“Give or take.” She nods. “Before my partner Skye got on a plane to come here from Chicago, I think we were able to come up with eight scenarios.”
“Skye’s flying in?” E shifts to lean forward, bracing his elbows on his spread knees.
“Yup.” Jordan shifts her attention to him. “My gut tells me we’re going to need all hands on deck for this.”
“Shit.” Kay curses beside me, and this time I’m the one soothing her with a stroke of my thumb.
“We’re dealing with too many variables to be able to predict how this will play out. If we can at least get the broad strokes worked out for all the different what-ifs, it’ll make it easier to deal with them if they come to fruition,” Jordan explains to the room. The ease and confidence with which she speaks makes it clear to see why people seek her out for representation. Hell, Brantley would sell a kidney to have her represent me when I go pro.
“First things first”—Jordan swipes along the iPad’s screen and turns it to face Kay and me—“I’m sorry to say it, Kay, but I think your days of hiding have come to an end.”
On the screen is ESPN’s website, opened to an article titled: U of J’s Mason Nova scores more than touchdowns in last night’s win over Penn State.
Above the link for the article is a shot of me kissing Kay after the game. Seeing the picture in all it’s high-pixel glory fills me with an immense sense of satisfaction. In bold red lettering, my name and number are clearly visible stamped across Kay’s back for all the world to see. If that isn’t enough to show she is mine, the way the two of us are wrapped around each other does. My arm is curled around her underneath the white outline of the large #87, my helmet hanging just so, making it look like Kay’s delectable ass is sitting on it. The grip of my other hand on her thigh is all possession, the quality of the lens used to take the shot high enough to pick up the whitening of my knuckles.
Fuck I love this picture. There’s a reason I set it as the background on my phone.
My favorite part about it—and I mean my absolute favorite—is how equally clearly my girl is claiming me right back.
Her legs are wrapped around my hips, her feet hooked together at the ankles, keeping us locked together. Her arms mirror the hold around my neck, the black of her nail polish covering the smear of eye black on my cheek with her hand spread along the side of my face, the other cupping the back of my head with a proprietorial hold on my hair.
Hottest. Fucking. Thing. Ever.
I remember the sting of my scalp as she tugged on my hair with each squeeze of her legs, bobbing slightly on my body…the mingling of our breaths, the salty taste of my sweat, and the lingering sweetness from her coffee each time our tongues stroked each other.
This picture is a physical manifestation of the adrenaline from what happened both before the game and during and what we were feeling because of it. With one kiss, we each owned the other—wholly.
“Dayumn.” JT blows out a dramatic whistle, having stood to look at the screen over my shoulder. “That kiss is almost not suitable for public.” He waves a hand over the iPad. “I feel like there should be a black censor block on top of you two.”
“Shut up.” Pink stains Kay’s cheeks in an adorable blush, but JT only laughs. “Why is this even the article?”
“Because…” I pass the iPad back to Jordan when she gestures for it. “Stuff like this? It’s clickbait gold. Romantic pictures like this get picked up by the BuzzFeeds, Reddits, and Tumblrs of the world and pull in the non-sports-minded readership. I can almost guaran-damn-tee you this picture will be pinned and repinned on countless Pinterest boards. You two”—she circles her finger in front of Kay and me—“are what we in the biz”—the tilt of her lips only adds to the sarcasm in the coined phrase—“like to call media darlings.”
#Chapter11
Ugh. Media darlings. Awesome. Oh you heard that sarcasm, did you?
I don’t know what makes me want to groan more, those two words or the proud dimples peeking out from Mason’s cheeks.
“Is this where you tell me to steer into the skid and take a page out of your book?” I ask Jordan. As a sister to not one but two top players in the NHL and the wife to another, she has mastered the art of her own public profile. The follower count of her TheMrsDonovan Instagram account is close to those of the athletes she manages.
The beeps from the heart rate monitor pick up speed, and I glare at it for giving away the anxiety building inside me.
“That’s kind of an extreme flip from your stance now,” Jordan acknowledges. “No need to go from zero to a hundred. Honestly…what you’ve been doing this last week with Mason slowly integrating you into the content he posts is enough to help satisfy some of the curiosity of those who use the CasanovasGirl hashtag.”
I sag back against the pillows propping me up, the beeping easing with my long breath out. Shit! If Jordan only knew how close to throwing up I came when I told Mase to post that selfie of us in my I like the game but I LOVE the player shirt. Still…Liam pushed me to my breaking point with his taunts about who I would root for at the game. I’d had enough and did the only thing I could think of to shut him—and anyone else who dared prattle on with the bullshit about me being a Penn State spy—up.
My temple and cheekbone simultaneously ache at the thought of the person who bestowed these injuries on me. I wish I knew what he could have possibly been thinking. If he was hoping Mase getting into a fight would make him look bad, like he was a hotheaded player who couldn’t control himself, that plan was certainly flawed. Being the one trying to start the fight himself would have made Liam look just as bad.
Liam’s taunts about my past tainting Mason’s reputation and paying off Chrissy/Tina to spew her vile bullshit were much more significant and could legitimately cause Mason to be seen as a less desirable draft pick. Hell…if that bitch does go through with what she threatened, there is potential there for it to make Mase completely undraftable in the eyes of the teams.
Now that the game is over and I don’t have to worry about my current boyfriend committing homicide against my ex-boyfriend, I need to tell him. Actually, I should tell Jordan too to see if there’s any way we could put a stop to that bitch’s scheme before it gets the chance to come to light.
“We can circle back to all that later.” Jordan’s sure voice snaps me from my musings. “I want to talk about the possible next steps and potential new stories that could develop as things unfold.”
That prickly, bugs crawling under my skin feeling travels up my arms. I hate this, hate how my private life doesn’t get to stay…private. But as I lift my gaze to the man sitting beside me, bags under his eyes, sleep-rumpled hair now hidden beneath his ball cap, hand holding mine, I realize losing some of the anonymity I clung to as a means of survival is a price I’m willing to pay if I get to have Mason Nova in my life.
I love him.
Yeah you do, my inner cheerleader singsongs smugly in my ear. She’s had a lady boner for Mase from the beginning.
Me? I fought him. Fought letting his type back into my life. Fought the big scary feelings I felt for him as hard as I could, but the man was too damn stubborn to listen.