Zed finishes drawing the final play and caps the marker. “That’s all. Thanks for the attention.”
“No, man. Thank you.” Jace points at him, and a few guys echo him.
Zed steps back and heads for his locker, my eyes following him.
Yeah, I’m proud. Any captain would be. You don’t land a player like Zed Mercer and not feel the weight of it, not realize what a goddamn gift it is to have him in your locker room instead of tearing through you from the other side.
But underneath the pride is a nagging pull. I’ll never stop wondering what happened to the kid I remember.
Now it’s like someone took that kid, pumped him full of muscle, added ten inches of height, and ripped his soul out as payment.
He’s still Zed. But it’s like looking at a reconstruction of him. When I talk to him, I catch glimpses of the boy I knew. But he’s so far away, too deep to reach, and too dark to drag back into the light.
The boys are on their feet again, towel-snapping each other and getting dressed. My phone buzzes on the bench next to me, and I glance down at a new notification from Tinnie.
My heart kicks at the subject line.
“Jessica Brooks’ Conditions Attached.”
Well, fuck me.
I grab the towel, wipe the water from my neck, and stare at the glowing screen.
Can’t lie, there’s heat in my chest, a curl of anticipation.
She took her time, let me stew, let me wonder.
Smart little thing.
Subject: Jessica Brooks’ Conditions Attached To: Dominic Moreal From: Christine Varela Time: 11:43 AM
Dom, As requested, below are the terms sent over by Miss Brooks. I’ve reviewed them, and while I find some questionable, she insists they remain unedited. Proceed accordingly. – Tinnie
I tap the attachment and find bullet points. My eyes automatically read the first one.
Creative Control: Miami Blazers Styling. I will be granted full creative direction for all Miami Blazers formalwear used for events.
She wants to dress the team. The whole team.
“What’s that face?” Jace glances over.
“She wants to style you idiots,” I mutter.
“You reading the conditions?” He perks up. “Oh, she wants to feel you up.”
I don’t dignify that with an answer. I keep reading, jaw tight. She’s promoting her designs using our franchise.
Smart. Too smart.
I feel my lip twitch—annoyance or respect. Hard to tell.
Personal Styling Autonomy: I will maintain full autonomy over my own styling choices for every appearance made alongside Captain Moreal.
She wants to show up on my arm in whatever she wants to wear. It’s a promo tactic.
My brows lift. “That’s easy,” Jace says, peeking again, and I shove his face away.
This woman is trying to build a brand on the back of my last name, and she isn’t even subtle about it.
