Leaning in, I wait for her eyes to connect with mine before I speak. “Married people wear wedding rings.”
Her eyes drop closed. As if my words hurt.
“It’s not a real marriage.”
A weaker man would be deterred by those words. Not me. I’ve stayed away for as long as I can—biding my time since her phone call, making chess moves behind the scenes. That stops now.
Reminding her just how serious I am, I say, “The marriage license in my safe says otherwise.”
She opens her mouth to fight me, but I push away from the wall and start back down the hall towards the celebration without letting her speak.
Seeing her today, sitting next to her, and witnessing the way my presence still affects her—the wayIstill affect her—the pieces are falling into place. Sooner or later, she’s going to be mine again.
Present Day – July 2023
“What the fuck?!” Gabby shouts from the living room of the Atlanta hotel suite we’re staying in for the All-Star Game and celebrations. Miller and Preston had press to do before the Home Run Derby later today, so the girls and I hung back in the room to relax this morning. We haven’t had a chill morning with just the three of us in a while.
“What?” Ivory and I abandon our coffee cups and run into the room to see what has Gabby so worked up. She points to the TV as she answers her phone. The announcers of the sportscast are talking about a player getting arrested. It takes me a minute to realize it’s Chase Bennett’s mugshot in the top corner of the screen. He’s the newest rookie who was called up to the Troubadours when their veteran shortstop was injured last month. The team Preston and Miller also play for, and Gabby works for.
Fuck. This isn’t good.
Grabbing my phone, I type “Chase Bennett” into the search bar on the internet browser. Article after article pops up, talking about Chase stealing a horse while out with his teammates on Broadway last night. Not just any horse. No, that motherfucker went all out and stole a police horse.
Men. Such childish beings, especially when drunk.
Gabby pulls her phone away from her ear and I can just makeout the sound of Mark’s voice cussing her out over not being in Nashville. Mark is the general counsel for the Troubadours and Gabby’s boss. God, I hate him. If I could chop his balls off and feed them to him, I would. Unfortunately, the legal system seems to think that’s a crime. In my personal opinion, it would be a public service.
Closing out of the browser, I pull up my texts and scroll to the one person I swore I would never text again but somehow can’t stop recently. Even the name of his contact card doesn’t dissuade me anymore. I’ve done my best to stay away from Grant Davenport, the owner of the Music City Troubadours, since seeing him again for the first time at Preston and Ivory’s wedding last November. It’s harder to do lately with me attending more games in Nashville and events for the team, like last week when I saw him at the Miller Foundation Gala looking sinfully delicious in a tailored tuxedo.
ME
We need the plane.
Don’t Text the Devil
For what?
ME
Do you live under a rock? Your rookie got arrested.
Don’t Text the Devil
I’m aware of that. I’m in the office right now with my staff discussing it.
Why do you need the plane? You don’t work for me.
ME
Because Gabby needs to get back.
Don’t Text the Devil
She’s off. I thought you all were planning to go to the Home Run Derby and the All-Star Game?
ME
Keeping tabs on me?
