“Yeah, okay. Try telling that to someone who doesn’t know you.”
I bit my bottom lip to try to prevent my smile, but I failed miserably. At the same time, Ashton looked back over his shoulder at me.
“Busted,” Thomasina stated in a singsong voice.
“Girl, whatever. I have to go.”
“You and me both. My shift has been over, and I’m ready to head home.”
We hugged and said our “I love yous,” before we parted ways. I walked outside and to my surprise, Ashton stood close to my car with his coach. They were having an intense conversation and didn’t see me approach. I dropped down into my car as the older man helped Ashton remove his motorcycle from his coach’s truck.
I didn’t start my car up all the way up, but I did let the windows down. I had no business doing so, but the reporter in me couldn’t help but eavesdrop, always looking for information wherever I could find it.
“. . . stupid shit. I don’t give a damn.”
“Coach, I get it. I swear nothing like this will ever happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t, not on my watch. Your ass is lucky he called me right away. Because before you called, I was able to talk reason into him about pressing charges, and make some calls to clear some shit up. Alex was going with the story that he didn’t know why you assaulted him, other than that you’re jealous of him and his playing time.”
“That’s bullshit, Coach!”
“I know that, but do you really wanna tell the media the real reason you did?”
Ashton placed his hands on his hips and stared at the ground. “No, sir.”
“Listen, you have had a stellar career with an impeccable reputation and no scandal associated with your name. I know some things have happened, but that shit’s in the past and buried. I’m talking about right now. Right now, you look good on paper, and that’s the way that we want to keep it, and that’s the same note that you should end your career on.”
“It might be easier if the team wasn’t fucking my wife. We’re supposed to be family, Coach.”
“I’ve got something to say about all that. Don’t take it personal.”
“I’m listening, Coach. You’ve never steered me wrong.”
“I know it hurts, son. But if you want to end your career on a stellar note, you’ve gotta say ‘fuck you’ to Muffin, too, same as you did with Alex. If you’re already divorcing her, don’t let her fucking around cause you to tarnish your career and reputation. You’re already leaving her, so might as well say fuck you and keep on the path you’re on.’”
The coach patted Ashton’s shoulder before he hopped into his truck. I kept my head down with my gaze on my phone and remained still, praying that neither of them saw me. Within minutes, Coach Jesse Pierson had pulled off, and Ashton was rolling right behind him on his motorcycle.
I lookedat my watch one final time. I was giving her little ass another five minutes, and I was out. I had called and texted her with no response, and I was unsure if she stood me up or not.
Then again, it might have all been a setup. Yeah, I had troubles in my marriage, and my wife and I were on the brink of divorce, but it seemed like matters had only gotten worse since Chanel entered the picture. I was unable to protect Muffin, trusted no one, and now trouble with a capital T seemed to follow me everywhere.
I pulled my drink to my lips and downed it before setting it down hard on top of the napkin. Five minutes had passed when I scooted my chair out and stood just as she came running around the corner.
“I’m here, I’m here. I’m so sorry that I was late. This isn’t like me,” she stated in a rush of words as she set her purse down on the table and took a seat. Her almond-shaped, upturned, nut brown eyes pleaded with me to stay. As bothered as I was by her being almost half an hour late, I couldn’t turn her away.
She looked harried, tired, and her luscious, plump, oval-shaped lips had a sheen of sweat above them. “You good? You need to try it some other time?” I asked.
She shook her head, grabbed the glass of water that had been requested for her, and took a long gulp. “I’m sorry. I just had a minor fender bender on the way over. The other driver and I exchanged information, nothing serious, and I was on my way.”
“You could’ve called or texted me that. I called you a few times with no answer.”
“Yeah, my phone died, and my charger stopped working on me, believe it or not.” I didn’t even think she realized that she did it sometimes, but everything about her persona was flirty. She lifted one of her arched eyebrows at me and batted those long, curly eyelashes.
I eyed her casually, not sure if she was running a line on me or not. Reporters often complained we had an air of entitlement, but the reverse was actually true. They behaved like we owed them access to our private lives.
Chanel usually wore her pearl platinum blonde hair in a pixie cut with a curly top and tapered on the sides, and sometimes she wore the top straight. But today, she wore a wig the same color as her hair. Only the wig was longer, cut into a bob that hung to her shoulder on the left side and curved under her chin on the right.
She tucked the longer side behind her ear as she smiled at me. The cut of the wig brought attention to the sharp angular bone structure of her jaw and the rounded apples of her high cheekbones. Chanel was a beautiful woman with regal, ethnicfeatures. Her amber skin tone glowed in the restaurant’s dim lighting with a light sheen of sweat but highlighted how flawless her skin was.
