Risky Play (Red Card #1)(16)

I flinched.

A slap would have been preferable to what he’d just said.

The fantasy that I’d been holding in my heart came crashing down at those words.

I never wanted to believe my gut instinct.

That I was nothing to him.

I wanted to believe that it had meant something.

It had to.

It was too good not to.

Too perfect.

I was wrong.

About everything.

His name wasn’t even Hugo.

Slade Rodriguez.

Slade Rodriguez.

I took in his outfit again.

Why did that sound so familiar?

I felt my eyes widen as tears threatened to pour over. Oh, I’d been a one-night stand alright, with none other than soccer’s newest European transfer.

I should have seen it.

The money.

Good looks.

I’m sure he thought he could just screw anything with heels.

Anger replaced all the sadness, all the insecurity. I was ready to bang him over the head with my phone when it started to ring.

It was Matt.

Unable to speak, I shoved the phone in Slade’s direction.

“Shit.” He cursed at the screen, slid his finger across it. “Seriously, Matt?”

They talked.

He stared me down with that empty golden gaze I’d once found alluring, beautiful. But those eyes, they were just like every other pair of eyes that had looked at me and found me wanting.

They looked their fill.

They walked away.

Slade handed the phone back to me. Matt was gone.

I cleared my throat. “I have dog food, for your . . . dog.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Really, Ashley? Is that what you feed them?”

“Mackenzie,” I said in a low voice. “My name is Mackenzie.”

He gave his head a shake of disgust. “Wow.”

I glared. “Really, Hugo.” I drew out his name with malicious purpose.

He stared at my mouth, shook his head, and looked away. “Just don’t steal anything.”

I’d never been so insulted and embarrassed all at once. “Oh, you mean don’t take pictures and upload them to eBay? I’ll try to control my poor unfortunate self.”

He leaned down. I could smell him. It still made my knees weak, but I was too angry to recognize the feeling as lust when all I wanted to do was hold onto the rage. “Yes. Try to control yourself.”

My eyes narrowed.

He stepped around me and called over his shoulder. “And feed Alfie.”

“Alfie,” I repeated just as a fat bulldog came scurrying toward the door barking.

Slade didn’t even turn around, just hopped into his ridiculous sports car and sped through the gate, leaving me a complete mess with a dog that was snarling and tearing into the food I’d dropped by my feet when I saw Slade’s eyes.

With shaking hands, I grabbed the food and walked as best I could with a broken heel into the house. “Come on, boy.”

He licked the side of my leg, getting nothing but black skinny jeans and the smell of Escada perfume.

The hall was clean.

The kitchen was gorgeous, but a complete mess, like he hadn’t done a dish since he’d moved in.

With a grumble, I found a bowl, cleaned it out, dumped some dog food inside, and then started working with the dishes.





Chapter Fourteen SLADE

I pulled up to the stadium and tried not to throw my bag at the ground and jump on top of it with my cleats.

What the hell?

Matt was waiting by the door. “You look . . . rough.”

The same couldn’t be said of Matt. Every hair was in place. His suit belonged in a boardroom full of millionaires with too much time on their hands, and yet there he was, perfectly poised and polished with his blond hair swept back and his designer suit making everything around him seem cheap in comparison. The only thing standing out was the toothpick between his teeth. The guy had a thing about sucking. And let’s just leave it there.

I glanced down. Adidas cleats.

At least he came prepared to chase me out of there, if need be.

He used to play for an American soccer team in LA before an injury led him to switch to the business side of things, and now he managed everyone from bands to athletes.

“She was late,” I said, sweeping by him and heaving my duffel over my back. “And she was rude. You should fire her.”

“After ten minutes in your company?” He gasped. “Rude, you say? Color me shocked.”

I flipped him off.

He swatted my hand away, and his blue eyes searched mine. “I could have been partying on a yacht with Tom Brady and Ben Affleck right now.” He gripped me by the shoulders. “But I’m in Seattle, midwinter, it’s bloody cold, and I’m staring at your ugly mug instead of drinking champagne with supermodels.”

“Sacrificed a lot, have you?”

“Super. Models,” he felt the need to say again. “Don’t fuck this up, not if you want to keep playing. They’ll just bench you and pay out your contract. This team is different from Chelsea. They need a leader, alright? That’s what they’re paying you to be. The leader, the co-captain. They want a cup. You’re here to give it to them. So bury all that shit inside, and play like the Fifty-Two Million Dollar Man, got it?”