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“Okay,” I whisper against her lips. I taste her tears. “You have to get to your seat. I have a game to win.”
She nods and steps back, pulling her glasses from a case in her purse. She slides them back on and forces a smile, then rejoins Violet. At the corner, I spot Greyson waiting for them.
Back inside, I nearly crash into Knox. He’s pacing the hallway, staring at his phone like it’s going to bite him.
“You good?”
He jerks, then nods. “Yeah, obviously.”
“What’s going on with…?” I gesture to his phone. “The dead body isn’t coming back to bite you, is it?”
The dead body he handled in some sort of effort to get his brother to forgive him.
“What?” He scoffs. “No, of course not. It’s… personal.”
I glare at him. “So personal you’re not going to tell me about it?”
He growls under his breath. “I’ll tell you later.”
“It better not affect your game tonight.” I shove his shoulder.
He pushes me back, finally cracking a smile. The worry melts off his face like it was never there. “No fucking way. We’re going to crush you and go all the way. I’m not stopping ’til I can kiss the cup.”
I smile. “In your dreams.”
38
KNOX
Fuck. My. Life.
As soon as Rhodes is out of sight, I pull out my phone and reread the voicemail transcription. I could hitplayand listen to it, but once was enough.
It came from a private number, and as such it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t even have a chance to answer it—not that I would’ve. A few years ago, someone signed me up for a bunch of subscriptions. I get a million messages and calls about finding my perfect mail-order bride, or a pill to make my dick grow a few extra inches, or hair loss supplements.
I’m not losing my hair.
My dick is perfectly huge, thank you very much.
And I sure as fuck don’t need a mail-order bride.
It doesn’t help that there’s been talk about my replacement on the Guardians. My contract is up at the end of the season, pending renewal. If they don’t want to keep me, I’ll become a free agent.
Something my team is trying to negotiate, although I don’t think it’s working out so well.
I’ve been avoiding their calls, too.
“Game seven, baby,” one of my teammates calls. He drapes his arm over my shoulders and pulls me into him.
“Get off,” I snap, elbowing him in the ribs.
I retreat to the corner and read the transcript.
Again.
I delete it.
If the number wasn’t private, I’d block it, too.
