Page 16 of Scoring the Player
“One of us needs to know where you are. How dare you not call me as soon as you saw the video.”
“Wh-what video?”
“Salem Jones.”
The fuck he want?
Whatever I took thrashes inside my stomach and tries to kick its way back up. “Lemme hit you back.”
I climb into my shorts. Patting the pockets, relieved to feel my car keys and wallet, I throw on my tee. I scan the room for my watch and spot it on the nightstand along with my shades.
Creeping over to swipe them up, I freeze for a second when one of the guys shifts, eating up the space I occupied, and burrows against his husband.
My shades slip to the floor as I reach for them. After neither of them stirs, I pick them up, set them on the nightstand, then pick them back up again. I start to turn when my legs lock in place.
Two more times or you’ll lose tomorrow’s game…
My fingers grip the sides of my shorts, forming a tight fist.
I step back and flinch as a cold wall presses against my back. I take another step back, and the cold spreads all over until I feel enclosed in an ice cage.
Staring up at the ceiling, I will myself to keep going. Just this once, not to give in. I take another step back, and the blunt voice cuts in again.
Two more times or you’ll be the reason for a ten-game losing streak…
This is stupid.
Everyone will blame you because of your article.
My fingers curl around the lens until the bridge warps from the pressure.
The lowzzzzbetween my jaw and ears fades, and the cage bars recede as I step forward and place them down in the same spot.
Coward.
I repeat it again, snatch them up, then race toward the door.
My phone buzzes as I leave the building.
138 text messages.
My stomach clenches.
Thirty-two missed calls.
The fuck?
I click on the first text at the top with a link to a video. One glance at the headline and I’m bent over the railing, emptying my stomach into a bush.
I nod to Jo,a security guard, on the way into the arena.
“Well, what is it?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“Your favorite dessert?”
I shrug, clenching my stomach.
