Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Unfortunately.”
He laughs as we step inside the elevator. “You gonna nap or unpack?”
“I’m gonna not talk to you.”
Tanner presses the button for our floor. “Fair. But heads-up… I might have to use the mirror in the room for grooming purposes later.”
“Define grooming.”
“You’ll know when you hear the music.”
The doors slide open on the fifteenth floor and we walk down the hall to our room. I toss my bag onto the nearest sofa and collapse onto my bed. I always take the one closest to the window. The blackout curtains swallow the sun whole and I’m half-asleep before I even take off my shoes.
Thirty minutes later, I wake to the sound of Tanner whistling and the smell of expensive cologne. He’s wearing jeans and a tight white tee, his hair styled with too much pomade.
“Where are you going?” I mumble.
He’s scrolling his phone but looks up at me with a wicked grin. “Remember those girls from last season we met when we were here? Two locals, both gorgeous, both dying to meet the boys from New York when we were back. They said they’ve got tonight off from bartending and want to hit that new steakhouse I told you about.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m confident you want to hit something more than just a steakhouse.”
Tanner looks neither ashamed nor proud. “Exactly. I told them I’d bring a teammate. Double date.”
In days past, I would have been all over that, but for some reason, it’s not appealing to me tonight. “Pass.”
He freezes, theatrically wounded. “Pass? Bro, they’re Dallas tens. You can’t pass on a Dallas ten. It’s bad karma.”
I consider his words, do a quick internal reflection. “Yeah… not in the mood.”
“You’re a menace to single professional athletes everywhere.” He tosses a shirt at me. “You need to loosen up. Zero press, zero stress—just red meat and women who don’t give a shit that you take too many penalties.”
“Take them both,” I say, rolling over.
He laughs. “Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m serious. Two girls, one Tanner. Sounds like your ideal wet dream come to life.”
He taps his chin and looks up to the ceiling as he considers. Gaze back to me, he asks, “You sure?”
“Positive.”
He grabs his wallet, his grin returning. “You’re a lost cause, McAvoy. But don’t worry, I’ll eat enough steak for both of us.”
“Do me a favor,” I say, eyes still closed. “Stay out of the team group chat tonight.”
Tanner salutes on his way out. “No promises.”
The door shuts, and silence fills the room. I close my eyes and fall back to sleep.
By the time I wake again, it’s dark outside. For a moment, I’m disoriented as to where I am but then my stomach growls loud enough to echo, and I slam back into reality. I check the clock—8:47 p.m. My phone’s full of unread messages, mostly from Tanner, along with several photos of his dinner companions. They are absolutely Dallas tens but I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything. Been there, done that more times than I can count.
I throw on a black tee, jeans, and a baseball cap for anonymity. The less recognizable I am, the better. I grab my room key and wallet and head downstairs.
The lobby’s quieter now. A handful of guests at the bar, some suits watching football highlights, and a couple on a date pretending to care about the wine list. I spot an empty stool and head over. There’s a half-finished drink in front of it with a napkin draped over the glass—a universal sign for taken. So I slide one seat over.
“Steak sandwich, medium rare,” I tell the bartender after perusing a menu. “And a beer. Something local.”
He nods and disappears, not seeming to recognize me, but that’s not all that unusual. In New York, it would be hard to sit here without being approached by fans. But this is Dallas and most aren’t going to recognize an opposing player wearing a ball cap. I relish the peace.
The muted hum of conversation blends with the soft clink of glasses, a transient tranquility you only find in hotel bars, where everyone’s passing through and no one’s trying too hard to stay. The food comes quickly after the beer, and I remember that service in cities other than New York can actually be speedy. I’m halfway through my first bite when a voice beside me says, “Guess I should’ve known you’d sit right next to my drink.”
I look up, and there she is… Daisy Turner. Hair loose, dark waves brushing her shoulders. A tailored cream blazer over a black top, subtle gold jewelry. She looks nothing like she did in the gym—no oversized Vipers tee, no safety-pinned shorts. Just curves that look too good and the quiet power she exudes that I don’t think I’ve seen in other women.
“Didn’t see your name on it,” I say, eyes drifting up to the TV above the bar.