Page 18 of Game Changer

We weave past rooms and corridors, her heels clicking the entire way. She waves to people as we pass.

“I bet you were the perfect child,” I say.

“I was a tomboy. Grew up playing basketball. My older brothers played, too. Eventually, we stopped playing together though.”

“They were too good?”

“I was too rough. One nasty elbow to the groin and my brother called it quits.”

When she smiles, I do, too. It’s like we have a secret together.

“Listen, I know you’re Mari’s MOH, and I respect that, but it’s obvious you’re busy. I want to help any way I can,” I offer.

Chloe’s face splits into an appreciative smile.

“That would be great, thank you. Most of the big pieces are done, but there is the bachelorette. I was thinking of having it at a spa, about a week out so it’s not a stressful rush right before.”

“I love that! Maybe we can bring treats and our own decorations,” I go on.

We keep chatting until we get to the kitchen, and Chloe makes me a cappuccino. “It’s not Miles's, but it’s something.”

“Who’s Miles?”

She cocks her head. “You a basketball fan?”

“Not really.”

“Perfect. This place can get pretty incestuous. Not to objectify the guys, but they’re larger than life. Literally. It’s easy to get seduced, whether they’re trying to draw you into their orbit or not.”

I blink. “You have nothing to worry about.”

I’m coming off a breakup, and the only guy who made my vagina flutter was a stranger on a plane I’ll never see again.

We head back toward her office but go a different way. At a bank of windows, I pull up. On the other side of the glass is a gym with sleek machines and free weights. Half a dozen guys are in there. They’re tall and muscled, intent on their work.

“Enjoy from a distance,” Chloe says. “They lift after practice. Preseason they’re here for three or four hours a day, ramping up for all of the madness of the regular season. Then the other things start up—forty-plus games on the road, media availabilities. I give them a hard time, but these guys work their asses off.”

Chloe’s phone buzzes. “One second, Nova. Someone skipped a photoshoot.” Her shiny hair slips over her shoulders as she shakes her head.

She turns away and speaks into her phone.

I go back to watching the guys work out. One in particular catches my eye. He’s shirtless and lying on a bench, holding a barbell with impossibly huge plates on either end that he presses with the regularity of a drumbeat.

My throat dries at the physicality of it, the sheer strength and will required.

It’s raw, beautiful, forceful.

But I’m not watching his shoulders or straining pecs.

I’m watching the tattoos. There must be a dozen or more. Black and covering swaths of his arms, his chest, his sides.

They’re not only beautiful—they’re familiar.

My heart stops.

It’s him.

Clay.

---