Page 119 of The Game Plan

By the time I find what I’m looking for under his bathroom sink, the room is a mess. I don’t give a ripe fuck. My chest heavesas I stand and look in the mirror. For so long, I didn’t know who the fuck I was. Only with Fi did I feel right, at ease withinmy flesh. The world has tainted that too.

To hell with it.

Grimly, I lift the razor and press it to my skin.

Fiona

With an excess of nervous energy zinging through me, I decide to bake some biscuits. Ivy was right; I do know how to bake.I just tend to do it for emergency purposes only. Right now, baking is the only thing I can think of to calm my shaking handsand reaffirm that Ethan’s home is my home too.

It’s been a weird day between demanding my money from Bloom and setting up an interview with the press to explain why I did it. Ivy helped me with that, choosing a sympathetic sports reporter—a woman so I would feel more comfortable.

We held the interview through Zoom. Ivy had joined from her home in San Francisco, acting as Dex’s agent and my moral support.

I was so nervous I feared I might throw up just seconds before we went on air. But then a strange sort of cool calm came overme as I told the reporter of my plans for the money. I didn’t speak about the pictures or how it felt to be exposed, and Ivyshut down those questions every time they were asked. The truth is, none of that mattered.

What matters is that Bloom’s dirty money will be put to good use. One million dollars to help stop childhood hunger and homelessness.

I went as far as throwing down a gauntlet to Bloom, daring them to double their money and do good for once. I don’t expectthem to, but it was satisfying to make them squirm.

Ivy thought it was a most excellentfuck youto Bloom and all the haters. I’m just happy it’s over. I want to get back to my life, to focus on my furniture making andmost importantly, on Ethan.

There hadn’t been time to tell him what I was doing and why. He was at his game, and I was too anxious to wait, afraid I’dchicken out.

But it’s done now. I feel lighter, free. All that remains is to explain it to Ethan and tell him I’m staying right here whereI belong.

The joy I feel in knowing he’s mine, in being with him, is so strong it scares me. I want to guard it with my entire soul.I want to tuck big, strong, capable Ethan Dexter to my side and protect him from the world.

It makes absolutely no sense; he doesn’t need my protection. But the desire is there just the same. I don’t want him to be unhappy or vulnerable to the vultures out there. I want—need—him to know how much he’s loved.

I know he feels the same about me. It’s in his every touch, every word, look and smile he gives me. With him, here in thishome he’s made, I feel that safety.

Only now I’m afraid I might have fucked up by not warning him. Highlights from the game show him being ejected for startinga brawl. I’ve watched the footage over and over, my mouth gaping. Ethan never fights, never really loses his temper at all.

God, but he looked so angry, blood and sweat running down his face as he pummeled the shit out of a player on the other team.

At first, I thought maybe he was fighting because of a disparaging remark the guy made about me. But now I’m not so sure.Because the game is long over, and Ethan still isn’t home.

When I tried to call him, I found his phone sitting on his dresser, forgotten in his haste to be on time today.

Short of roaming the city for him, I can only stay here and bake and wait.

I’m pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven when I hear him come in. “Ethan?”

The sound of his car keys falling into the bowl on the front console fills the silence.

Then he speaks, his voice deep. “Yep.”

One word. I shouldn’t read anything into it, but he sounds off.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I say in a bright voice, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m making biscuits and was thinking about gettingsome gumbo from down the street.”

Footsteps thud across the floorboards, and Ethan appears.

A biscuit drops from my fingers to the floor as I behold the man standing at the threshold of the kitchen. He’s tall, broad and muscular, his eyes jewel bright. The line of his jaw is a clean sweep, his smooth chin stubborn, firm and unfamiliar to me. This man doesn’t have a beard. Or much hair. All that glorious, sun-streaked brown hair has been shorn off close to his skull.

And he stands there—hands shoved in his pockets, a gray cotton button-down shirt straining at his shoulders—looking so differentI hardly recognize him. Younger, more vulnerable. Exposed.

“Why?” I warble, my heartbeat thudding in my throat.