“Yes way. That’s what it says in the square he put across your chest.”
Someone kill me now.
Or better yet, kill Dawson Sinclair!
I reach for his phone, and he lets me take it as I focus on the words that are easy to read when I know what they say. My heart is hammering in my chest as my body burns with anger. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have entertained him when he messaged me. I should have blocked him there too, but fuck, I didn’t want to. I can’t deny that I enjoy talking sports with him. He’s funny and entertaining. Clever just like me, and it’s fun. But this right here…
This is not fun.
I’m mortified.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I mutter just as another text comes through, and Vincent’s voice fills the room.
“This is wild. What did she do to him? It doesn’t say they’re dating, but he is saying no one is allowed to date her. I need you to get the deets. I’m nosy. Like you.”
I look up to see Peter flush, and I hand him his phone. “I gotta go.”
“I figured.” Before I can escape, though, he calls my name. When I look over my shoulder at him, he smiles. “Don’t kill him, okay? You have a career to worry about.”
“You’re not going to ask why he’s doing this?”
He barks out a laugh. “That’s not the question. The question is, why is he dumb enough to think this will work?”
I can’t even laugh; I’m too busy making a run for it. To where? No clue. I don’t know where Dawson would be. I don’t know where he lives, and I don’t have his number. If I message him, the jig will be up, and I’ll lose the one person I’ve enjoyed talking sports with since losing my dad.
Damn it.
I push the door open to leave the building but come to a halt when a rather large football player steps in front of me. “Ambrosia Mercer?”
I glare. He’s handsome with his teal practice jersey on and a big number 90 on the front, but I don’t have time for his bullshit. “Not interested.”
He laughs as I move past him. “As much as I am, I like my eyes in my head.”
I stop, turning slowly to look at him. “What?”
He gives me a small smile as if he knows damn well that I know damn well what he’s talking about.
Fucking. Dawson.
Before I can tell him to go fuck off, he hands me a black Post-it note with silver writing on it. I look at it, then back at him. “What is this?”
“It’s from Dawson Sinclair.” I feel my body shaking with anger. I’m too upset to even try to read it. I push it back to him, and he fumbles with it before giving me a surprised look. “Listen, I need you to take this.”
“What does it say?” I snap, and his eyes widen more.
“Man, he said you were spicy, but?—”
“What does it say!” I’m yelling now and feeling way out of control. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in through my nose and then blowing it out of my mouth. When I open my eyes, he’s watching me like I’m a bomb about to explode.
Fuck, I feel like one.
I force myself to calmly ask, “I’m sorry. Will you please read it to me?”
His brows pull in before he looks down at the note, which has a little drawing that I can’t make out since I can’t seem to get myself to focus. “My full name is Dawson River Sinclair. I’m named after my mom’s favorite childhood TV show, which I’ll never publicly admit to, and my grandpa, who coaches for the Nashville Assassins.”
I just blink.
“Is he serious?”
