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Lyla

I ’ve prepared for this moment as much as humanly possible and yet my heart is still racing like it just sprinted up Mt. Everest.

That familiar smile. The way his bulky arms flex as he leans over the front desk. Tattoos I want to trace with my fingertips.

And those mischievous eyes—that show zero recognition for who I am.

Does he not remember me ? My head spins with the idea.

No, there’s no way he could forget that night. It was . . . memorable.

Wasn’t it?

“Mr. Blythe,” I say, not even bothering to put out my hand so he can shake it or flirt with it. (Can you flirt with a hand? I’m not so sure, but I bet Drake could flirt with a garden gnome.)

“You can call me Drake.” His eyebrow arches, as if to say, Aren’t I the man of your dreams ?

I almost scoff. Been there, done that, don’t need the tote bag, thank you very much . Unless the tote bag’s full of red flags, in which case—already got one.

“Well, Drake,” I stand, putting my hands on my desk. Normally, I would be the girl cowering speechless in the face of a famous athlete attempting to flirt with me. But not with Drake Blythe. Because with Drake, I turn into sassy, confident(ish) Layla. “You’re late.”

He grimaces and I feel an inordinate amount of glee that I knocked the smile off his stupidly handsome face.

I never really understood when people talked about a ‘strong jaw’—but I get it now, Drake’s jaw must bench like 350.

Seriously. I’m slightly taken aback when I see him clench his jaw then relax it as he apologizes for being late.

Yes, he apologized . We have a lot of athletes come through here and I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of them apologize.

Does that mean he’s forgiven for ghosting me?

Not even close.

Besides, it’s not like he apologized for ghosting me. I’ve read his file. I know he has to be here. So if you’re obligated by the state to be here, what business do you have being fifteen minutes late?

Goodness gracious.

“Follow me,” I tell him.

“Anywhere.”

The first time I met Drake, I fell for his lines. This time, I roll my eyes at his pathetic attempt at a line. I walk around my desk to lead him to Cathy’s office, where he’ll sign some paperwork and get the rundown.

“So,” Drake’s baritone voice reverberates off the hallway walls. “You gonna tell me your name or do I have to guess it?”

I trip over my flats—because Lyla doesn’t wear heals like Layla does—at Drake’s words.

“You really don’t need to know my name,” I say, which is completely ridiculous—of course he needs to know my name, but I have to see if he really doesn’t remember me.

“Feisty,” Drake says. “I like it.” I lead him down the hall to the administrative wing, my head reeling with the fact that he really might not remember me. “Hmm, alright, is it Isabella? Katerina? Rachel?”

My emotions run the gamut from disappointment to devastation and everything in between.

But I land on rage. When we reach Cathy’s office, I turn on my heel, my hands on my hips.

“Call me ‘Miss’ or ‘Ma’am.’ Take your pick,” I snap.

I turn back around, knocking on Cathy’s door.

Man, this guy really brings out the sass in me.

I didn’t think I had much sass—and my only serious boyfriend, Brandon, thought I had zero—so this is a pleasant surprise.

“How about beautiful? Gorgeous? Sweetheart?” Drake’s voice is low and dangerously close to me. I swear I can feel his breath on my neck.

Ugh.

I straighten my shoulders as Cathy calls, “Come in!” I swing the door open, waving an arm at Drake. “This is Drake Blythe.”

“Mr. Blythe!” Cathy croons, getting up from her seat to kiss him, Miami-style, on the cheek. “We’re so happy you’re here! And you’re early too,” she practically crows. I stifle another eye roll.

“I thought I was late,” Drake says, giving me a cocky side eye.

“Oh we always tell our athletes to be here thirty minutes earlier than we need them,” Cathy confides. Darn that woman sharing all our secrets.

“Ah, I see.” Drake raises an eyebrow at me. “I suppose we’re not the timeliest bunch then, huh?”

“Not at all,” I mutter. Cathy gives me a bewildered stare—she hasn’t yet seen my sass, which is making its debut today, apparently.

“We’re just delighted you’re here,” she says, offering Drake a seat. “Thank you, Lyla.” And just like that, I’m dismissed. I nod to Cathy and walk out the door, but not before I hear Drake say, “See you later, Lyla .”

Heaven help me, I study Drake’s face for a glimmer of recognition as he says my name—which is silly since he never learned my name that night—and when I find none, I stomp out of Cathy’s office and shut the door harder than I ever have before.