Her cheeks flush, and she sputters a little. “Oh, I, uh—that’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” I say coolly.
“But, hey, good news about getting back to light conditioning, right? Maybe you won’t be in such a bad mood once you can exercise again,” she suggests.
I shake my head, and I whip over in her direction. “It’s not a mood, and a workout isn’t going to change who I am at my core. The sooner you come to terms with that, the easier this will be for you.” Though I’m sure I’ll do my best to make it miserable for her regardless without even trying.
She doesn’t respond to that. Instead, she says, “I’ll get a schedule together for us that gives us time to touch base each day. Some days will be heavier than oth—”
“Fuck the schedule,” I mutter, interrupting her. “Just fix my image so you can move onto your next client.”
“It’s not that simple, Maverick,” she says. “I’m here for the next year whether you like it or not.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t.” I leave those as my parting words, and I storm out toward the navy blue Ford truck with silver stripes I had custom painted to match the colors in Dallas.
What a fucking waste.
All of this is. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want a babysitter, and I don’t want a fucking truck with the wrong goddamn colors.
I peel out of the parking lot, my tires screeching for good measure, and I head toward my condo. I just moved in last month despite having been here in Vegas since May. I was renting a place, and one of the players on my offensive line told me about this building that houses many of the players from the team. They had a couple condos open—likely players who were traded from Vegas considering the timing—so I grabbed the first one that was available.
So far, I guess I like the amenities. There’s a doorman, a car that’ll take us anywhere at any time, and views that can’t be beat. There’s also a fitness center and a few restaurants nearby, though I haven’t had the chance to try any of that just yet.
I suppose it’s home for now, and as much as I wanted to get out last night, today, I just want to get back home, sleep off this hangover, and try to forget everything that happened this morning.
I pull up into the parking garage and into one of the two spaces assigned for my condo, and I head down to the lobby first to get my mail.
When the elevator doors open to the lobby, I see Everleigh standing there, chatting up the doorman.
“I leave the practice facility, and you follow me home?” I demand.
I thought I’d at least get an escape from her here at my home—that our interactions would be limited to practice.
I guess I didn’t realize that when she said she’d be on top of me, she literally meant twenty-four seven.
Fuck that.
Her jaw drops. “Youlivehere?”
My brows push together in confusion, and the doorman pushes a set of keys across the counter toward her.
“I do.”
She picks up the keys, and she lets out a sigh. “I do now, too.” She smirks at me again, and I have the sudden image of pushing my cock between her lips to wipe that goddamn smirk off her face.
Fuck that. Fuck her. Fuck all of this.
There’s literally no escaping her.
She gets on the elevator while Milton, the doorman, checks for my mail, and once I have it in hand, I take the elevator up as well.
I’m on the seventeenth floor, and all I can do is hope that she’s on the second or third—far, far away from where I land. But I have a feeling I’m going to run into her. A lot. She’s going to be around. A lot.
And that’s why it’s even more important that I get that image out of my head of her sucking my cock as those big brown eyes lift to mine, a little bit of fear and innocence in them as my cock fills her mouth and lightly chokes her.
Jesus.
I push that thought out of my head even as my cock swells at the very thought of it, and the doors push open on my floor.
