“My agent, so be cool,” I whisper. “Yeah, come on in, Shay.”
It’s as if we don’t exist when she glides into the clubhouse. Her eyes are on the walls, but I’m purely focused on her. A pink ribbon holds her braids together, and an ivory sleeveless top is tucked into pinstriped black pants. The pressed creases add to the no-nonsense look on her face.
Marcus must also be drinking her in because he’s too quiet. But not for long.
“Holy shit. You’re a woman.”
Blazing eyes flick to Marcus before looking down to trace the curves of her own body. “Wow. I had no idea. Thanks for letting me know!”
I grin. There’s that fire.
“Real smooth, Marc.” Dawson hurls a sock at his head. “Nice to see you again, Shay.”
“Hi, Dawson. And it’s nice to meet you, Marcus. I’m Shay Turner.” She turns to me, not giving Mr. Popular Marcus Winters another look. It’s a relief to know she won’t fawn over him like most women do. “You ready?”
I’m about to nod when I remember today’s purpose. Player development meetings are necessary, but that doesn’t keep the impending dread away. I need to stall.
“Would you like a tour first?” I ask.
A flicker of excitement shimmers beneath her composed professionalism. “Um, yeah! I’d love that. I’ll go set up for our meeting in the guest lounge, Cade.”
Turning away from us, she leaves the clubhouse.
The moment she’s gone, Marcus steps in front of me. “You aren’t messing with me? That’s your agent? Her?”
“Yeah,her.” Rage replaces the usual love I have for my friend at his incredulous tone. “Is there a problem with signing a woman as my agent?”
He lifts his hand and waves an imaginary white flag. “No way. I’m not a total asshole. It’s fucking cool! Relax. You just caught me off guard because you were supposed to meet some dude named Caldwell.” Cartoon hearts dance in his green eyes. “Mind if I ask her out sometime? She’s pr—”
“Don’t you dare touch her,” I say. Actually, I hissed it through gritted teeth. Shay is many things. Gorgeous. Stunning. Smart. Driven. Perfect. Pretty, however, is an understatement. “You can have any woman in the world, but not her.”
“Uh-oh.” Sniffing my shoulder twice, Marcus smirks. “Is that possessiveness I smell? Cute, but suspicious if you ask me. And I can have any woman but her? Do you want a stepfather?”
Rolling my eyes, I shove him away. “I’ll end you if you try to date my mother.”
“Stop fighting, children.” Dawson loves to lecture us, but he’s enjoying the show. “Let’s go, Marc. You can empty your bowels in the safety of your own home.”
“Fine.” Marcus grabs his duffel bag. “Can’t believe you called dibs.”
Little does he know that I called dibs on Shay the first time I saw her eating dinner in the student-athlete center. While my teammates were excited about every girl on campus, all I cared about was her. I was desperate to know the woman who sat alone, scribbling on pink sticky notes.
As they leave the stadium, I spot Shay chewing on the end of her pen, the tell-tale sign she’s in the zone. But my smile wilts when I see the yellow legal pad on the table in front of her.
Jon’s voice always finds his way into my head, his words from our last player development meeting echoing loudly in my ears.
“Don’t you care? This isn’t good enough for the golden boy.”
“Hey.” Shay stands, pushing aside the legal pad. “Ready for the tour?”
I nod, not trusting myself to talk.
Steering us toward the trophy room, I listen as she tells me about her meeting with Rio, our general manager. I slow our pace as we enter the exhibit area. Every piece of Pilots memorabilia, each trophy, and countless photos of historical moments from the team’s past is in this room.
“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” Shay says, eyes frozen on the Commissioner’s Trophy from the World Series five seasons ago. Sterling silver with shimmering gold flags gleam bright in its protective case. It’s the symbol of resilience for the Pilots. I’ll never forget the night they won this trophy.
“We watched the game together. Remember?” I ask.
“Rule number two. No talking about the past,” she reminds me curtly. Then she presses her fingertips to the glass. “But yes. It was a fun night.”
