Page 37 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

Sitting alone in the office, I let the quiet ground me. All is still, the sounds of Manhattan a distant hum. I glance out

the window toward that gray light. I love this city. Love it with all my heart. But I’ve been happy other places as well.

And I’m no longer happy here. Was it Elena’s fault? Yes and no. Yes, she made my life misery. But it wouldn’t have mattered

if I truly loved my job.

I know the world is full of Elenas. I’ll meet her type time and again, unfortunately. The question is: What do I want to fight

for? Felix’s approval? No. I have no respect for him anymore.

Turning in my seat, I slide my hand over my portfolio, the leather smooth under my palm. A small smile pulls at my mouth.

It’s bittersweet. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing. I don’t know. I thought I’d have a better sense of my life’s path when

I graduated college, that everything would be clear.

I loved college. Loved it. Life was one big party, peppered with frantic bits of studying in between. I didn’t take anything too seriously, and that was just fine. I had time. Because, let’s be honest, being in college is safe—a bit like high school but without parental supervision.

But now? Nothing is safe. I’m swinging along without a net. And it feels surprisingly good. Exciting. Yeah, I might fuck up

spectacularly. I might never find what I’m looking for in terms of a career. But I do have one thing.

Ethan. He’s mine. All mine. It’s surprising how completely satisfying that is. And terrifying. If I slip and fall with him,

down I’ll crash, all broken and damaged. But at least I want to fight for him.

I used to think maybe a guy would make me whole. But that’s not really the truth. It’s up to me to figure my shit out, but

Ethan makes the struggles easier to bear. He’s my reward when it’s all said and done.

And this place? I’m done with it.

There’s only one thing left to do.

“Fiona?” As if summoned, Elena walks around the corner and notices me sitting at her desk. “What are you doing here?”

Reflexively, my palm pushes against the cool leather of my portfolio. “I was waiting for you.”

Her steps slow, and I wonder if she’s onto me. I give her a bright smile, the same one she’s given me for months.

“I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” My hand is steady as I flip open the case and pull out a stack of drawings.

She hesitates, her hand hovering and a frown on her brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I quit this morning, and I’m thinking of using these for my résumé.”

“You quit?” There’s a weird touch of panic in her voice. “But why?”

“I don’t know...” I shrug. “I’m not a good fit here. Felix has a certain vision...” I shrug again.

“Oh, but you’ll get there!” she insists. “I’ll help you.”

I want to laugh at the irony. “Help me now. Quitting is a done deal.”

And it is. My resignation letter is sitting on his desk. And I’m not about to give him two weeks’ notice. Shitty? Yes. But

he’ll survive. Besides, I don’t need his reference; I have other plans.

I push the designs toward her.

Finally, she picks them up, her eyes scanning the pages. “These are great. I love them.”

So did half of Manhattan’s elite when they admired Janice Mark’s penthouse. Do I feel guilty about showing Elena what are

essentially sketches of the apartment? Maybe I should, but I don’t.

I rise and snap my case shut. “Can I leave them with you for the weekend? I don’t want to be here when Felix gets in.” I give

an exaggerated pause. “He hasn’t seen these, and I don’t want him to, okay?”

There. If she steals these designs, her fall is all on her. Somehow, I think she won’t fall far. Professional sneaks never

really do.

She doesn’t even blink when she gives me a solemn nod, her hand already spreading over the pages. “I’ll guard them well.”

I give a nod of my own. But when she begins to pull them toward her, my hand comes down on the sketches with a slap. “You

know what? I can’t do this. I was going to give you these, knowing they’re bad, knowing you’d take them for your own. But

I cannot walk out of here and pretend that what you did, what you’ve been doing, isn’t seriously fucked up.”

Her face pales as she gapes at me. Then she’s flushing dark red, her gaze narrowing. “This again? Jesus, Fiona, you have to

stop. It’s pathetic. I didn’t copy your designs. I just did them better.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to get through the day, Elena.” I lean forward, the urge to hit her so strong that my fingers curl into a fist. “That shit you pulled with the curtains? Pretending we’d talked about them?

That’s not right. And it’s just one of many lies you’ve told.

So don’t you dare act like what’s gone down is all in my head. ”

“This is business. You do what you have to do to get ahead.”

“I don’t want to win that way.”

An ugly smile curls her lips. “News flash, Fi. You didn’t win.”

One punch. Surely one punch would be okay?

I keep it together by a thread. “I’m not the only one who knows.”

She flinches. “What?”

“Felix knows. He’s always known. He just doesn’t care because your mother has the contacts he needs.” I take a breath. “Which

is why I’m quitting. I can’t work for a man who has no morals, or alongside a woman who uses people as her personal creative

well.”

Elena’s hands fist as well. “I have talent—”

“That’s the tragic thing. You do. Real, honest-to-God talent. But instead of cultivating it, you waste your time stealing

other people’s ideas.”

Her face scrunches up, going bright red. “I used to think you were nice. You’re nothing but a bitter bitch.”

I laugh. “If being a bitter bitch means I’m no longer your stepping stone, then I gladly accept the title.” With that, I stand.

“Have a nice life, Elena.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says suddenly. “The pressure. My mom. Everyone knows who she is—”

“I don’t know what that’s like?” I gape down at her. “Are you kidding? My dad was a superstar before I was even born. My mom

runs her own business. My sister is fast becoming a regular fixture on ESPN. Hell, I’m swimming in a pool of overachieving

family members.”

“That’s not the same. You aren’t in those industries.” Her fist hits her chest. “I have to make my mark in this business.”

I could understand. Hell, I could almost empathize. Almost. “Our parents don’t define us, Elena. Our actions do. And yours suck.”

She goes from flushed to bone white. “Fuck you, Fiona.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling now. “You already have fucked me. And yet, I’m the one walking out with my head up.”

And I do, leaving my sketches, Elena and all her bullshit behind.

There’s a faint fishy smell in the air. I don’t want to be around when it grows stronger. Because I left a present for Felix

too. Operation Rotten Fish, as Ivy likes to call it.

We did the same prank on our bitchy ex-camp counselor one summer, smearing fish oil under her bunk and on the inside lining

of her trunk. Call it a little fuck you for dunking my head under water when I couldn’t swim, and for telling Ivy she looked like a flagpole when she clearly had

worries about being the tallest, thinnest girl in the camp.

By the end of the summer, the stench had gotten so bad, they had to fumigate. But the trunk remained, and so did the smell.

And though I’d like to believe I’ve grown up since then, the thought of all the fish oil I smeared under Felix’s desk and

the tables in Elena’s office gives me a surge of satisfaction. Maybe part of us never grows up. I am surprisingly okay with

that.

Dex

“Dexter, man, you’re living the dream!” Shockey, one of my linemen, gives me a hearty slap on the shoulder as we walk to our

cars.

“Not my dream,” I grouse.

The dream Shockey refers to is the swarm of women currently dogging my every step. Panties in my locker. Tweets offering blow jobs, hand jobs, rim jobs, I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck -half-of-this-shit-is jobs. Women showing up outside my town house.

Waiting for me before practice. It isn’t necessarily anything new. All players get this. It’s the sheer volume and intensity

that’s driving me nuts.

“Dex.” A pretty brunette saunters up. She’s wearing my jersey, or what remains of it, because she’s cut the sleeves off and

tied it into a knot to bare her midriff. “You look tired. I’d love to give you a massage.”

And they wait for me after practice. I shake my head, shrug off her grasping hands and keep walking. Shockey, on the other

hand, slows.

“Aw, honey, don’t waste your time on him. Why don’t you come and keep me company in my post-workout bath?”

The girl eyes me as if she’s trying to figure out if I’ll cave. I don’t break stride. My keys are out, and I’m in my car.

Shockey leads the girl away, and I sit back and just breathe in the scent of fine leather.

I don’t care who you are, every guy goes a little wild when he signs and gets his first big check. You’d have to be inhuman

not to. Some go too crazy, buying everything in sight and saving nothing for later. Others get a few big-ticket items and

then manage to hold back. Me, I bought a town house and a car.

My friends expected me to go in for a truck, maybe an SUV. They were wrong. I fell in love with a sweet little blue Aston

Martin Vanquish. Drew instantly wanted one too, but Anna convinced him that he lives in New York City and doesn’t need a new

car. Now he has to admire mine from afar. Sucker.

I’m probably too big for this car, but I don’t care. I love her. And right now she’s my sanctuary. Okay, she will be as soon

as I pluck the numerous perfume-scented notes and scraps of panties that are scattered like snow on the windshield. That people

have pawed my car makes my eye twitch.

“Fucking hell...” I take a breath, tossing all of the mess onto the passenger side of my car—because I refuse to fucking litter—and slamming the door shut.

This has to end. Soon. I’m not used to being hounded this badly. I don’t like it. At all.

Worse? It’s not going away. It’s growing. I’m the butt of every damn sex joke in sports right now. Maybe I shouldn’t be embarrassed.

But I am. My skin feels too tight and my stomach leaden. Every time a woman approaches me, seeking out her opportunity, it

feels like high school all over again.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I turn the car on and pull out. I revel in the act of driving, losing myself in the purr of the

engine and the way the car responds to my slightest touch. I’m home too soon.

Only to find my street blocked by a few reporters and groups of desperate chicks and a few guys too, who assume maybe I’m

just not yet out of the closet. I drive around to the back of my property and park in the small carriage garage.

The engine ticks as I sit there, not wanting to get out.

The team’s PR department loves this mess. I’m getting attention—not for drugs or violence, but for being virtuous, which is

like a hidden gold mine for them. More ticket sales, more press.

Ivy tells me I should just come out and confess to being with Fi. Or she did until I asked point-blank, “And do you honestly

believe they’ll leave her alone?”

No. Ivy couldn’t assure me of that.

I think of Fi, the one perfect thing in my life. I want to keep her safe, shelter her from all this ugliness. Just keep her.

Forever. She’s mine. Mine to protect. And I really don’t give a shit if that makes me sound like a caveman. Because, frankly,

Fi drags the caveman out of me and sets him front and center.

But the truth of the matter hits me like a hammer to the chest. Right now, with this shit going on, Fi doesn’t need protection

from anything but me.