“I’ll handle Gigi.”
“I’m not making this up, Sloane,” I continue. “I know this player isn’t with the team anymore, but she?—”
“I believe you.” Her expression softens. “And trust me, I’ll take care of it.”
I don’t know what that means, but I decide to let it be. She isn’t the kind of woman anyone wants to mess with, and even though it’s notmeshe’s upset with, I can’t help but feel terrible.
“Can I talk to him?” I ask, grasping her arm. “Before the third period starts? I?—”
“Kennedy.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, her grip firm but not unkind. “He’s heading to the locker room with the team right now. Coach Henderson will probably spend half of intermission laying into him.”
“Then help me,” I demand, the steel in my voice surprising even to me. “I can’t let him finish the game thinking I would deliberately do that to him. I’d go by myself, but I’d prefer to not be held by security while looking like a B-list porn star.” I peer over my shoulder, then turn back to her. “No offense. The blazer looks great on you, but it’s not exactly working with my ripped jeans and lacy bra.”
It can’t be easy to take me seriously with my cleavage spilling out like this, but Sloane doesn’t even crack a smile as she studies me.
I give her a pleading look, clasping my hands in front of me.
She sighs. “If Coach Henderson is still in there, you let me handle him. Got it?”
I dip my chin quickly. “Got it.”
She assesses me once more, one eyebrow raised. “You sure about this?”
“No,” I admit, heart hammering, “but I don’t think that’s going to change in the next ten minutes, so let’s get this show on the road.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
kennedy
Sloane leadsme past equipment rooms and staff offices, her heels clicking authoritatively on the concrete, only slowing as we approach a door marked LOCKER ROOM - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in bold letters.
She pauses, grasping the door handle, glancing back at me, her expression one of concern. “Last chance to change your mind.”
Hell no.I flick my wrist, gesturing at the door in an “after you” motion.
With a nod, she pulls it open and steps inside.
The locker room is bigger than I expected, a large rectangular space with benches and cubbies lining the walls, each station marked with a player’s name and number. Logan, Jake, Cole, and Cameron all have stations next to one another, which is very bromantic. There’s equipment everywhere: pads scattered on benches, helmets and gloves in various states of organization.
Now I understand why Cameron didn’t run screaming when he saw my apartment. He sees cluttered chaos every day.
The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. The energy isn’t the confident and celebratory kind a team that’s winning (albeit by one) should possess. As the players notice us, conversations simmer to silence and every head turns our way. Sweat breaks out at my hairline, the awareness that I’m a woman in a male space acute. It’s not threatening, but it definitely doesn’t feel great. I’m an intruder here, breaking some unspoken rule about locker room sanctity. It’s clear by every eye fixed on me.
As a rush of awkwardness rolls over me, I smile at the team like I’m a presenter at an awards show. “Hi,” I squeak out. “You guys ever thought about hiring an interior designer? The vibes down here are giving…” I scan the space, nose scrunched, “underground bunker. You should also invest in candles. Or air freshener.”
Cole ducks his head, biting back a laugh.
Logan tosses his arms up and growls. “No one’s going to givehershit about suggesting candles? I’ve been saying this for months, and you all yell at me and pretend to throw tomatoes.”
“Sloane?” One of the assistant coaches approaches, his clipboard clutched in one hand and confusion written across his face. “What’s going on? We’re about to?—”
“I know. This’ll just take a minute,” she says, her tone authoritative.
The man takes a step back, nodding once without further argument.
Hell yeah, queen.
She lifts her chin, expression expectant. “Where’s Cameron?”
