Outside the room, I counted silently, willing the tears not to flow.
Fucking Simpson didn’t care who he brought down with him.
I swallowed down the hard lump in the back of my throat.
But I fucking cared.
I texted Lex and asked him to meet me in the foyer with security.
As the women exited the room, I scowled, then escorted them into the elevator where Lex was waiting for me, half asleep. He soon woke up when he realized what was happening. I caught him up to speed and left it in his hands to clean up the damn mess.
A legal representative arrived. Phones were checked for photographs, non-disclosure agreements were signed, and warnings were issued quietly to the players.
My heart had a red flag.
But in time, the shield surrounding it weakened.
Brandon pleaded.
I listened.
And I eventually forgave him.
Over time, Simpson pulled his head in and proved to be a valuable player.
I stareout the window as the jet breaks through the gray clouds covering LA. My heart is equally gloomy. After the last time, there isn’t any justification for what he did to me. I will not forgive him a second time. Brandon Johns does not deserve my heart.
Ever.
7
CHARLOTTE
Christmas Eve…
Everyone smilesand claps as Franklin lifts Summer into the air so she can place a star on top of the Christmas tree. I move to stand beside Giana, holding her son, Leo, in her arms.
“Byron has bought Leo a mini basketball for Christmas.” She rolls her eyes. “He is seven years too early.” She shakes her head as though my brother is clueless.
Leo wiggles as Summer runs past. Giana lowers Leo to the carpet so he can crawl after his cousin.
“Perhaps he can headbutt the ball.” I giggle under my breath because the kid is only seven months old.
“He might want to play soccer.” She raises an eyebrow.
“Keep that to yourself.” I wink at her. “Basketball flows through the Hendricks’ veins.”
Little Carson Jr. screams as he toddles past with his hands in the air. Carson Jr. is thirteen months old, and Penny and Franklin are planning a third child.
“He screams like his father,” Byron muses.
Franklin glares at him. “You’ll be screaming in a minute when I?—”
“I’ll open that bottle of whiskey,” my father, Carson Senior, interrupts.
“The fifty-year-old bottle of Macallan you’ve been hiding?” Franklin peels off his navy suit jacket.
“It’s a fine year to celebrate,” Dad shoots over his shoulder.
