“Well, if it isn’t Macy Sinclair.” Kat Aggasi smiled up at me through the bathroom mirror, dazzling white teeth a picture-perfect contrast to her beautifully tanned skin. She was effortlessly stylish in a formfitting designer suit.
In her presence, my mouth suddenly forgot how to speak so I simply smiled.
“I heard you joinedCosmopolitan,which was somewhat comforting considering I’d wondered where you disappeared to.” She dabbed a thin layer of red lipstick on. “Nonetheless, I take it you’re happy here?”
I gave a one-shoulder shrug, still unable to speak real words.
“Well, I had big plans for you.” She tossed her lipstick into her clutch, then turned around to face me. “Much more than being an assistant, so if ever you find yourself back in New York, you know where to find me.”
40
“Nice game, Lucas.” Coach patted me on the back as my teammates gave me high-fives.
Another win under the belt. Go Jets.
I poured everything I had into football, considering there was nothing else left.
Macy was my everything and I was stupid enough to push her away.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Oh, right.
That if I let her go, fate would bring her back to me.
Well, fuck fate. I should have just talked to her about the job. But, I figured Macy would have still given up her shot, too afraid the distance between us would somehow break our love. And now look at us, shattered into pieces anyway.
I never thought I could miss someone so much, could ache for someone so much, could cry for someone so much.
Photos of us still clung to the walls of the house meant for two, and I swear, months later, and I could still smell her perfume in our bedroom.
Nights were the loneliest. And the closer I got to the date we were supposed to tie the knot, the more my heart threatened to shatter inside my chest.
I dialed and texted her number countless times and it wasn’t until some dude with some weird accent answered that I realized she’d changed her number.
I wanted—needed—to winher back, and while I wasn’t sure how, my ass was going to be on a flight to London during my teams next bye week.
Being new to the NFL, reporters were stalking me left and right for interviews—most of them I’d turned down.
But when my agent reached out and saidHot Shotwanted to speak to me, my ears perked up.
“They’re doing a piece on some of the sexiest players in the NFL. The editor-in-chief, some hottie named Kat Agassi, asked for you specifically.”
Though reluctant, I agreed, trusting a gut feeling.
When I arrived atHot Shotheadquarters, women whispered and giggled as I was led by a tall, male receptionist with pink, spiky hair to a glass-enclosed office, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.
“Mrs. Agassi? I’ve got Lucas Stone.”
He motioned for me to step in and when I did, the blonde behind the large, off-white desk invited me to take a seat.
Easing down onto the high-back chair in front of her desk, I bounced my leg, checking out the hundreds of photos of past issues plastered to the walls—some of which I’d recognized that Macy had read. The memory of her curled up on our couch, nose all inHot Shot’sPlease Your Manissue, made me chuckle.
“Something funny, Mr. Stone?”
I shook my head. “Oh, well my fiancée—well I guess my ex-fiancée—used to readHot Shotwhen we were in college. Seeing all these past issues on the walls made me think of how she used to be very into some of the”—I trailed off to find my words—“more popular issues.”
Kat nodded, her lips pursed. “Are you talking about Macy Sinclair?”
