Page 21 of End Game
“Did they give you the catch?” Layla asks.
“Yeah, after a review. Everyone kept saying it was the luckiest catch ever and the name kind of stuck.”
“Do you think you’re lucky?” Layla’s voice is quiet, almost thoughtful, against the music and Poppy’s giggling at whatever Finn is whispering in her ear.
I sink into a chair beside her. Setting my beer on the table, I peel at the label. “I don’t know that I believe in luck, really.”
“Why not?”
“I think luck is just being ready when an opportunity presents itself. There are a lot of people that could be lucky if they spent more time preparing and less time moping or bitching or being scared.” Taking a deep breath, I stop fucking with the bottle and look into her gorgeous eyes. “Does that make any sense at all?”
The way she looks at me makes me want to come undone. It’s like she cracks open my outer shell and watches me bleed in front of her, something I don’t do for anyone.
People can’t handle that level of truth, that vision of what you look like or say that isn’t what they think it’ll be. When you’re a public figure, everyone thinks they know you and you better live up to that or they’ll call your ass out. It’s a burden to keep that façade up, but I always have to.
“It does make sense,” she agrees. “It’s easy to call people lucky because it doesn’t give them anything. Like, it doesn’t acknowledge anything about them—their work ethic, or decisionmaking skills, or sacrifice. It’s just they’re lucky. I’ve always thought it was kind of bullshit.”
“You and me both,” I whisper.
Before things can get any deeper, her phone buzzes on the table. “Oh, shit.”
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Callum.”
She almost spits his name, her eyes narrowed as she watches it glow. Finn and Poppy are too busy in their own world to notice the way Layla just tensed up.
“He called earlier and I told him not to call me back. I mean, he’s in fucking Tahiti with another woman. Why would he even want to call me?”
“For this reason right here,” I say, spinning the phone around on the table. “It keeps you talking about him.”
“I don’t want to talk about him. I want him to die.” She looks at me. “Not really. I don’t need that karma on my head. I just . . . I wouldn’t be sad if something really bad happened to his knee, okay?”
Laughing, I pick up the phone with a crazy idea. “Let me answer it.”
“What?” she squawks. “Why would I do that?”
“Because it would be fun.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “You aren’t dating him, right? What do you have to lose?”
“What do I have to gain?” she counters.
“A little amusement.”
She gives in, unlocks the phone, and swipes the call. Handing me the phone, she tilts her head like she’s second-guessing her decision. I grab it before she changes her mind.
Callum is a complete dick. His reputation around the league sucks, stories float around about him every year in regards tothe way he treats his team. I’ve seen him at clubs throughout the years and watched him interact with different people. It’s a wonder someone hasn’t rung him up.
A little shot of adrenaline hits me as I bring it to my ear. “Hello?”
I keep the phone pulled slightly away so he doesn’t hear my breathing. There’s no reason to distract him from the fact a man just answered her phone. Let that sink in a little.
“Who is this?” he says finally.
“Who is this?”
