Page 96 of The Backup Plan

And the women? They’re everywhere.

Some are on their husbands’ arms. Others have come separately and by the way they come in waves, it’s clear some of them have one objective tonight—land an athlete.

Again, not unusual for an event like this.

And they’re easy to spot. It’s in the lingering touches on my arm. In the praise lavished over our last practice, season, or game that I’m sure they didn’t watch. In the questions they ask that aren’t really questions.

I play the game though and turn on the charm.

Two of them approach Cole and me where we’re standing near the bar. They’re tall, confident, and judging by their plunging necklines, definitely dressed to be noticed.

Cole straightens, smile already locked in. He’s ready to play this game. I am not.

“Hi,” one of them says.

“Hi,” Cole replies smoothly.

The woman turns to face me. “We were hoping to meet you, Lucas.”

Cole’s jaw falls lax.

I bite back a grin. “Hello,” I say and shake both of their hands as they make introductions. Cole just stands there and blinks. He recovers, but not fast enough because I see the flicker of irritation in his eyes as they turn their attention to me.

I’m polite, engaged, ask questions when needed and laugh when appropriate. You never know who’s connected to whom in this room, so you have to treat all attendees like they’re the event’s biggest donor.

At least that’s what years of experience has taught me.

I’m mid-sentence, asking if they plan to come to any games this year when I lose my train of thought.

Because Emery walks in.

And everything else disappears.

She steps into the room like she belongs in this world—even though I know she’d argue that point to death. The dress is dark and slinky and fits her like it was made for her body. Her hair is down, soft waves brushing her shoulders. Minimal jewelry. Barely any makeup.

Jesus.

My chest tightens. My hand tightens around my glass.

This.

This is what people mean when they say breathtaking. Not flashy. Not trying. Just . . . mesmerizing.

She doesn’t see me at first.

I watch as a few heads turn and conversations stall for half a beat as she makes her way toward the bar with a quiet confidence, completely unaware of the distraction she’s caused.

I exhale slowly.

She scans the room, expression calm, composed . . . until her gaze lands on me.

On the women in front of me.

On the way one of them touches my arm with a casual familiarity she’s clearly selling.

Something flashes in her eyes before she tempers it. Jealousy. Sharp and real and so very satisfying to see from my perspective.

The woman beside me leans in, her cleavage on full display as she does. “We’re rooting for you.”