Page 44 of Elite Player
I’m flying so high from the game that when I spy Jo taking pictures by the tunnel, I practically sprint toward her. She moves her camera in time for me to pick her up and swing her in my arms, kissing her cheek.
“Gross, you’re so sweaty!”
I rub my forehead on her. “You’ve seen me like this before.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never had to be in close contact like this with you.”
“Get used to it, babe.” I set her on her feet and cup her face in my hands, pressing a quick kiss to her mouth.
I hear the chatter of fans in the stands and back up enough to smile and wave at them. One of them shouts a question about who Jo is, and I take her hand in mine. “A photographer. Look her up for your next event, at Jo A underscore photo on Instagram.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“Fiancée!”
That earns an even louder response from the fans, but I’m too busy basking in Jo’s flushed cheeks. “You embarrassed of me?”
She shakes her head in that cute, faux-perturbed way. “Feels like I can never quite keep up with you.”
I flick the ball on top of her beanie. “Well, mama, get to steppin’. The sooner I get you in the car, the sooner I get to kiss you again.”
I slap her ass on my way to the locker room, earning an adorable growl.
And it takes no time at all for a photo of my hand smack-dab in the middle of her left butt cheek, fingertips curled ever so slightly, squeezing it, to land on the internet.
CHAPTER 13
JO
I dreamed of Nico.
We were in a fancy hotel but, like, one hundred years ago. At least, that’s what it appeared to be. And we were drinking coffee in the little sitting area with high-backed chairs that had rolled arms and buttons on the cushions that were uncomfortable. When I told Nico I didn’t like the chair, he took hold of my hand and pulled me into his lap.
“This better?” he asked and kissed my neck.
Then suddenly, we were walking along a river. The Eiffel Tower and Big Ben were in the back, so I don’t actually know where my brain took us—France or England, but either way, it was a perfect night with twinkling stars and warm air.
“You like it here?” Nico asked, swinging our interlocked hands back and forth.
I did. I loved it. I loved spending time with him. I loved sight-seeing and wearing a long, sparkly gown that he’d bought for me. That I’d been wearing as we strolled in the grass. I was in heels too, but they didn’t sink into the ground.
Still, I took them off, tired, and Nico bent to give me a piggyback ride, and suddenly, we were in the hockey arena. He jogged down the stands to the rink, where he magically changed intohis gear, skates on his feet. With me on his back, my legs around his waist, and my arms around his neck, he skated me all over, making shapes on the ice, sprinting until I shrieked, playing so much I couldn’t help but laugh.
That was when he stopped and put me down. I was still in the gown, and when he told me how much he loved seeing me in it, that was when I told him that I loved being with him.
“I love you,” I said, and he smiled. Except it wasn’t his usual smile. Not his happy grin or arrogant smirk. It wasn’t even the half smile that always accompanied a wink.
It was a smile like he felt bad for me. He pitied me.
Like Waylon.
And then, he was Waylon.
I fell backward on the ice and hit my head.
That’s when I wake up with a gasp, pressing my fingers against my scalp and over the healed skin by my temple. It takes a moment for my heart rate to slow and the fog of sleep to clear from my mind. I grab my cell phone from the charger, the home screen flickering with alerts. So many, I can’t even read them all.
I always silence my phone while I sleep, and all the notifications racked up overnight. Messages on my social media, emails through my website, and multiple texts and calls from my mother and sister. Slack-jawed, I start with Instagram, where I find my followers have jumped from a few hundred to a few thousand overnight. There are so many DMs, I don’t even bother opening them. The first email I read is asking me if I’ve ever taken pictures of Nico naked, and did I know how much I could make from selling them. I immediately delete and close out of my email app before stupidly clicking on my sister’s texts. There are dozens, screenshots she’d taken of photos Iron fans posted last night. Pictures of Nico picking me up and swinging me around, my face almost unrecognizable because I’m smiling so widely. There is a photo of him kissing me and then another of his hand on my butt, both of us looking at each other. Nico’s face tipped down, and mine up toward him.
