Walter leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his large stomach. “If we are going to allow emotion to interfere with business decisions, then we need to go back to what is best for the team. Who will get us a championship? We don’t have time for a player to come in this late in theseason and knit with our players. Brandon already knows our guys and the Sharks playbook like the back of his hand.”
“I have to agree with Walter.” I glare at Lex. “We need someone who will gel with the team.”
“I agree, but…” I stare at Walter, “… we have options other than Brandon Johns.”
“Do you have a list of these players?” he asks, although he knows the answer.
“No. This is not my area of expertise. I just oversee it,” I remind him.
His cold, hard gaze fixes on me. “Are you allowing your emotions to cloud your judgment on what is right for the team?”
“Walter.” Franklin gives a deep warning.
I pack up my laptop and notes. “If you don’t have faith in my opinion, then I’ll allow you men to decide what is right for the team.” I push up from my chair.
“Lottie.” Jobe rests a gentle palm on my hand as he shakes his head.
“Understand I want what is best for the team. But I’m not going to go around in circles arguing about something I firmly disagree with. If you think I’m talking with my heart and not my head, you arewrong. I have other matters to attend. Let me know when you come to a decision, and it better not be today. Go home and ponder this overnight. We’ll meet back here tomorrow.” I storm out of the office and allow the men to argue over a trade.
I’m done.
10
BRANDON
The soundof my feet pounding the pavement at dawn is eerily quiet, even with my bodyguard a few steps behind. There’s a dusting of snow on Chicago’s scenic lakefront path as it follows Lake Michigan. Occasionally, I glance over to the giant chunks of ice covering the lake in a pattern similar to shattered glass. In those first few months of being here, I related to the lake—cold, silent, and numb. The lake soon became my solace. It was the loudest quiet while my heart smashed into smithereens.
Despite the fifteen-mile run warming my body, I can’t feel my lips. Every other part of my body is covered, protecting me from the freezing conditions, even my eyes. I have passed only a handful of people running and cycling around the lake. It’s nothing like the summer months, the warmth and gentle breeze, and packs of joyful joggers even at five a.m.
Ewan slows his pace, his breath louder than mine. He’s aCroatian body builder who doubles as my fitness coach and bodyguard when I run. Ewan was the X factor when I first moved to Chicago. His untraditional training methods lifted my fitness, and I got faster and stronger. Most times, he told me to harden the fuck up, often cussing in Croatian. Some words I have picked up on, but since I can’t speak the language, I go by his tone.
The wintery wind bites my cheeks as it whips off the water. I feel it in my bones, even through the fleecy material covering my body. It spurs me on, a need to warm my body, and I quicken the pace, leaving Ewan behind me.
“Moja greška,” he groans out.
“What’syour fault?” I shout.
“You’re fit as fuck!”
I laugh. “Bez muke nema nauke.”
Ewan said it meansno pain, no gain, so I use it against him.
In the distance, my car appears, a sleek shadow against the snow-covered street. A dark figure leans casually on the door—Chase, blowing warm air onto his hands before rubbing them together for warmth. He’s both my driver and my second guard, a constant presence.
Ewan and I slow our pace, our breath visible in the cold air. My hands rest on my hips as I tip my head back, letting the delicate fluff of snowflakes kiss my face. The icy sting sends a shiver through me, a contrast to the burn in my lungs. Eyes squeezed shut, I focus inward, tuning in to the rhythm of my body.
For years, I’ve been numb. But in moments like this—during winter runs, when the cold bites and the world feels raw—I come alive again.
We stop near my BMW, and I finish a series of stretches before sliding into the back seat. Both men take the front seats.
“Home, Mr. Johns?”
“Yes, please, Chase. Since it’s a Sunday, would you both like to join me for breakfast at the restaurant?”
“No fried foods,” Ewan instructs.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
