Right before our wedding.
I expect to see a ghost of a sneer, that politely amused look he gets on his face when he knows better than someone but is going to let them flounder.
But he isn’t sneering now. There’s worry in the lines of his usually smooth brow, and I don’t see a hint of the patronizing smiles he would give me when I was playing with his sister’s children at his family’s parties instead of forming alliances with politicians like I was supposed to. A familiar discomfort creeps up my back like the daddy longlegs I used to trap on my grandparents’ farm.
And looking at my office this way strikes up that same skin-crawling fear.
It’s one thing for the people in the stadium to see me this way—in this rundown office. Most of them were here before I became the owner. They know the efforts I’m making to improve the facilities; they see I’m putting fans and players first. Anyone with eyes can figure out that my office is the last item on my priority list, a pointed statement meant to showcase my philosophy as the new owner in a town that seems to dislike me, if not flat out resent me.
But for Aldridge to see this? I can only imagine what he’ll tell his family. Our old friends.
“Poor Kayla. She’s really going through something right now. An identity crisis of some sort. It’s tragic. I’m terribly worried about her.”
And that’s the worst part. Aldridge genuinely believes that this shabby office and peeling paint are proof I’ve lost my way, that without him, I can’t possibly be thriving. His quiet, stubborn certainty that I needed him to stay polished and perfect and safe is like a spider carefully tending its web—for the fly’s own good, of course.
I am not a fly.
“Kayla, sweetheart. I hoped you’d be surprised to see me,” he says over the screen. He makes a show of looking past me, as if that’s how computer technology works. “But where are you? Are you in an abandoned warehouse?”
Oh.
There’s the patronizing smile.
I wish I were sitting next to him so I could dig my heel through his foot. Even if I’m wearing wedges.
“No, Aldridge, I’m in my office. Where are you? I didn’t realize West Elm had executive showrooms. It looks so pristine and … sterile.” Truthfully, it looks ultra swanky—all leather and dark, clean colors. I grudgingly admit it’s gorgeous, if lifeless. “And why are you crashing my meeting?”
“Those questions have the same answer,” he says with a tight laugh. “You’ve always been so efficient.”
“That’s why we wanted to have this call,” the league rep, Gordon, says.Gangly Gordon has gray hair and a grimace.“Aldridge is the new owner of the Nashville Outlaws.”
I cock my head to the side, anger at myself bubbling up.
Kayla, you fool.
Aldridge is a collector, and I was the prize he always wanted. It drove him crazy that I kept pushing back the wedding, citing work and family responsibilities. When we broke up, I expected him to be furious, but by then, my dad had already bought me the team. He took this as proof that my dad had seen something in me—a breakdown waiting to happen—and assumed this was my misguided way of coping. He’s been so sure I’d come crawling back to him, he refused to take back the six-carat monstrosity of an engagement ring.
I sent it back via an armored delivery service.
So I shouldn’t be surprised that Aldridge bought the Nashville Outlaws. Because they’re not any old team—they’re our biggest rival, though I’m told the Mudflaps haven’t made it interesting in years.
I bet he reads a textbook’s worth of symbolism into that.
“You bought the Outlaws?” I smile to hide my scream. “How fun for you! Look at us, both moving on with new hobbies. Best of luck, Aldridge.”
Gordon’s condescending chuckle makes my teeth grit. “Not so fast, Miss Carville. We called you for a reason. You see, the league just approved the sale of the team to Mr. Sinclair last week, and he’s already hard at work revamping the stadium.”
Already? And isn’t the Outlaws stadium only five, maybe ten years old? What updating could it require?
“How exciting,” I say, my mask of politeness firmly in place.
“And here’s where the two of you come in. The Outlaws are one of the biggest teams in Triple-A ball, and, frankly, the Mudflapsaren’t. The league wants to see the two of you work together to get the Mudflaps some press and drum up more enthusiasm for the league.”
I smile demurely. “We don’t need the help. But thank you.”
“Kayla,” Aldridge says with a sweet chuckle. “Sweetheart.”
“We broke up, Aldridge. The terms of endearment ended with our engagement.”
