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‘You’re mine now.’
A shiver runs down my spine at the memory of those words falling from his lips. He said it with such conviction that I almost believed him for a split second.
But I can’t be his.
I just can’t.
And for my own well-being, I’ll have to figure out a way to make him understand that.
After another quick glance at the showering Greek god, I force myself to walk away and head towards the door. But just as I’m about to leave, I hear a ping coming from inside the room. My gaze darts to his bedside table, his phone beaming to light with an incoming text message.
Who could be texting Trent this early? It’s barely dawn.
Maybe it’s another woman?
I tell myself that it’s curiosity that has me walking towards the phone and not jealousy. In fact, if Trent were seeing other women, it would bode well in my favor to use it as an excuse not to sleep with him anymore. I mean, wasn’t he the one who told me he hadn’t slept with anyone for over a year? If he’s sleeping around, then that statement would have been a lie.
And I don’t fuck liars.
But my hopes crumble when I see that the text is from Rex Jones, the owner of Boston’s Guardians.
Before I dismiss the text entirely, something grabs my attention. Although I can’t read the full text without unlocking the phone, the first two sentences on the screen are more than enough for me to get a picture of what it’s about.
Rex—Good news. I talked with five potential buyers for the club last night, and they all agreed to attend the first game of the season.
Is Rex Jones selling the Boston Guardians?!
The fuck?!
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to have a complete freakout or even process what that means since I hear Trent turn off the water in the other room.
Not wanting to be here when he gets out, I grab my things and run like the wind out of there. It takes me less than three minutes to leave his apartment building and hail a cab.
“Five potential buyers for the club,” I mutter under my breath as the cab drives me back to my apartment.
Holy shit.
If the Boston Guardians are about to be sold, this will affect my players. New owners always like to make their mark on their brand-new acquisitions, and in sports, that usually means bringing in new blood to the team while selling off its most troublesome players. And that spells trouble for one player in particular—Nathan Wilder.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I shout, slapping the divider screen between me and the cabbie.
“Hey, you okay back there?” the cab driver asks, irritated. “You break it, you pay for it.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just keep driving,” I retort, just as pissed, clenching my fists to my side to keep from punching anything else.
I haven’t even managed to put out one fire, and another one is already brewing. It’s like the universe is out to get Nathan or something.
“But that’s okay,” I mutter to myself. “It’s okay, Piper. You can get him out of this mess. You can,” I repeat, praying to God that I’m not lying to myself.
All I have to do is go to that first game and see who is in the running to buy the team. Once I figure that out, I can use my powers of persuasion to make that person understand that getting rid of Nathan is not only foolish but will be detrimental to the team’s chances of winning anything this year. No club owner wants to buy a losing team. I know that much. If I can list the pros and cons of my player, then hopefully, its new owner will see the benefits of keeping him on the team instead of bringing in some new hotshot to take his place.
“I got this. I do,” I say to myself while sinking into Trent’s coat and pulling up his lapel to breathe him in.
It’s only when his scent has calmed my nerves down that I realize what I’ve done.
I don’t have time to figure out why his scent soothes me because something more troubling occurs to me at that instant.
Something far more terrifying.
