Page 7 of Taken By the Grumpy Player

That fact that I’m even trying to speaks volumes.

“Mr. Maxwell,” Willow returns carefully, and my teeth press together at the way she addresses me.

“Call me Reed,” I say, watching as something flashes across her eyes, but is gone before I get the chance to describe it. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Willow arches a brow as she gazes up at me. “No, you can’t,” she says, shooting me a pointed look. “It’s an open bar.”

Frustration blooms, and I do my best not to clench my fists at my sides in an attempt to hide it. “Right,” I mutter.This is going so fucking well.“Listen,” I start, running my tongue along my teeth before reluctantly pushing on, “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior during our interview.”

Willow blinks at me before she raises both of her eyebrows, staring at me in a way that rouses an urge of wanting to know what’s running through her mind. I definitely detect a hint of shock, but there is also a subtle look of apathy lingering. “Have you ever apologized for anything in your life?”

Her accusation takes me by surprise, the sheer honesty in the question itself like a punch to the gut. It doesn’t double me over, but it does have me raising my hand to rub it along my chin and jaw, forcing down a dry chuckle. “Not recently, no,” I answer, and she looks thoroughly unimpressed. I drop my hand and purse my lips. “Look, I’m trying here.”

“Not really,” comes her response as she tilts her head slightly. “You said you wanted to apologize like you expect me to readily accept it.” She shrugs, her lips turning downward. “If anything, it sounds a little patronizing.”

Jesus Christ. How did me wanting to apologize turn intothis? Despite myself, my eyebrows tug together and I ask, “What would you like me to do? Get on my hands and knees?”

Her cheeks flush and I can’t stop myself from admiring the pink hue that colors her face. “No,” she says, bristling slightly, and I fight a smirk from getting that reaction out of her. Willow lifts her chin, locking her gaze with mine and saying, “We’ll just see how sincere this apology truly is during our next interview.”

My jaw clenches, knowing what she means. She wants to see if I’ll be more approachable,nicereven, in our next interview. She wants to see if actions speak louder than words, and if I want her forgiveness—which I desperately find myself wanting—then I’ll be as good of a sport on camera as I am on the field.

“Fine,” I grit out. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Good,” Willow nods. I know she then takes in a deep, quiet breath the way her neck tightens, and I fight the urge to trace the slope of her neck with my gaze, to trail along her collarbones and down to her chest, which the dress hugs real fucking nicely. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go have a chat with your coach.”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond, and instead turns and walks off, and I can’t stop watching her as she goes and approaches Coach Scott, who greets her with a small, polite smile. I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek, shaking my head, unsure if this conversation with Willow helped or not.

Unsurprisingly, thoughts of Willow don’t leave my head as the night goes on—especially given that she is in the same room as me. I distract myself by talking to the other attendees—which is a headache, because all anyone wants to do is talk about their donations to the charity. None of these fuckers really care about the cause, and all they want is to look good in front of their peers and out-donate the other. Any time someone asks me about my donation, I refuse to participate in such cheap conversation, and turn toward my teammates and talk to them. I know that, just like me, they’re here for the charity itself and not to make ourselves look good in front of people who we don’t really care for.

Events like these are all for show; for the big-wigs to show off their wealth, and for us athletes to show that we’re more than just about sports. As far as most people on my team and I, attending these events are a headache, but supporting the charities they are for is not. We’re more than happy to contribute to the causes that are important to us, but the media attention for it that is inevitably received cheapens it all, in my opinion. If I could do it all anonymously, I would—and I do, for many of them, but there’s nothing I can do when the guys and I are forced to show our faces and attend the functions.

The night drags on, and around eleven the event comes to an end and everyone floats towards the exit to head out. One by one, the guys all drive home after receiving their cars from the valet, and as I stand outside of the hotel, the Chicago chill like needles on my face, I glance to my left and catch sight of Willow standing a few feet away, phone in hand and a black peacoat keeping her warm.

My eyes narrow on to the screen, and from a distance, I easily recognize the Uber app she has opened up. Before I can stop to think twice and reconsider what I’m doing, I’m walking toward her, catching her attention almost immediately. There’s a tightness in my chest that suddenly occurs when her green eyes meet my dark ones, but I ignore it, not wanting to think too deeply about what it could mean.

“You shouldn’t be taking an Uber home by yourself, this time of night,” I tell her gruffly, a sliver of annoyance creeping in at the idea that she’s even thinking of doing it. “I can drive you.”

Willow blinks up at me for a few long seconds before a scoff of a laugh escapes her. She makes no move to cancel her ride as she tells me pointedly, “I’ll be fine.” She shakes a lock of strawberry blonde hair away from her face and adds, “Besides, the last thing I need is a picture taken of me in your car.”

My lips purse, turning downward in offense at her tone, like being caught with me is her worst nightmare. “I’m not that bad,” I say coolly.

“Maybe.” Willow lifts a single shoulder. “But I’m trying to make my own name in this industry, and I can’t really do that if I’m wrapped up in some scandal before my career ever starts.”

I arch a brow, unsure if I’m more annoyed or amused. Of course, she’s the one to pull this weird combination of emotions out of me. “Being seen with me is a scandal?” I ask before gesturing toward the hotel behind us. “You realize you were probably photographed with me inside, right?”

“I was here for work. It’s different,” comes Willow’s smooth reasoning. “I work in media. I know how a picture of me in your car will get spun, and we should avoid that for both of our benefits.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

Willow’s eyes narrow, and I instantly know I’ve said the wrong thing. She glances at a black Hyundai that pulls up, and I know it’s her Uber the way she checks the license plate before telling me, “Thank you, but I’m good. Have a goodnight, Reed,” before stepping down to the curb and opening the back door of the car.

She doesn’t spare me another glance as she gets into the car and it drives off, leaving me staring at the car and feeling like an idiot, with no one to blame but myself.

Chapter 5

Willow

TheheatinTexasis a welcome change from the familiar cold front that’s flowing into Chicago, but in the men’s locker room, I’m not thinking about the weather and instead am trying to not suffocate from the smell of cologne that permeates the air. Though, I guess I prefer the scent of two dozen different colognes mixed together rather than the stench of sweat that will take over once the game is over. I’m currently wrapping up the pre-game interviews with some of the players, Michael at my hip with the camera in the room that is loud and buzzing with energy.

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