Page 77 of Playboy Pitcher

One overly aggressive reporter with big hair and a bigger mouth shoves a microphone in my face. “Carla Stokes with the Whitney Walsh Show. What about the videos popping up all over social media of you and LaCroix? Are you romantically involved with one of your team’s players, Miss McBaine? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

Great. Even national daytime talk shows are getting in on the action.

“No comment,” I repeat, pushing through them, only to get swallowed up like a boa constrictor squeezing its prey.

Damn you, Benson LaCroix.

“This is a waste of time. Come on, Frank.” Nodding to her cameraman, the reporter exits the herd, only to stop right next to me. “If you decide to make a statement that matters, give me a call.” Giving me a final wink, she drops her business card in my bag before disappearing in a puff of perfume and hairspray.

“Willie!”

As much as I hate that name, it injects me with the life I need to push through two overly aggressive entertainment news reporters to see Hoyt standing on the other side of the gate.

Fuck professionalism.

Throwing elbows, I push the rest of the way through, slipping onto stadium grounds through the crack he opens for me. The moment I clear the gate, he slams it closed and turns the lock. Glaring, he shoves his cell phone at them. “Now get on outta here, ya vultures, before I call the cops.”

“Ever hear of freedom of speech?” a young paparazzo yells.

“Ever hear of a restrainin’ order, hotshot? You’re preventin’ the owner of this here team from enterin’ a buildin’ she owns. I call that stalkin’.”

Placing a protective hand on my back, Hoyt guides me away from the media-fed anarchy. As soon as we turn the corner and are out of earshot, my shoulders sag and I palm my forehead. “Jesus, Hoyt. What the hell happened?”

“Drake happened,” he huffs, holding my eye a moment before shaking his head. “This ain’t Ben’s fault, Willie. That asshole set him up.”

That much I already knew, thanks to a morning wakeup call from one of my least favorite people. It’s exactly what I was afraid of. It’s why I distanced myself from Ben. I’m going to pay for what I’ve done. I’ve always known my luck would run out. I just didn’t think it would end like this.

And Drake is going to make sure anyone I care about goes down in flames right along with me. The smug bastard even warned me.

“How?” I shout. “Drake didn’t punch his own face! What the hell could he have said to Ben to provoke him enough to risk…” I catch myself, almost saying “our divorce deal” out loud. Not that Hoyt doesn’t know the bare bones of my plan, but around here, the walls have ears. “To risk everything?” I finish.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his balding head. “That’s somethin’ you’re gonna have to ask him.”

Oh, I plan to.

I turn to stomp away, not sure where the hell I’m going, when my stride slows. “Wait, why didn’t anyone call me last night?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder. “Why the hell did I hear about this from Ned Riggins of all people?”

“Ben asked us not to tell you.”

I whip around. “What? Why?”

“Again, that’s somethin’—”

“I know, I know, something I’ll have to ask him.” This all-boys club bullshit is starting to wear thin. “Fine. Where is he?”

“In the trainin’ room, but I really don’t think now is the right time—”

Whatever else he was going to say is drowned out by a swirling tornado of adrenaline, fury, and the rhythmicclomp-clompof my stiletto boots as I march like a demon out of hell toward the Storm’s training room.

He’s correct. Now isn’t the right time.

The right time was last night.

However, this ismytime, and Benson LaCroix is going to listen to every damn word I have to say.

* * *

I push the door open so hard it bounces off the wall and back into my hand. A few eyes look my way, but quickly lose interest and return to their workouts. It’s not good enough. I’m not one of those women who needs constant attention, but when I’m trying to make a goddamn entrance and then get ignored, my mood tends to shoot to DefCon-1.