Page 11 of Play the Last Track
I pull it out from my back pocket and glance down at the screen, my heart jumping to my throat the moment I see whose name is flashing up at me.
Grant.
Chapter Four
Flynn
Hollieisscaryoverthe phone, but it’s nothing compared to when she asks—no, demands—that we meet in person. The text came in this morning.
Pat’s. 4pm. Do not be late.
Hollie and her fucking periods. When I was a rookie, fresh out of college and the draft, Hollie’s periods in her texts and emails sent me through a tailspin. She’s younger than me, she’s five-foot, and when I met her in the office for the first time, she seemed sweet. Then, I signed with her. The sweetness disappeared, and she’s been busting my balls ever since. Every time I get a text from the woman, it is in short, sharp sentences and full of periods. She always sounds mad. She normally is. My teammates once caught the tail end of one of her infamous lectures, and they visibly recoiled as she walked past them.
Mind you, she’s gotten me some of the best advertising deals in the business, and I’m one of the highest-paid tight ends in the league, so whatever she does, it works.
Still, a summons text is never good.
At least I know Scott got the same text, and he’s done nothing wrong.
“I can’t believe I’m getting roped into this shit with you. I haven’t done anything wrong.” Scott tugs his cap further down his face. “Why is this place so busy for a fucking Monday anyway?”
“Monday night football, idiot,” I say.
“We’re not even playing,” he grumbles back. He glances over his shoulder at the door.
“Sports fans. They’ll watch anything.” Scott peers over his shoulder again, and I smirk. “You saw her this morning. In fact, you’ve been with her all weekend, bar the few hours you had to do your job on Sunday afternoon.”
“She’s going to be my wife. I’m allowed.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“Fine, I’m obsessed.” Scott shrugs and takes a sip of the beer in front of him. I’ve got to give it to Ivy because ever since she came into the picture, Scott has completely relaxed. Football used to be his sole focus. He didn’t date, he didn’t go out, he barely even liked bonding with the team.
Then Scott met Ivy. She caught his eye, and now he can’t take them off her.
Like, ever.
“You going to say hi to Doug?” I ask, my eyes scanning the bar and its patrons. Scott’s right, it is busy here today. With the NFL, the NHL, and the NBA seasons in full swing, the bar only gets busier and busier the closer the leagues get to their playoffs. This bar is only really ever quiet in the summer, and even then, they always have their regulars.
“Nah, but Ivy will likely drag me over later, after she gets here.”
I grunt in response, my eyes snagging on the blonde standing by the service window into the kitchen. Katie leans in through the gap, arguing with one of the chefs. Her jeans stretch deliciouslyover her round ass, and her shirt is coming untucked the further she leans over. Her hair is loose and in curls. There’s a small sliver of exposed skin on her lower back, and my mouth goes dry.
Jesus Christ.
You’d think I’d just gotten a glimpse of her fucking tits, the way I’m acting.
Scott makes a sudden movement, jumping up from his side of the booth, and it draws my attention away. He drops his cap to the table, and my eyes follow him as he walks towards the front door of the bar. Ivy is shaking out her coat, a little wet from the light drizzle outside. He takes her bag and leans down, catching her with a kiss hello.
My stomach twists with something foreign, and I tear my gaze away.
Right back to Katie.
She’s watching the pair too, with soft features and what I can tell, even from across the room, is a sad expression. I saw the same one on her face many times in Italy. Scott would do anything remotely romantic, and Katie would have this look in her eye as she stared at them. It wasn’t jealousy or annoyance. It was longing.
Longing for something she wanted so badly for herself but had never experienced.
I hate her ex for that look.
