Chapters (48)
- Cover
- PRAISE FOR ALEXA MARTIN’S PLAYBOOK SERIES
- Titles by Alexa Martin
- Dedication
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
I pause and raise my eyebrows to see if he has an answer yet. When I’m met with silence, I keep going.
“Then, it happens and he dies. So even though you feel like you’re literally walking through hell and you want to do nothing except stay in bed and cry forever, you get up and work your ass off. And then you get it—the job of your dreams, working for your dad’s favorite team. Only to be stuck with someone who insinuates that you don’t deserve that job? You know what that’s like?”
“No.” He shakes his head, hardness set in his jaw. “I don’t know what that’s like.”
“Of course you don’t.” I lean across the table, disdain dripping from each word. “Because you just think about yourself. You make these grandstanding gestures. You create this foundation. You make these impassioned statements all to say what you want to say and make everyone believe you have all the answers. Forget everything except what mighty, righteous Quinton has to say. You want to fight against racism and problems plaguing the League, but only if it’s on your terms, right? God forbid anyone say anything you don’t like. You’ve gotten everything you’ve wanted your entire life and that’s not gonna stop now. Am I right?”
His expression is blank and those black eyes of his look soulless, not one ounce of remorse or regret shining through. “So I’m guessing we’re going to skip lunch?” He pulls his keys out of his pocket and doesn’t acknowledge anything I’ve said.
Which for some inexplicable reason pisses me off even more.
“Yeah,” I snap. “I think we’re finished here.”
He doesn’t say another word as he unfolds his large body from the small booth and walks out of the restaurant.
“That went fucking great.” I say out loud before waving the waitress back over. “Cake. I need cake.”
Eleven
The sound of my phone ringing wakes me up the following Sunday and a few things stand out.
I do have friends, and said friends do call me on occasion. However, they never call on a Sunday—they know how I am about Sundays during football season—and never before eight a.m. because that’s just rude. The other thing that stands out is the ringtone. The obnoxious ringtone that I set for the obnoxious person on the other end of this call.
“Quinton?” I try my hardest to sound wide-awake, but fail nonetheless. I was up until almost four going over the final details for his event on Tuesday and writing up statements for the coaches and GM to use when they’re undoubtedly questioned about Quinton after today’s game. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because it’s not even eight and we’ve never spoken on the phone, that’s why.”