Sophie: You're still in the group chat, asshole.
Sidney: So?You mothed me.
Me: You two fight it out. I'm going to a party.
Sophie: What?
Sidney: Holy shit.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, scowling at the phone. Is it really that unusual? I'm busy, not a goddamn shut-in.
Two hours later, I wish I were a shut-in. The party is at Stu Mancini's mansion in Spring Valley. The place is stunning, but it's loud, crowded, and fucking hot.
As suspected, there are paparazzi and models everywhere, and they're all eyeing me like I'm a rare steak on the menu. Frankly, I'd rather run naked down Pennsylvania Ave than wade into those waters.
"You look pissy tonight," Killian Montero says, smirking as I snatch a glass of wine off a tray.
"I feel like I'm on display at the fucking zoo," I mutter, taking a sip of my wine.
"Shit, you ain't wrong about that." Killian laughs quietly, his blue eyes shining in amusement as he jerks his chin toward a group of models whispering back and forth a few feet away. "They've been staring you up and down all night."
"They're looking at you, too, motherfucker," I remind him. Like me, Killian is on the team, a running back. He's also single. If we get placed on one more Most Eligible Player list together, I'm not sure which of us will snap first.
"Don't remind me," he growls, scowling at the group. "Don't even know why the fuck we have to come to these things."
"We're building team morale," I say, deadpan.
He snorts in response, motioning for Lucas Acorn, Jasper Werth, and Dace Helliker to join us where we're leaning against the wall. They stride over, beers in hand.
"Sup, fuckers?" Dace grins wide enough to flash his dimples, holding his fist out for us to bump. "Why do you both look so pissed?"
"It's Killian's natural state," Lucas says, one brow cocked at me in question. "Don't know what's up with him, though. Pretty Boy is usually all smiles."
"Fuck off with that nickname, Lucas." I discreetly flip him off, earning chuckles in response.
"We're trying to figure out why we have to do this shit every year," Killian mutters. "It's bullshit."
"Stu likes to start the season with these parties." Dace shrugs. "Who cares why? We get to eat the owner's food and drink his booze for the night."
"I'd rather drink my own booze."
Jasper shakes his head at me, chuckling. "You and Killian are two fucking peas in a pod, brother. He's been bitching about this shit since he joined the roster three seasons ago."
"Yeah, well, I just got my name out of the papers," I remind him. "I'd rather not land right back in them because I was photographed with some model whose name I don't even know."
Dace snorts with laughter. "Good luck with that. They'll find a reason to splash your pretty face all over the papers at every available opportunity."
I shoot him a dark scowl, but it's not like he's wrong. I spend more time in the news than out of it, and I don't even do anything newsworthy off the field. Right after I was traded, I was literally walking down the street after meeting my publicist, and a girl bumped into me. Next thing I know, the whole world thinks I'm fucking a hockey player's girlfriend. He wanted to kick my ass for it. That was fun times.
My gaze drifts to the group of models just in time to see one of them step forward like she's about to walk over here, her eyes locked on me.
"I'm going to take a piss," I mutter, taking off in the opposite direction before I have to be rude to her. Whenthey've got that look in their eyes, they don't understand anything but asshole, and I've been trying hard not to build that kind of reputation here. It was bad enough in LA, where the only way to survive the constant offers to fuck was by being an asshole. I just want to play football and live my life. Is that too much to ask?
Dace says something behind me, but I ignore him, making a beeline for the stairs. I take them two at a time, emerging onto the landing above with a sigh of relief. It's quieter up here, less crowded. Until I spot a photographer standing on the opposite side, looking down at the crowd below with his camera in hand.
I quickly slip down a hallway, trying to avoid being seen. Ma is already on my ass about theCelebrity Teatimearticle. The last thing I need is to step into another impromptu interview right now. She'll fly out here and kick my ass if I publicly swear off love again.
Instead, I saunter down the hall, admiring Stu's artwork. I know fuck-all about it, but it looks great. All except the sculpture that looks like Medusa holding someone's balls in her hand, anyway. That one is…interesting. Honestly, who can blame her if it is someone's sack, though? She got the short end of a shitty stick.
