Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I cross the room and gently tug at the collar of his shirt. “Snap out of it,” I tell him firmly. “You were nominated for goalie of the year. You’re making a speech at dinner later. Stop giving this woman more brain space than she deserves.” My hands are on my hips, bangles jingling. “What advice would you give me if the roles were reversed.”
“I’d say FUCK THAT GUY.”
“Exactly. Now come on, let’s go get you an award.”
The red carpet is absolute chaos. Reporters. Athletes in suits that cost more than my car. Influencers. Everyone is posing, everyone is glammed up. Diamonds. Expensive watches.
Egos that go on for miles…
Gio gets pulled toward the step-and-repeat while I hover to the side, smiling politely at anyone who glances my way. Clutching the purse he bought me that matches my dress.
I’m trying to be cool.
Trying not to gape.
Trying very hard not to trip in my heels.
And that’s when I see him.
Across the carpet, off to the side—leaning against a column like he’s allergic to attention but magnetic as hell—is him.
Luca Babineaux.
I had just learned his name—he hasn’t been drafted yet, but my brother says he’s someone the coaches are looking at. Players have a way of knowing these things, and I like knowing things too, so my eyes go straight for him, drinking in the sight of him.
He’s tall.
Like—crazy tall.
Broad.
Ridiculously hot. His suit fits like it was made for his body and his hair is slicked back in a way that makes me irrationally thirsty. He’s laughing at something, smile flashing, and I swear, for a second, the entire awards show dims.
I go still.
My heart does a full-body lurch.
As if sensing the moment, his eyes flick toward me.
Hold.
Linger.
That single look is everything—awareness. Surprise. Interest.
The world tilts a little.
I forget about my heels. About the uncomfortable pair of Spanx I jammed my body into so I could fit into this dress. About the paparazzi shouting for Gio’s attention and the blinding flashes of light bouncing off glass and diamonds and status.
Luca Babineaux doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave or nod or offer some cocky little smirk like most guys might. No, he just watches me—eyes locked, like he’s flipping through some mental file to place me.
Who are you? His expression is saying.
That’s the moment my brother turns to face me. Gio snaps his fingers in my direction to get my attention, following my eyes.
“Don’t even think about it.” His voice holds a warning that causes my head to jerk around.
“Don’t think about what?”
I have no idea what he means.
“Sleeping with someone who might be on my team.”
I feel my eyebrows raise into my hairline.
“Since when do I sleep with random people?” First of all, I can’t believe he’s bringing this shit up in front of people. Anyone could overhear us! Secondly, “I’m allowed to sleep with whomever I want.”
My brother laughs as we continue down the carpet. “No, you’re not.”
I don’t press him.
We can save this for another day. Another night.
I look down at my plump neckline—or lack thereof—cheeks on fire, lips parted, doing my best impression of a girl who isn’t currently imagining what a man who looks like Luca Babineaux smells like. Or how his laugh might sound when he hears something actually funny.
Women must be crawling all over him.
I push that thought out of my brain because WHO CARES? Gio already warned me to stay away from him even though he’s not the boss of me.
Inside the massive venue, we’re seated at round tables of ten, white tablecloths pressed crisp, and as I take my seat beside my dumb brother, I let my eyes skim the room casually. Casually. Just doing a sweep.
I see him.
Two tables over. One row back.
Seated beside a guy with a man-bun and a crooked tie, laughing at something on the little folded menu card in front of him.
He's not looking at me.
Pfft—why would he be?
I angle slightly in my chair, all nonchalant, like I’m shifting to cross my legs. Like I’m not highly aware of the exact moment his gaze lifts. Drags. Finds mine.
The corner of his lips turn up.
Oh.
God.
The nerve!
My skin already feels too tight. My dress itches in places that have never itched before, and my wine is going straight to my bloodstream, amplified by the heat radiating from two tables behind me.
I sip my wine and try to act unaffected. Then—because I have zero impulse control and the attention span of a gnat—I peek over my shoulder again.
Quickly. Just a flick of my eyes.
His eyes are on the stage, where some Chairman of blah blah blah is introducing some boring montage, blah.
I force my attention to the stage, too, clapping when it’s appropriate, brain beginning to fog from the expensive wine I’ve consumed before drinking another.
I glance over my shoulder.
He’s talking to the guy beside him. Laughing at something on his phone. Being a normal human being.