Game On by Katie McCoy
To my real life Nathan Ryder, if I had a World Series ring, I’d give it to you.
Chapter One
Austin was hot as balls. I yanked my broken suitcase towards the doors of the Driskill Hotel, sweating like a sinner in church. Maybe I could afford a new one after this assignment. A fancy suitcase, with actual wheels and a zipper that didn’t need to be duct taped to stay closed.
“It’s got personality,” I could hear my mom say. It had been a gift from her. A really good find in her favorite thrift store in South Houston.
“Inanimate objects should not have personality,” I muttered to myself. “Personality is just another word for cheap.” I was tired of things with personality. I wanted something with class. With style.
The whoosh of the automatic doors greeted me, as did the orgasmic rush of A/C that filled the hotel lobby. I let out a whistle under my breath. It was the most beautiful hotel I had ever seen—gleaming white floors, a chrome staircase curving down the middle, and above me, a beautiful crystal chandelier. The Register had spared no expense with this trip—a hotel with A/C and a chandelier? I had arrived.
Now I just needed to make sure I stayed arrived. I had worked too damn hard to get to where I was, I needed to knock this interview out of the park and prove to them that I was worthy of the promotion they had given me. Perhaps my future held more than just a new suitcase.
I was dragging my old one towards the front desk when my phone—also in desperate need of an update—rang. I fished it out of my pocket. Nick. Of course. He probably wanted to know where the peanut butter was. I ignored it and flashed the patent “I might be annoying, but I’m also adorable” smile at the hotel clerk. Something else I had gotten from my mother.
“Welcome, ma’am,” he said with a lovely twang. He looked barely eighteen, with puberty’s last zits fading on his chin. Not that I really could talk; I had just turned twenty-three and was practically an infant to most of my co-workers, who had been reporters for the length of my entire life.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
I opened my mouth and my phone rang. Loudly. Nick again. I switched it to vibrate, put it in my pocket and turned back to the clerk.
“Checking in,” I said. “Sophie Hall.”
“Of course, Ms. Hall,” the clerk said. His nametag said Greg. “We’ve been expecting you.”
My phone vibrated.
“Sorry,” I pulled it from my pocket, doing the obnoxious “one minute” finger that I had hated being on the other end of during my years as a waitress. I knew it was rude to answer the phone, but I didn’t think Nick was going to stop calling. “It’s on the top shelf,” I said, as my greeting. Might as well get to the point as quickly as possible.
“Sophie.” Nick’s usual baritone voice took on a high-pitched whine through my beat-up phone speakers. I winced. I definitely needed a new phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Austin, Nick,” I said, trying to control my frustration. This happened each time I had to go somewhere for an assignment. “I told you three times. And I left you a note. Two notes actually.”
“Why are you in Austin?”
“I’m interviewing Nathan Ryder,” I told him patiently. “The Longhorns’ star player, remember? Houston boy? The one who’s probably heading to the majors next year?”
I was sure he wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Nick didn’t know anything about sports. If it didn’t play an instrument he wasn’t interested.
“But my band is playing tonight,” he said and this time the whine wasn’t just from the phone.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t be there, but this is a really important assignment.”
He sighed. It was one of his specialty guilt sighs. I hated it, especially since I was pretty sure he had learned it from my mom even though they had never met. We’d been together for six months and this was the first time I was missing one of his shows. Sometimes I was the only person in the audience, which is probably why it was so vital I was there. But I was not going to give up this important opportunity to listen to the same five songs. Not this time.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, not sure if he had hung up on me or fallen asleep. It was two in the afternoon, which was pretty early for him. When I had left the apartment several hours ago, he had still been sleeping. He looked so handsome when he was sleeping, all tousled hair and sexy cheekbones.
“I just don’t think this is working,” he said.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, much louder than I had intended. The clerk, who been looking down at his computer politely, raised his eyebrows. I turned away from the desk, dragging my suitcase behind me, and I ducked out of the way of the people milling in the lobby. Somehow I ended up behind an enormous potted plant.
“I just don’t think we should be together anymore,” he said. “I really need someone who can be supportive of my musical career.”
“I am supportive,” I said. “I just can’t be there tonight.”
He sighed again and I wanted to punch him through the phone.
“It’s just not working,” he said, and I immediately went from mild annoyance to full-on anger.