Page 4 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

TY

“What was that?”

I tucked my shirt in, swiveling toward the squeak coming from the end of the alley. A large rodent skittered near the trash bins with a clang…just as a shock of red hair blazed around the corner.

Walker?

Holy fuck.

That little shit.

My nostrils flared with an automatic surge of anger.

I’d spotted Walker at the bar on my way out the door.

It was hard to miss him. First of all, he was the only redhead I knew at school whose hair was that particular shade and the only one who’d dress like a Brooks Brothers model at a campus pub.

The khakis, the meticulously rolled-up sleeves of his striped oxford shirt… yeah, that was Walker.

He'd followed me. Un-fucking-believable.

I was always so careful. I chose my partners wisely and checked, double-checked, triple checked my surroundings before I considered whipping out my cock.

Okay…yes, it would have been smarter to go to my place or his.

In my defense, fumbling in a dark alley with a football player who was the definition of a casual hookup hadn’t felt particularly dangerous.

The surrounding brick walls were high as fuck, and it was nearly impossible to see anything…

unless you were looking. Fuck you very much, Woodrow.

Carson was the epitome of a safe lay. Eager, willing, and so deep in the closet that he seemed truly comfortable there.

Other than being bi athletes, we had nothing in common and we didn’t bother trying.

In fact, we usually avoided real conversation and never touched each other more than strictly necessary.

And we never kissed.

We fucked around. That was all.

I studied the quiet alley. Dull light from a parking lot streetlamp spilled over the trash bins near the entrance, but there was no sign of life.

“Must have been a rat,” I replied.

Accurate.

Carson pulled keys from his pocket. He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something but gave an up nod instead and strode away. No good-byes, no uncomfortable attempts at making future plans, no complications. Perfect.

Unfortunately, I had a new complication named Walker Woodrow.

“Do the fucking interview.”

My agent was a notoriously cranky asshole who rarely minced his words. I’d been assured that Toby Guzman’s abrasive approach was effective and it had definitely worked in my favor, but every once in a while, he just confused me.

“Hello to you too,” I mumbled, rubbing sleep from my eyes before taking a tentative sip of my morning joe.

“Yeah, yeah. I did some research and the kid from What’s New, Smithton? is the real deal.”

I sat up so fast I almost spilled coffee on my T-shirt. I frowned at the TV tuned into one of those home renovation channels my roommate, Brady, liked while my heart slammed in my chest.

What had Walker done? Had he taken photos and contacted my agent already? It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours. Was this blackmail? Fuck me. I was barely awake, for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t ready to go to war yet.

I cleared my throat and set my mug aside, checking over my shoulder to see if Brady was around.

“I don’t care. I refuse on principle,” I bluffed.

“Fuck your principles, Ty. Woodrow is well connected, and?—”

“So what? It’s a hard no. And how did you know about the interview anyway?”

Toby scoffed. “You, genius. You left me a message last week about some guy named Walker Woodrow. Ring a bell?”

Oh. Right.

I raked my fingers through my hair in frustration. “Uh, yeah.”

“He called here too.”

My eyes bugged out of my skull. “He called you?”

“I didn’t return the call. You know I don’t deal with influencers directly.”

I released a jagged breath of relief. Thank fuck.

“Good.”

“But I did my homework, and this is nice exposure for you. So nice that I ran it by the Jackals’ PR team. They loved it more than me. Turns out Walker’s mom was a big-deal journalist who?—”

“That’s nice, but my message to you was a heads-up. That’s it. I’m not doing that interview, and I’m not changing my mind.”

Toby growled into the phone. “Don’t be a dumbshit, Czerniak. You might be a big fish in your small pond now, but you’re an untested rookie in the pros. No one knows you from Adam.”

“They will…eventually,” I replied, squinting at the contractor knocking down a bathroom wall on my flat-screen.

That earned me a dramatic sigh. “You’re missing the bigger picture here.

A, Woodrow has a huge platform to reach a wider market than most rookies get.

B, early positive publicity is a good thing.

This would be a walk in the park for you.

I admit that you’re vaguely charming when you’re not testing my fragile patience.

Show a wider audience of hockey fans who you are—a skilled player who’s not bone ugly. ”

“Gosh, I think that was a compliment.”

“No, this is me pointing out the obvious. And sometimes that means you gotta do shit that doesn’t appeal to you. It’s part of the game, kid. Do the right thing, will ya?”

The right thing.

“Jesus.”

“Do you want to set this up on your own time, or do you want me to do it?”

“I’ll take care of it,” I grumbled.

I tossed my phone onto the sofa cushion and dropped my head between my knees. I wasn’t sure how a simple, run-of-the-mill BJ had resulted in total mayhem, but this was not good.