Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Did you just call me a football wife?” I ask.
“You know what I mean. You’re the only gay couple—”
“Out same-sex couple,” Damon corrects like it makes a difference. “Let’s go, Noah, before you say anything else he’ll use to make your life harder than it already is.”
“So because I’m a reporter, I’m automatically the enemy?” Lennon asks. “Bitter much, Damon King, an almost-MLB player from years ago, who got stung by a shoulder injury?”
Damon pales.
Lennon stands. “Look, I’ll make a deal. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear Rick Douglas’s name or look into why Matt Jackson turned down a giant contract with the Cougars. I work for Sporting Health Magazine. We’re not a tabloid. We want real stories. And all it’ll take is an exclusive interview with a gay ex-athlete turned sports agent, and I won’t mention anything other than what was given to us at the press conference today. You disappeared from the sports world, and now suddenly you’re back as a hotshot agent representing the most controversial client in the sport, and you came out of nowhere. And now you’ve signed an up-and-coming hockey player. I want your story.”
Damon sighs. “Deal.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say quietly, hoping Lennon doesn’t hear. There’s a reason Damon never did the interview thing after his injury. He was a mess for a year afterward, and it’s still a touchy subject.
Damon turns to me. “Go to the team’s hotel. Matt’s in room twenty-five oh seven.” He takes out a hotel keycard and hands it over. “Talk to him. I’ll keep this guy at bay.”
I hesitate, because what if what Matt has to say is something I don’t want to hear? Of course, it’s not what I want to hear. If it was, he would’ve told me before he moved to Chicago.
“Trust me,” Damon says.
“You know, whenever anyone says that, it makes me trust them less.”
Damon practically shoves me toward the door. “Go.”
I get one block in the direction of Matt’s hotel before I pause. The name Rick Douglas appears in my subconscious. While I continue to walk, I Google his name. I have to scroll past a whole heap of football shit to find what I’m looking for. Other than owning the Cougars, he’s a businessman who owns a whole range of different corporations in different industries. A lot like …
“Oh, fuck no.” I don’t have to search his companies to know he has to be involved with my father in some capacity.
My feet move faster, the anger in me growing. Where I’ve been dreading to hear what Matt has to say, now I have an urgency for it. It has me running through the hilly streets of Milwaukee trying to get to him. And almost dying in the process. Holy shit. Need air. Stat.
I make it to the hotel, only to be stopped by security. My chest heaves, because screw running, and I put my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath.
“Hotel … guest,” I pant and pull out the room key Damon gave me. “In … rush.”
The guy steps aside, and I’m back to running again. From across the lobby, I can see the doors to the elevator shutting, and I push my legs harder. The dude in the elevator sees me coming and doesn’t do anything to hold the doors open. Asshole.
It takes two years for the next one to arrive, and by the time I get to Matt’s door, the adrenaline pumping through me is far from gone. I don’t even bother with knocking and use the key.
All six foot three of him, with tight drawn muscles and that sexy as fuck ass, paces the small area between two queen beds, but he freezes when he sees me in the doorway. “Noah.”
My heart stutters, and I’m stuck in a riptide that’s determined to pull me toward Matt. The only noise to fill the room is the loud click of the door shutting behind me. All the anger, hate, and suspicion morph into lust, want, and need. If I didn’t so desperately need to know what my father did, I’d jump Matt now and ask questions later.
“What did he do?” I ask.
Matt’s brow scrunches. “Who? Damon?”
“My father,” I say through gritted teeth.
Matt goes from confused to surprised as his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He turns his head and refuses to look at me. “Oh. Umm, that. Damon said he—”
I continue to struggle to breathe, and my chest rises and falls hard. “The only name Damon gave me was Rick Douglas. I connected the dots.”
“It doesn’t matter what your father did or didn’t do. All you need to know is staying in New York wasn’t an option. If it was, there would’ve been no contest. If you’d have asked me to stay, again, no contest.” He tries to take steps toward me, but I step back until I hit the door.