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“There’s nothing to complicate. Cam doesn’t care who I sleep with, and I’m leaving today.”
Ugh…yes. Why am I harping on this?
I sit back up. His eyes lock on my tits again. Apparently he enjoys my naked torso as much as I enjoy his. “I guess you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” he says, with just the right amount of cockiness. “Since you woke me up…”
“I thought you were leaving today.”
“I’m driving. I can leave whenever I want.”
“In that case.” I grab his biceps and pull him down as I fall back.
SIXTEEN
SLATER
My week in New York is busy with endorsements. The bigwigs don’t get what they want at the first photoshoot, so they add a second one. Cam makes me go to a couple of meetings, and I fit in as much working out as I can. As soon as I get to L.A., I call a couple of my college teammates and we meet at one of the local fields.
It’s nice to hold a football again. Throwing gives me a chance to work on my mechanics. And it gets me out of my head, at least a little.
I haven’t heard from Ellie. Not that I expected to. I’ve thought about messaging her, but we were quite clear about what we were doing, so I’ve avoided the urge.
I’m at the gym the next morning when my phone beeps with a news alert.
Former Teammate Accuses Slater Jones of Cheating
I grimace. It doesn’t take a genius to guess which former teammate they’re refer to.
It isn’t the first time Ronnie Hicks has accused Slater Jones of cheating, but this time he claims to have proof. In an exclusive interview yesterday, Ronnie told sports reporter, Annabelle Singer, that he has direct knowledge of text messages sent by Jones to unknown sources predicting game scores, passes completed, and interceptions. Hicks also believes that Jones influences more than just the outcome of the game, offering to target some receivers more often than others.
I read it once and then close it. It isn’t true—not that anyone will care.
I pick up a weight, determined to get back to my workout. I’ve barely gotten into a proper position when my phone rings.
“How are you?” Cam asks as soon as I answer. He sounds tense, which means he’s seen the article, too.
“Fine. I’m working out.”
I drop the weight I’m holding and sit heavily on a nearby bench.
Cam blows out a breath, the sound magnified by the phone. “You’ve already seen it.”
“Yep.”
“Ronnie says he has proof you were cheating,” he says, as if I didn’t just tell him I already know what Ronnie said.
I leap off the bench and begin pacing. I’m in a gym owned by one of my former receiver buddies. It doesn’t open until six, but he gives me special access. My body is still on East Coast time—I got in from New York early yesterday—so I had no problem hitting the gym at four. I hate having an audience while I’m working out. “He doesn’t have proof of anything. I don’t cheat.”
“I know,” Cam says reassuringly. “You haven’t had any contact with Ronnie since the press conference, have you?”
“Of course not.” We have nothing to say to each other that hasn’t already been said. “He’s probably just trying to drum up publicity.”
“Maybe,” Cam says. “Hold on. I’m going to add Judy to this call.”
I hear a click and then silence.
I drop back onto the bench. When the cheating allegations were first levied at me after my rookie season, I was shocked. I was in a bad place after the loss and people thinking I’d cheated made it worse. The league takes allegations of misconduct seriously and insisted on investigating. In the end, the independent investigator exonerated me.
