Page 103 of Imperfect Player

Everly

The night Ethan planned for us at the event venue from the Advantage party had been amazing. It was a date, a real date. A perfect date.

Cheesecake included.

It was a magical night filled with love and affection and promises.

Promises that, only a few days later, are already broken.

Earlier today, Ethan stumbled into the studio where the shoot for Active All-Stars was taking place. He was already ten minutes late, which Yolanda would have been quick to forgive if, when he did show, he hadn’t been drunk. This time, there was no covering for him.

Not with Yolanda.

Not with Tripp.

Linnie’s mother had been released from the hospital and was at home resting, so Tripp took the time to come back home and do some work before heading back next week.

When Tripp saw Ethan, his jaw dropped.

The cool and collected man that would stroll into the Advantage Player offices was long gone and replaced with a man who had dark circles around his eyes and reeked of whiskey.

Before I could even say anything, Tripp shoved Ethan out the door and told him not to come back. He made a threat, one about telling his coach and his career being over. Pieces of the puzzle that is Ethan Ambrose suddenly became clearer.

As if having to divulge the details of my relationship with Ethan to Tripp wasn’t bad enough, having to explain that I lied to him, and Yolanda, about the last shoot nearly broke me.

Tripp is less than pleased with me, but even more so with Ethan. I can’t blame him there. I’m pretty pissed at him myself.

Based on the sympathetic look on my face when I step into the lobby of Ethan’s building, Thurston knows it too.

“Is Ethan here?” I ask Thurston.

“He is, ma’am. In quite a mood too.”

I would hope so, after what he just pulled.

“I’m aware.”

Thurston nods. “Go on up.”

“Thanks, Thurston.”

When I walk into Ethan’s condo, Baker immediately runs to greet me.

“Traitor!” Ethan yells out from the couch. I’m not sure if he’s referring to Baker or me.

“You look . . . worse,” I tell him as I make my way further inside.

He doesn’t respond, so I continue.

“What the hell were you thinking showing up drunk to the shoot?”

“I was thinking that if I didn’t show you’d be pissed.”

“I’m still pissed.”

“Your problem, not mine.”

His behavior is infuriating. As much as I want to be understanding and get to the bottom of what is bothering him, my emotions get the best of me.

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