Page 26

“I need to hand it to him—in person.”

“I can’t connect visitors directly with players, but the clubhouse manager can accept the item on their behalf.” She picks up the receiver on the desk. “Let me just call—”

“No,” I say, more forcefully than intended. Pausing, I clear my throat. “I can’t leave this with anyone else. It needs to go to Shane. Directly.”

“Okay.” Her smile wavers as her hand slides beneath the desk.

“I’m not crazy,” I say, surging forward like an unhinged person. “It’s just…there’s money in the case. A lot of money. It belongs to Shane, and I’m trying to return it.”

A security guard enters the vestibule with a click of a door.

“Wait.” I put a hand out toward him, using my body as a barrier between him and the cold hard cash. “You don’t understand. Shane gave this to me, but I don’t need it anymore. I’m leaving.”

“That’s a good idea. Why don’t I escort you out?” The guard takes a step toward me.

I shuffle backward. “Hold on. Just let me call him. I have his cell phone number.”

He stops, crossing his meaty arms across his chest. “Sure you do.”

“I do.” My free hand pats my scrubs, but it seems my phone slipped out of my pants pocket while I was driving.

An uneasy chuckle escapes my lips. “You’re not going to believe this…”

“Alright, miss. Time to leave.”

Without thinking, I juke to the side, trying to get past him. Not surprisingly—since I have zero athletic ability—I don’t succeed. One of his massive hands lands on my forearm, twisting it behind my back.

“Stop. That hurts.”

“You should have thought of that before you tried to get past me.”

A shocked breath punches from my lungs. Though Shane has ‘manhandled’ me twice, he held me like a pink fluffy cloud compared to how I’m being shoved toward the door now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice almost breaking. “I’m not a troublemaker. I swear.”

“You can prove that by exiting the premises.” As soon as I’m back outside in the crisp spring air, he releases me. “Go on. Leave.”

I turn toward my car, blinking furiously as my eyes mist. At least I can blame it on the ever-present ocean breeze since Waves Stadium is practically seaside.

“You should have just sent the money back electronically,” I mutter to myself as I walk away, rubbing my sore arm. “You didn’t need to bring it to him in person.”

My chiding words sound surprisingly similar to the ones my ex used to use when I wanted to push all the furniture against the walls and have an indoor picnic, or wear fake fur and a floor-length gown to a fellow artist’s opening. Sometimes my ideas are a little kooky, but that makes life fun. And maybe I wanted to see Shane’s brows rise when I presented him the case—maybe catch a hint of a smile.

I’m so lost in self-loathing that I don’t even hear the roar of a motorcycle until it stops behind my parked car.

“Willow?” Shane pushes up his helmet’s visor.

I want to scream. Frustration clings to every inch of my skin. If he’d arrived moments earlier, I wouldn’t feel so ashamed. But even as that thought pings in my brain, I know this isn’t Shane’s fault.

It’s mine.

“I have your change,” I say limply, extending the briefcase. “$4,987.64. The teller even had to look in the back for the pennies since they don’t make them anymore.”

Shane sets the bike on its kickstand. “What are you—”

His sentence snaps off in a curse when I finally burst into tears. Honestly, I’m proud of myself for holding it in this long. With the day I’ve had, I should get a medal for mental fortitude—something garish with a bedazzled neck ribbon.

Shane dismounts, drops his helmet on the ground, and gathers me into his arms with dizzying speed.