Page 37 of Hard to Love

Fuck Finn Sanderson.

Fuck him and his lack of reasons.

Carson’s wrong. I don’t need him.

I don’t need anyone.

I’m hurt when I shouldn’t be.

I’m angry when I know I’m the one who put myself in this position.

But more than anything, I wonder why I wanted a man I disliked—purely because of circumstance—to still like me.

FINN

“SANDERSON.” CARSON’S VOICE COMES THROUGH loud and clear on the voicemail, and I cringe. I deserve whatever shit he’s going to give me. “I understand why you don’t want to take on Stevie as a client, and I respect your decision. I can’t say that I’m not disappointed in it, but I understand there are times in your life when certain clients aren’t beneficial to you or your brand.” He sighs heavily. “Whatever your reasons are, I’m sure you’ll explain them to me someday. And yes, apparently, I’m getting softer in my old age.” His chuckle can be heard before the line goes dead.

I stare at my cell and shake my head, marveling at the man I look to as a father. He knew I’ve been stressing over my call to him and took the pressure off me by calling first.

He knew what I needed to hear.

I think of the years I endured verbal abuse from my own dad. The constant pushing from a man who never made much of himself so he needed me to be and do what he never could. I recall the moment, a few months after Carson took me under his wing, where I realized what a cancer my own father was in my life.

I swirl the drink in my glass and rest my arms on the bar, head angled down, and try to ignore the sickening feeling in my gut. I definitely don’t deserve Carson Vega in my life.

I know I’m letting my mentor down, but he’s letting me down as well. At least that was the double whammy gut punch I felt when I got the phone call late last night as I headed back to the suite after the match.

I’ll find a way to make this up to him.

I know I will.

FINN

“FUCKING FINN. ALWAYS STEALING THE pretty girls.”

“It’s a bullshit story meant to sell headlines,” I mutter. The image of Stevie staring at me is now burned into my memory. The image all over social media I simultaneously wanted to tear my eyes from and couldn’t stop staring at.

The problem is I’m not sure why.

“Story or not,” my close friend and NFL pro-bowler, Gabe, says, “she was in your arms looking at you all lovey, dovey.”

“I’m her fucking babysitter is what I am.”

He snorts. “So you’re into the kinky role-playing then? Does she wear the schoolgirl uniform when she comes over so you have to bend her over your knee and spank her into submission?” His laugh fills the line.

“Fuck you.”

We banter like this. It’s what we do.

So I’m not sure why it bugs me this time.

“Oh.” His laughter stops as he feels out whether the words are playful or serious. “So the look was genuine, then?”

“What look?” I stop outside the entrance to the casino. On one side of me, there’s a half-dressed woman walking around in stripper heels trying to sell photos with her and on the other, a man dressed up like Michael Jackson, busking for money. I don’t pay attention to either because I’m so focused on Gabe.

“The one the whole world saw tonight. The look that says Carson is right.”

“Come again?”