“Drew, do you have a minute?” Colton thumbs behind him.
I pick up my laptop and stand. He doesn’t look mad, but then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Colton lose his cool.
“Sure,” I say. “Do I need to make any notes or just bring myself?”
He smiles warmly and holds the door open for me. “Just you will be fine.”
30
. . .
Will
Radio silence from Drew isn’t unusual, but today, it has me worried.
Something doesn’t feel right, and I don’t have the patience to wait for a reply to my last text that may arrive in the next five minutes, hours, or if I know my girl, possibly even days.
I know she’s busy working on a deal with a luxury watch brand for me, but I expected at least one formal email, reaffirming the terms my agent accepted an hour ago.
“You know, I don’t especially like being partnered with you either. But your face looks like we just lost the Cup in the final period.”
I side-eye Tristan and get back to spotting him. It’s like Coach is finding any excuse these days to pair us up in the hope that we’ll become friends.
Never going to happen.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind, is all,” I grumble under my breath, taking the weight from my teammate when he raises the bar above his head to complete his final rep.
Keeping his back to me, he sits up and straddles the bench, flexing the muscles in his back.
“If I had landed the kind of deals you are in my rookie year, I’d have at least been grateful for the opportunities instead of standing there”—he swivels to face me and picks up his water bottle from the floor—“acting like an entitled, spoiled brat who thinks he should have everything handed to him just because his last name is Jones.”
I lower the bar back onto the rack, briefly contemplating how many games I’d be benched for if it accidentally crushed his neck the next time I spotted him.
“You really believe you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” I ask in a callous voice, not caring if Coach, Silas, or any of the other guys in the gym overhear our exchange. I’m not the one behaving like an asshole right now.
For once.
Tristan just smirks at me, one that reaches his ears. “I don’t like you, and I never will. The fans might see you as this golden boy who can do no wrong, but I know who you are beneath that bullshit smile of yours.”
I lean against the weight rack, crossing my ankles casually. “If you hate me so much, then why not put in for a trade? There’s still time before March. You could be across the country in a matter of months.”
Swinging one leg over the bench, Tristan stands in front of me.
I edge closer and look down at him, just so he’s reminded of our height difference.
“Talking of moving on, did you hear the latest news about Candice?”
I don’t let him see the panic as it rises inside me.
“No. What about her?”
He takes another sip of his drink, holding his smirk before he turns and walks off.
“What about her?” I repeat.
Tristan pauses, lifting a shoulder, like he’s loving the upper hand. “I heard that she’s handed in her resignation. Something about history with a player making her feel uncomfortable.”
I don’t need a gym mirror to know that all the blood has drained from my face.
