I move in close enough that only he can hear me. “You don’t get to talk about Maya like she’s your property. Not anymore.”
He glares up at me, eyes glassy, pride crumbling faster than his posture. For the first time, Bryce looks scared because he knows how quickly Maya and I developed a bond. “Do you think she’s going to go running to you? Is that what’s behind yourcoup d’état?”
Every time we’ve been together, he’s commented on it.
“Wow. Who knew you two would get along so well?”
“Just think, Troy. Maya could nurse you back to health if you were still on the injured list.”
“Maya, baby. Don’t forget about me just because your ‘other’man came over.”
Remembering his insecurity finally makes me step back because I don’t need to sink to his level. But then I catch sight of his teammates—some in absolute shock, some ashamed. All filled with varying degrees of regret. I include them all in my statement when I growl, “Treating a woman with respect isn’t a game. At least it shouldn’t be.”
With that, I walk into the house ready to find Maya to give her the truth, hoping I was right—that she won’t tolerate this player.
Still, if she were mine, she’d be my game changer.
But she’s already gone.
3
INTERCEPTION: DEFENSE CATCHES A PASS MEANT FOR OFFENSE.
For a moment I let my mind drift as the conversation outside continues. Bryce and I’d both accomplished so much in our respective careers—him obviously being the star quarterback for the Oklahoma Lightning, me being an in-demand travel photographer forNational Geographic,Condé Nast Traveler, andTravel + Leisure. Tears drip down my face when I realize the relationship I thought we had was just asmuch of a fantasy to me as the idea of visiting the places I take photos of to the average person.
They’re nothing more than items on a wish list.
Just as I’m coming to that realization, I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. My heart skips a beat. My head whips up, and I meet the eyes of my best friend, Amy. Behind her, stands Emery and Christin—all my girls. Their expressions range from shock to absolute fury as even more disgusting comments waft in from the outdoor patio.
“I’m going to kill him,” Amy hisses.
“Not if I get to him first,” Emery vows.
Christin says nothing, but I’m certain she’s imagining the different ways she can eviscerate Bryce while still protecting me. Then, her bright blue eyes narrow on my face. “Are you staying to be abused by this piece of shit?”
Am I staying?As soon as the question penetrates my mind, I realize I’ve been sitting here cowering in the dark as if I have something to be ashamed of regardless of what I may look like compared to any “Box Seat Barbie” or “Cleat Chaser.” The person who should feel shame and disgust is the piece of shit holding court outside. My eyes flick over to Amy’s restrained fury to Emery’s unilateral support.
Then, I glance down at the third finger of my left hand. The overhead lights catch on the three-carat diamond gracing my left hand, and there’s no question.
I realize I’d rather be alone than pledge the rest of my life to a man who disrespects me—me or any woman—like this. I twist my engagement ring off my finger. Then I reach for the crystal bowl of vomit.
Immediately, Amy protests. “Don’t clean that up!”
Christin agrees, “Let him find it.”
Emery sneers, “I think you should spread it in his bed.”
A ghost of a smile flashes across my lips right before I drop my engagement ring in the middle of the bile.
Fortunately, more raucous laughter roars up at that exact moment, covering up the approving cheers from my posse. Amy asks, “Are you going to leave it here for him to find?”
“I have a better place to put it.” Carefully, I stand before guiding the girls down the hall and into Bryce’s office while balancing the remains of my bad romance sloshing from side to side. Opening the door, I set the bowl in the center of his desk, right next to the papers he printed out for training camp.
On his desk are a few carefully curated photos of the two of us from the time we were in college all the way to our most recent engagement photos. I nod at Christin. “Mind getting those out for me?”
Her smile twists into something evil as she removes each of the photos from their frames, carelessly tossing the metal and glass over her shoulder.
As she does that, I dig around in the drawer and unearth a red Sharpie. Writing in big bold strokes on Bryce’s training camp printouts he laid so meticulously on his desk:
