Page 96 of Relationship Goals

“Fuck you, too,” I mutter, and a moment later, the elevator door dings, and I lug my bag into it.

Problem is, Gold is right. I need to stop obsessing about Abigail and how guilty I feel.

One of the Aces owners, Charles, walks into the elevator a half second later, giving me a broad fake smile.

I resist the urge to tell him to fuck off.

It’s a close call, though.

Another player, one of our talented newer guys, tries to walk in, but Charles puts a hand up. “Take the next one. Thanks.”

My teammate gives me a confused and concerned look, but shrugs and turns back.

Charles presses the door close button, and no sooner have they shut than he smirks at me.

“Ticket sales are up,” he says, and I swear to god if he pats himself on the back, I’m going to fucking punch his smug face. “I had a feeling your little ruse with Ms. Abigail Hunt would help, but I had no idea how much. We’ve sold out the next two home games. You keep this up, and we’ll be sure to let you off the reserve list.”

My hands itch with the need to wrap around his neck and strangle him so he can never say her name again.

“How’s your mother, by the way?” Charles continues jovially, like we’re old friends and I’m not currently imagining throwing him off the top of the hotel.

My lip curls in a snarl. “None of your goddamned business.”

“That’s no way to talk to your boss,” he says with all the sincerity of a fox in a henhouse.

“I’ll talk to the asshole who’s blackmailing me however I want,” I say, seeing red. I take a step closer to him, making clear just who is the bigger man in this situation.

“Please, spare me. Like you aren’t enjoying being between her legs.” The elevator dings, and he winks at me as the doors open. “I know I would.”

I’m gonna fucking kill him.

“Fuck you,” I spit.

“Nah, I think Ms. Hunt’s got her hands full with that,” he calls down the hall, jamming his hands in his pockets.

The elevator door closes, my own furious face reflected in the mirrorlike doors.

What the hell have I done?

Chapter Twenty-six

Abigail

Michelle’s tucked inon the end of my couch under one of my fleece blankets. Another blanket follows it, then another, this one in a hot-pink-and-cream-checkered pattern, and I keep digging, looking for my favorite in the hall closet.

Princess makes a figure eight around my ankles, not sure what we’re doing but happy to be included.

“How many of these blankets do you have?” Michelle asks, cuddled up to her chin.

“I got a deal when I bought them in bulk.”

“You know we live in a place where it hardly ever gets cold.”

“I like to be prepared,” I trill, finally landing on the navy-and-baby-pink supersoft blanket I like the most. Princess mews as I collapse onto the couch and immediately climbs into my lap.

“Sure. Okay.” Michelle laughs, and then she reaches for a piece of cheese from the last-minute charcuterie I threw together for our Aces viewing party.

“There he is!” I squeal as the camera pans to Luke’s scowling face.

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