Page 137 of Imperfect Player

“I think you’re not going to make me a fucking dime, but I’m goddamn proud to be your agent.”

“I’ll up your salary.”

Tripp shakes his head. “Damn right you will. But seriously, I love it. I’ll get to work on all of it ASAP.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

We hammer out a few details, a literal few because I have no fucking clue what getting all this shit up and running is going to entail.

Before I leave the office, Tripp stops me.

“I almost forgot,” he says.

He hands me an envelope.

The last time someone handed me an envelope, they basically put my heart in my hands. The typed print on the front of this one says this is different though.

“It’s an invitation,” Tripp explains. “The athletic company still wants you at the face of it. They would like you to speak at their event next week. I didn’t want to pressure you but . . . ”

“I’ll do it.”

Chapter 43

Ethan

I’ve spent the past week trying to figure out what to do about Everly, her letters, us.

The overwhelming thought in my head is still, despite all the therapy, that I don’t deserve her—never will. And she doesn’t deserve to have to deal with this never-ending uphill battle that I’m on. Who wants that? Who wants the worry of wondering if I’m going to slip up again? If this time maybe I’ll actually drink myself to death?

Not that I have any intention to. Fuck, I don’t even want a drink. Not now, not since I got my head right about my childhood, my parents. Then again, I thought the same thing two years ago.

God only knows what could set me off next time.

Why put her through that?

The answer: because she loves me. Because the bad doesn’t scare her. Because for some reason, we can’t seem to live without each other.

The pain she admitted to in her letters, the missing me, is one hundred percent reciprocated.

So I thought about it. Made some pretty pricey calls to Dr. Monroe.

Who am I to argue with the woman?

If she’s willing, I am too. I’ll do everything in my damn power to be the man she deserves.

The problem is that I’ve been too much of a chicken shit to call her. Fuck, even to text her. I don’t know what to say or how to have the conversation that I know we need to have. Hell, I don’t even want to have it, if I’m honest. I would much prefer for things to just go back to the way they were.

Why can’t it? At least for a little while. After all we’ve been through, why can’t we just have one night?

Like tonight.

The Bright Star Gala is tonight. The event that I’m not only the face of but also the surprise speaker at.

Maybe it will work, or maybe she’ll slam the door in my face. It’s worth a shot though.

Now, as I stand here in front of her door, I regret not calling first. Not texting to let her know I was stopping by. Because as I stand here, I realize . . . what in the fuck am I going to do if she already has a date?

That’s why, when the door opens, my smile is hesitant. Excited as I am to lay eyes on her for the first time in months, I’m terrified.

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