 of Icing the Enemy

He cracks the door open but before he lets me in, he says, “You look familiar.”

“Just one of those everyday faces,” I say, hoping he doesn’t connect me with Corbin and all that’s been going on.

“Umm, who are you here to see?”

“I was told Mr. Beech was here, and I have something to return to him.”

The blond-haired, hazel-eyed man in a tailored suit grins and says, “I’ll show you to his office, but he doesn’t come here on a set schedule.”

Once inside, the hallways give off a warmth with honey-colored oak wood floors and large photos of the Nashville Notes players in gold frames, highlighting their high points in their careers. I hesitate when I come to Corbin Shearer’s larger than life photo. Even in his uniform, with his muscled body hidden, he’s a Calvin Klein model on crack—gorgeous.

He leads me to a place where there is a wall of windows and shows me to my dad’s office. “The lights are on, so hopefully he’s here. Have a pleasant day,” he says with a wink.

Great, he thinks I’m Mr. Beech’s plaything.

This is nothing like a corporate office. Instead of stark and cold, it’s warm and inviting. Brass instead of chrome. Richly colored, teal-painted walls on one side and ivory on the other and hanging on the ivory wall is the logo and name for the Nashville Notes in some type of golden wood.

“You, too. Thanks.”

I look around and notice several men in an office around the corner. My father is probably in there. Inhaling a deep breath, I gather my thoughts and decide how I’m going to address him. With fire ready to spew, I take a few tentative steps when the door slams, then opens. I hear a familiar voice forcefully say, “I could care less what you think. I’m not going to sit by and let a teammate hit a woman. He’s the one who should be in trouble.”

Eavesdropping, I hear a man say, “Corbin, you’re turning into a distraction for the team and for yourself. Find yourself a girlfriend and stay out of everyone’s business.”

Corbin’s hand is on the knob, and his shoulders lift and fall like he’s trying to contain his anger. “How about you stay out of my business? I’m on this team to score, and that’s what I’ve done for the past five years. If you don’t want me, trade me.”

He storms out of the office, bumping into me and swearing under his breath. “Fuck me,” rolls off his tongue. “Why are you here? The Notes aren’t going to pay you off. You stole my vehicle. Why is everyone forgetting that fact?”

His voice holds a hint of hurt and vulnerability, which makes me empathetic toward him, and I don’t want to feel that way about him. I hate him.

However, I can’t deny the sparks I feel when his arm brushes against mine as his heavy footfalls rush away.

I march straight into the office and for a moment, all three men are quiet, and I catch a glimpse of my father’s questioning eyes. Does he even know who I am?

“Can I help you?” the man behind the desk asks. “Oh wait, you’re the girl who stole Mr. Shearer’s truck, aren’t you?”

God, I will never live this down. “No. Well yes, but I borrowed it.”

“So, you say. Mr. Shearer didn’t press charges, so our legal team has dropped it.”

I roll my eyes and pop my hip, then turn to my dad. I look nothing like him. “I’m here to see this piece of shit who never gave me a chance.”

My dad’s brows furrow.

Anger boils within me. “How could you abandon me and my mother without a second thought, then think you can just buy me off with a trust fund?”

He rises slowly from the leather tufted chair. “Are you Oakley? Oakley James?”

“The one and only.”

He looks at the other two men and says, “She’s the one?”

They nod in agreement. I look down at the nameplate on the desk. Jim Garner, the majority owner of the Nashville Notes, and I think the other one is the general manager because I’ve seen him in commercials and on television.

“You don’t even recognize your own daughter. I was at the same wedding you were. I saw you coming out of Mr. Gould’s office the day before the wedding, then I overheard you talking to him at the reception. That’s why I borrowed Corbin’s truck.” My voice cracks as the volume rises. “I can’t believe I was in the same room with my father, and neither of us knew the other one. You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

A million questions scroll like a movie through my mind, being face-to-face with the man who could care less about me.

“Tell me why you’re giving me a trust fund? We could have both gone through life not knowing each other. We never had to face each other, but you had to try to ease your guilty conscience by giving me money. And why do I have to be married? This is the twenty-first century. It’s freaking ridiculous. Well, I don’t want your money, so you can go to hell.”

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