Dirty Player

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  He pulls Joanne in for a hug, and then, before I can think to defend against it, he’s got me too. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and I do my best to get out of his hold without acting like the guy has the plague. Eventually he lets me go, looking down at me with the kind of smile that says he hasn’t been put off in the slightest. As if to underscore the point, he quietly says, “Adorable,” before releasing me completely.

  I don’t find this cute at all, especially considering the attention Mike attracts. There are phones out all around us, eyes turned from every direction, and I recognize both his name and mine carrying like a wave through the restaurant.

  I turn to Joanne. “How do you guys know each other?”

  Another agency represents Mike, so that’s not the connection.

  “I worked with Stockert & Gibbs on a joint project a few months back,” Mike says.

  Right. I nod as they talk about the success of the promotion. How his agent is doing and how cute her assistant’s new baby is. Joanne flags a waiter to bring a chair over for Mike to join us, and I’m wondering what the hell she’s thinking.

  “Joanne, I’m sure Mike has other plans.” I smile like it’s my job, because it is. “We don’t want to keep you from your night.”

  He shakes his head. “It was drinks, and they’re through. But if you don’t mind, I’d love to join you for dinner.”

  Joanne is throwing out her arms like she just won the lottery, and I’m starting to have serious doubts about our future together. She knows about my rules. She understands the issue of perception. And while this wouldn’t be even close to a date, she should recognize that being seated at the same table as Mike Rylan is going to raise eyebrows.

  It’s going to mean another heart-to-heart with Ray Hettler and some kind of fallout at work. It always does.

  “Mike, that’s wonderful. We’re mostly through with the business talk anyway, so your timing is perfect.” Casting him another adoring smile, she adds, “As always.”

  This isn’t the way the night was supposed to go. I was going to catch an evening flight back to Chicago, but I pushed it because Joanne asked for more time. Now the backstabber is dabbing her mouth with her napkin and excusing herself to make a quick call. Leaving me alone with Mike.

  I make a mental note to call the M. McCalister Agency tomorrow and set up a meeting, not that it will help me tonight. Especially when Mike rests a hand on my shoulder and leans in for a conspiratorial whisper.

  “So, here’s your shot, Julia. Ask me anything you want to know.”

  There are easily a hundred questions I could rattle off without missing a beat, the first of which would be about the shoulder he’s been favoring. But it doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to use the fact that Mike’s interested in me to get information out of him, and more than that, I don’t want to give him the idea I’m interested myself. I’ll save those questions for a call when there’s no misunderstanding the context.

  I excuse myself, confident that the minute I leave, Joanne will swoop back in.

  The ladies’ room is like a mini-spa complete with a trickling waterfall built into one wall, a small lounge area, and a young woman offering a neck massage. All I want is privacy, so I take the seat in the far corner and text Greg.

  Me: I think I need a new agent.

  His reply is immediate.

  Greg: Why? Still not finding you the right opportunities?

  Why.

  I think about Mike sitting at our table. It’s not really something I can explain over a text, and calling is out of the question. You never know who’s within earshot.

  Me: Not really. I’m thinking maybe she isn’t as serious about my plans as I am.

  At least not about the rules I’ve been very clear about with her. She doesn’t have to agree with them, but she does have to abide by them.

  Greg: Would a dick pic make you feel better?

  I cough out a laugh, and find the attendant hovering a few feet away, offering a glass of water with a cucumber floating in it.

  “No thank you.”

  Me: Always.

  A second later, my phone pings with a black-and-white picture of Dick Van Dyke, and two seconds after that, Andy Dick, this one in the Hey, Girl style. It has me laughing so hard I don’t even care that one of the players I interview on the field is sitting at my dinner table.

  Me: You make me smile.

  Greg: You make me hot.

  Greg: And you make me smile.

  Greg: Miss you.

  Two words. So simple. But I feel them deep in my heart.

  Me: You too.

  Greg: When does your flight get in?

  Me: 3 a.m.

  If I’d had any idea how quick Joanne would be to give up our meeting, I would have taken my original flight and gotten in early enough to see him.

  Greg: Come here from the airport. Park in the garage. I’ll have Erwin give you a key to get in.

  I stare at the small screen in my hand. His building is about as private and secure as it gets. The attendants in the garage and lobby must have signed some kind of blood oath involving their firstborns, because Greg essentially said we could have sex on the security desk and never have to worry about the guard breathing a word of it.

  It’s why we always go to his apartment instead of mine. The garage is private and requires a key code to enter.

  And with only seven tenants in the building, running into someone in the lobby damn near never happens. Even if we did, running into them at one p.m. is a lot different, not to mention easier to explain away, than getting busted for what smacks of booty-call o’clock.

  Greg: See how you feel when you get in. The key will be downstairs either way.

  Me: I’ve got to get back. Have a good night.

  I nearly type those three forbidden words. Lately, they seem to be constantly on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say them. Not yet. Not even when I’ve known they were real for weeks. I just… I need to be careful.

  When the night ends, Joanne signals for the check, and Mike shakes his head.

  “Sorry, Joanne. Hope you don’t mind, but I already got it.”

  She puts on a delighted scowl. “You know better than that, Mike.”

  He laughs and, to my horror, slings an arm around my shoulder.

  “You know I’ve been trying to get Julia here to let me buy her dinner forever. I figured this was my best chance.” He squeezes my shoulder and gives me another dimple-laced smile that has my stomach churning. “Though hopefully next time I won’t have to hijack a business meeting with her agent to do it.”

  “Mike,” I start, pulling away from his hold, no nonsense in my eyes.

  He holds up a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You don’t date athletes.”

  “It’s not—”

  “I won’t be playing forever.”

  Before I have a chance to reply, he drops a kiss on my cheek and says good night.

  When he’s safely out of earshot, I level Joanne with a killing look. “What was that?”

  She folds one hand over the other on the table and gives me a calculating smile. “The kind of PR you can’t buy.”

  14

  Greg

  MY MUSCLES BURN in the satisfying way of being pushed hard, and despite the cacophony of noise around the weight room—mostly Vsev bitching in heated Russian about God knows what—I’m grinning like I just felt up my first girl. Only waking up to Julia slipping into my bed around four this morning beats the hell out of getting up close and personal with Nancy Holtz’s stuffed bra.

  Julia and I didn’t talk.

  I didn’t try to shag her.

  She just snuggled into me, her back to my chest, and let out this contented sigh that sounded like all the things a guy could want. Everything that mattered.

  It about killed me, leaving this morning when I knew she’d be in my bed for another hour. But hell, maybe I’ll be able to talk her into staying over after the game tonight. I know better than to try to talk her i
nto actually coming to my game, but hopefully that‘ll change soon.

  I sit back on the bench and run a towel over my face and chest as I pull out my phone to look her up on social media. I like seeing the candids the press and fans catch when she’s at the airport or paying for coffee.

  The first pictures come up, and they’re not of Julia seated by herself with an issue of Sports Illustrated in her lap. Not even close.

  I jerk to my feet, spilling my water over the gym floor.

  “Baxter, you okay, man?” the trainer asks from where he’s working with Kurtov.

  No. I am not all right. Because all I’m getting as I scroll further and further down the feeds are pictures of Julia with Mike Rylan—the two of them seated alone at a table for dinner. Mike with his hand on the small of her back as they stand. Mike with his fucking mouth pressed against Julia’s temple, her eyes closed and a half smile on her lips—the captions calling them the NFL’s cutest couple.

  It’s not what it looks like.

  The rational part of my brain knows that.

  She doesn’t date athletes, and never in my life have I been more pleased about what a fucking stickler she is for that rule. Except that’s not exactly true, because she most definitely does date athletes. She’s dating me.

  Why didn’t she tell me about this?

  “Dude, you look like you’re about to hurl.” Rux is standing beside me, totally in a position to be able to see what was on the screen. But if he did, he isn’t showing it. “Need me to hold your hair or rub your back?”

  A couple of the guys laugh, and I want to, but it’s not happening. Not until Julia gives me a reason to laugh.

  “Back in a minute.”

  Julia

  My phone has been going off for the last thirty minutes, but I’m stuck in Ray’s office, assuring him the rumors aren’t true.

  “The audience isn’t going to like the idea of you and one of the players together. Whether it’s true or not, it’s about perception, Julie.”

  My already tense stomach knots even tighter. I know. The last thing I need is Hettler driving it home for me.

  “You have to be more careful than this. You have to be smarter.” He leans closer, and I wonder if he’s even aware that his eyes have dropped to my chest. “In this business, you can’t afford to stop thinking about your future for even one careless second.”

  “Ray, believe me, I understand. I’ll be more careful going forward.”

  I don’t bother explaining that Joanne set me up, thinking she was doing me a favor. I just need to get out of here and call Greg. I’ve been in Ray’s office from before I even realized what was happening, so I haven’t been able to check my phone. But I’d be willing to bet at least one of the zillion alerts and notifications is from him.

  I should have told him about Mike.

  He’s going to be furious, and he’ll have every reason to be. For months I’ve been putting him off about going public with our relationship to preserve my reputation, and now this. I feel sick.

  Outside Ray’s office, my boss’s assistant Agnes catches sight of me from down the hall. She yelps, her mop of dark curls bouncing as she waves me down.

  My boss wants to see me, ASAP.

  I try to scroll through my messages while I walk, but Agnes is talking a mile a minute about what she’s heard and how she wishes Mike would ask her out.

  When I walk into Bill’s office, I’m wearing a mask of calm as I launch into my explanation. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  He doesn’t even look up. “Of course it’s not. Sit down.”

  Two hours pass before I leave.

  My head is spinning, but at least I’m finally able to use my phone. There are too many messages to sort through, but when I get to Greg’s, I see he’s attached a particularly incriminating snap from the night before. It looks like I’m melting into a tender kiss Mike is planting on my brow. It looks like the kind of moment caught between two people who are more than friends and have been for some time. It looks like any number of legitimate moments between Greg and me, that no one has a chance to see because we hide them so thoroughly behind closed doors.

  It looks like anything other than what it is… me, cringing beneath a kiss I wasn’t prepared to defend against and praying the moment would pass without blowing up in my face.

  My hands shake as I call Greg.

  Voicemail. He’s not answering.

  I close my eyes and let a slow breath out through my nose. Is this when he’s going to walk away, when he’s going to leave?

  No. He wouldn’t do that. This is Greg.

  He had practice today and some meetings scheduled through the afternoon, so I’m not going to flip out that he didn’t answer my call. I’ll text, and when he’s free, we’ll talk.

  Me: It’s not what it looks like. I’m sorry.

  For a guy who can’t answer the phone, he’s pretty quick to text back.

  Greg: It looks like you were at dinner with Mike Rylan.

  Greg: Which is weird, because I asked how dinner with Joanne went and you didn’t mention it.

  Why didn’t I just tell him about Mike? Why didn’t I just explain what happened and tell him how pissed off it made me?

  Because I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. That I could avoid the whole thing.

  Pretend it wasn’t happening.

  I dial Greg again, and this time, he picks up.

  “I’m guessing the reason it took you hours to respond is you’ve been doing some kind of damage control?”

  His words are clipped and cool. It’s almost like he’s turned away from the phone while he’s talking to me.

  “I’ve been in meetings since before I even knew what happened. But as to damage control—” he is not going to like this, “—that isn’t exactly what’s going on.”

  “What are you talking about?” And now he’s back, his voice sounding closer. More urgent. “Why haven’t I seen a denial on this yet? I’ve been watching your feeds all morning.”

  I swallow.

  “They’ve been in touch with Mike, and they don’t want any denials or explanations until tomorrow afternoon. Then timed, scripted replies.”

  There’s silence from the other end of the line, and I can all but imagine Greg opening his mouth and then closing it again. His hand working through that wild mane of his.

  “I don’t like it,” I say quietly, moving through the halls as I talk. Unwilling to give anyone the chance to hear more than a word or two of my conversation.

  “But you didn’t tell them no. You didn’t explain that you have a boyfriend, or barring that, that you’ve spent your entire career sacrificing your personal life to ensure this very thing didn’t happen, to defend against the very perception they’re fostering by leaving this out there for twenty-four hours.”

  My steps slow, and I stop. “No. I didn’t. This is my career, Greg. If I’m too careless to avoid situations like this, then I have to be prepared to deal with the fallout, whatever form it takes. And in this case, it’s test marketing. They want to see how the audience responds to a… softer, more accessible Julia Wesley.”

  I don’t know what I’m expecting. Greg to blow up or hang up or tell me it’s over.

  But instead, he lets out a long breath. “They’re going to love it. They’re going to eat it up. Fucking Mike Rylan, the face of the NFL, and Julia Wesley, the sharp beauty no one but the best could win.”

  “No, Greg. That’s not how it’s going to go. They won’t take it that far.”

  He laughs, but it’s quiet, like he’s pulled the phone away again. “Wanna bet?”

  I bite my lip, waiting a painful beat before asking, “Are we okay?”

  “Yeah, Jules. We’re okay.”

  Greg

  I’m a pretty level-headed guy. Most of the time. Fine, I’ve got a temper, but it’s generally quick to cool. Unfortunately, this shit with Julia and Mike today is only getting worse. It’s getting close to game time, and while I’m defin
itely working through plays and thinking about what the coaches pointed out during video, every few minutes some other trainer or guy on the team is coming up to ask me about Julia and Mike. To point out how fucking hot she is. Because we’re friends.

  Yep. I know.

  Fortunately for them, me, and the team in general, most people seem to catch on to my negative, possibly threatening vibe before saying anything more.

  I rub the back of my neck and do some breathing exercises at my stall. I should have used my break this afternoon to talk to Julia in person. Not like I got any sleep, going home to a bed that smelled like her.

  She probably wouldn’t have been able to meet up with me anyway. Can’t be seen getting into Baxter’s car when she’s dating Rylan.

  Fuck.

  I drive my fist against the wall in my stall, leaving my knuckles flat, until something wings past my ear and tumbles into my space.

  Picking up the tampon, I turn to the locker room and take another square to the nose. “What the hell, Rux?”

  The fucker is standing a careful six feet back, holding what looks like a half dozen plastic-wrapped weapons of feminine protection.

  “You shedding your uterine lining or something, Baxter?”

  He’s waiting for an answer, and the fact that he’s confronting me is a big deal. But where the fuck did he get all those tampons? It sure as hell wasn’t the Slayers’ locker room.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but get your shit together. We got a game.” Rux being Rux, he tucks the handful into his breezers and cocks his head. “Unless whatever crawled up your crack’ll actually up your game. Will it? Does being pissed as fuck make you play better? ’Cause if your rage is actually like some secret advantage, then hell, I could probably knock you in the teeth a couple times before each game. I mean, I wouldn’t like it. Or maybe I would. Whatever. All I’m sayin’ is I’m a team fuckin’ player.”

  Jesus. He’s grinning like a fool, but not even that’s enough to put out the fire in my chest. “What a giver.”