Risky Play (Red Card #1)(47)

I imagined reaching through the screen and squeezing both hands around his neck.

I almost married this guy?

The one who didn’t stand up for the girl?

Alton would never be a hero.

And honestly he didn’t have the brains to pull off the villain.

He was too focused on himself and his own career than anything. Heck, Alton was the kind of guy who would be more worried about his stocks than the fact that the building was burning. I’d just chosen to focus on everything else. I’d ignored the truth right in front of me. I was business to him. Nothing more.

Me: You called me a whore. And yes. I slept with Slade Rodriguez. Not because I was desperate. Not because I was sad. Not because I wanted to see what it was like. And . . .

I felt a tear slide down my cheek and continued.

. . . not because I was trying to trap him into marriage. I had no ulterior motives other than finding adventure in someone’s arms, finding something I’d been searching for my whole life and capturing it in that moment because I could. Because I can . . .

I sent the text.

And then I stared back at Jagger’s name and frowned.

I refused to think about the texts the rest of the day and grabbed the leash for Alfie. It wasn’t long before I got lost in cleaning out the final box. It was nearing the time when Slade was supposed to be home. And finishing that box meant my days with him and Alfie were getting fewer and fewer, until they disappeared altogether.

My phone went off several times.

And each time I saw Alton’s name across the screen, more bitterness took hold. He had no right to be angry. I stashed my phone back in my car where it belonged and gritted my teeth.

My body. My choice.

And every time I ignored him, my heart tried to remind me of how good it was with Slade, how tender he was, how loving . . . I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the thoughts away.

I had to convince myself that the man in Puerto Vallarta didn’t exist.

Because if he did?

I wouldn’t let him go.

Alfie came and rested by my feet as I pulled out a few pictures and dusted them off. The ones that seemed the most important―Slade with his father―were the ones I put around his room. A photo of him and his father after winning the World Cup was on his nightstand. And another at what looked like a birthday dinner, I put in the bathroom. It just seemed right to have them out and not stashed away, especially since he was such a huge part of Slade’s life. I stored the trophies in his office, and when I came back to the final picture of him, his old teammates, and his ex-fiancée?

Well, that one I put in storage.

If he wanted to burn it later he could.

When I was done, I took a look around the room.

“You sure spend an awful lot of time in my bedroom,” a freshly showered Slade teased as he leaned against the door and crossed his arms. “Just don’t look in any of the drawers, don’t want to embarrass you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I already saw the blow-up doll.”

He laughed. “Riiiight . . .”

“I stored her in the closet fully inflated, just in case,” I added, making my way closer. “Oh, and I added another box of extra-small condoms, you’re welcome.”

His smile just widened. “It’s not an insult when we both know you’re lying, you know this, right?”

I just shrugged as his eyes fell to the nightstand.

He was quiet.

Too quiet.

I braced myself for a fight. I hated that I had to.

He clenched his teeth and then picked up the picture and stared at it. “I could hear him screaming when I was on the field.”

I sucked in a breath.

“Hundreds of thousands of people, and yet I could pick his voice out . . .”

“What was he saying?” I asked quietly.

Slade stared at the picture so hard he didn’t blink. “‘Don’t give up.’”

“Did you listen?”

He put the picture down and looked over at me. “We won, didn’t we?”

“I don’t really follow soccer,” I said to lighten the mood.

He actually cracked a smile. “Trust me, I’m well aware you don’t follow soccer. Had you known who I was, you would have been peeling your shirt over your head the minute you saw me on the plane.”

I shook my head. “You do realize that’s not everyone’s reaction to you, right? Mr. I-have-such-a-high-opinion-of-myself?”

He took a step toward me. “People magazine says my sweat smells like an orgasm, so . . . maybe it’s others that have too high an opinion of me.”

“Bingo.” I spread my arms wide and laughed. “So, I should get going. I’m glad you aren’t upset about the pictures. I just figured they needed to be seen.”

“Wait.” He held up his hand. “Where are you running off to? I mean isn’t there dinner?” Okay, now his smile was wide, happy. Oh no. He pressed his hands down on my shoulders. “It’s like you’ve got a hot date to get ready for.”

He meant it as a joke.

We’d been joking with each other all week.

This wasn’t any different.

Except I didn’t find any humor in it.

I didn’t laugh.

His smile fell as his eyes laced with panic. “Right?”