Page 109 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Scottie: Hi.
Jason: It’s been almost a month. Are you coming back anytime soon? I miss you so fucking much.
Scottie: It’s been two weeks.
Jason: I’m using emotional-math. Two weeks apart = at least thirty days in Jason time.
Scottie: Sure, but we saw each other yesterday—you were having a lot of fun while I was . . . I can’t sext right now. Let’s move this forward. How are you?
Jason: I just crushed my first full-team workout without tripping over my own feet.
Scottie: :heart-eyes: emoji That’s adorable. Should I get you a gold star? Maybe a cookie?
Jason: I’ll take both.
Jason: And a kiss.
Jason: No, wait—I deserve a blow job. I’m basically a goddamn inspiration right now. [Kidding. Sort of. (Mostly not.)]
Scottie: Ambitious. I respect that.
Jason: Say the word, Crawford. I’ll fly to you right fucking now. I’ll even eat your pussy while I’m visiting.
Scottie: As tempting as that visual is . . .
Scottie: You can’t.
Scottie: You’re supposed to be getting back into game shape, remember? Not risking your first comeback game because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.
Jason: I’d rather keep it in your mouth—or your pussy. It’d be completely worth it, though.
Scottie: :joy: emoji Behave, Tate. I’ll text you when I have a break.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Scottie
How to Accidentally Say “I Love You” Naked
The thing about missing Jason Tate is that it sneaks up on you.
One minute you’re killing it—emails answered, problems solved, managing your empire like a goddamn boss.
The next minute? You’re lying in bed at midnight, phone clutched in hand, wishing he could reach through the screen and absolutely wreck you.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
That cocky, sinful bastard fucking knows it.
The first text buzzes just after eight, right as I’m walking into the clinic.
Jason: I’ve missed you all day.
Scottie: Define “missed.” If you mean “currently using you as fuel for aggressive masturbation fantasies,” then sure.
Jason: . . . marry me.
