Page 73 of Imperfect Player

“She is.”

“This isn’t going to affect your business with Advantage, right?”

“Nope. Her boss is completely on board.”

In fact, it sounds like he’s loving it.

Coach nods, pleased with my answer. “That’s what I want to hear. Now, get your asses onto the field.”

With one last warning glare, Maddox heads to the field.

“Listen, man, I just . . . Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just quit being so hard on yourself. Whatever you’ve been through, whatever you think makes you fucked up, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve happiness. If anything, maybe it means you deserve it more.”

“I already took your advice,” I tell him. “I don’t need your cheerleader shit anymore. Makes you sound like a pussy.”

“Still an asshole,” Fox says with a chuckle.

“Always,” I tell him.

“Come on, let’s get the win.”

We got the win all right, but it was a much bigger struggle than it should have been. The team we were playing is one of the worst teams in the league, and yet we barely got by with the win.

Pretty sure at some point one of the guys shouted to me to get my head out of her pussy and back in the game.

Fair observation, but fuck if he knows just how goddamn good it is.

“You coming out with us tonight?” Fox asks.

The invitations that had stopped for a long time have begun rolling in again ever since the night I took Everly out with the team.

“Nah, not tonight,” I tell him. Though there is a small part of me that wants to go. Be a part of the team. Feel the comradery.

My body is fucking exhausted though. My mind even more so.

So I decline, head home, and take Baker for a walk that’s longer than usual because I’m just in that good of a damn mood. From Everly. From the game. So much shit in my head that I don’t know what to feel first. And fuck me, but I actually want to feel it. The happiness, the excitement. The love.

It’s around ten when I make it back to my building, Baker in tow, exhausted from the walk.

When I step inside the building, Thurston eyes me.

“What’s up?” I ask him.

He nods his head in the direction of a man sitting on the bench.

“Who’s that?”

“You tell me, sir. He said that . . . He said he’s your father and he needs to speak to you.”

The calls. The letter. Now this?

Clearly, the man, whoever he is, isn’t getting the point.

“I wasn’t sure, and the resemblance . . . ” Thurston says. “I didn’t call the authorities . . . yet.”

“Don’t. I’ve got this,” I tell him.

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