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)
“Sixty seconds, Tanner. I’m serious.”
“Sixty seconds,” he repeats, pushing off the wall with an easy roll of his shoulders. “You better start warming up the cab.”
I point a finger at him. “Don’t test me.”
He gives a lazy salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he disappears through the locker room doors, the hinges hissing shut behind him.
A few seconds later, I hear the faint bounce of a ball and the crack of paddles. Someone yells, “Point!” followed by laughter.
I close my eyes, practice my box breathing to calm myself, and check my watch again.
Tanner now has fifty seconds to deliver the package. I walk outside and hail a cab, intent on having it ready to shove Grizz inside. “Just waiting on someone,” I tell the driver when I open the rear door. He nods without a word.
Thirty seconds. Then twenty, then ten—
When Tanner finally exits the training facility with Grizz walking behind him like it’s a hostage exchange, he looks pleased with himself.
“Three seconds to spare,” he says, pointing at me. “Dessert privileges secured.”
I don’t even look at him as Grizz slides into the cab. As I’m buckling my seat belt, I lean over and say, “Zero seconds, actually, but since I’m reasonable, I’ll get you desserts for the week, not a month. Hope you enjoy chocolate cake.”
He grins. “I savor anything I don’t have to pay for.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me and Grizz as we buckle up. He’s wearing a hoodie and a backward cap and has that same relaxed posture that makes me want to throw his phone out the window.
He manspreads, one knee against the door, and glances at me like he’s boarding a flight he didn’t book. “Morning,” he says as the cabbie pulls onto the street and heads down Broadway.
The late-afternoon sunlight slices between the buildings, highlighting the dust on the dashboard. I turn toward Grizz, arms folded and irritation still buzzing beneath my skin. “You’re late,” I snap, stating the obvious.
He grins without even looking at me, attention squarely on his phone. “Technically, we’re moving now. So, I’d say we’re on time.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to feel it. “You were supposed to be ready to leave thirty minutes ago.”
“Yeah, but I had to defend my title.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeeze my eyes shut, and pray for patience. “You can’t skip a sponsor shoot to play ping-pong.”
“Correction,” he says, scrolling his phone. “I won a ping-pong game while being fashionably late to a sponsor shoot. Feels like a win-win.”
I stare at him, incredulous. He’s too relaxed… too unbothered. “You know what? I don’t even care about the ping-pong. What I care about is that you keep treating these commitments like they’re optional.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s because for me, they are.”
The arrogance is eye-popping. I laugh under my breath. “You really think that?”
“I know that,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “No one comes to the arena to see the sponsors, Turner. They come to see me score.”
“You might want to let the sponsors know that,” I shoot back. “They’re the ones paying the bills.”
He reclines like he owns the cab and all the space within it, one arm stretched along the seat, legs stretched. “You always this fun in the morning?”
“Only when I’m babysitting millionaires with punctuality issues.”
He grins, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
My stomach flips, and I hate that it does. “Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re wound tight, you know that?”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Which apparently involves scolding grown men in taxis.”
“Only when those grown men act like immature teenagers.”
He looks at me, amused, eyes darting briefly to my mouth before sliding away. “You ever think maybe you care too much about stuff that doesn’t matter?”
“It matters to me,” I say. His expression shifts slightly, presumably from the crack in my composure. “And it should matter to you, considering your entire public image is dangling by a thread.”
He laughs with the frustrating confidence of a guy who’s always used to winning. “My image is fine.”
“Your image,” I say, “is a dumpster fire that PR keeps putting out with napkins.”
He whistles. “Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide whether to poke me again or let it go. He pokes. “Do you enjoy being so serious all the time?”
“I enjoy doing my job well. And I’m this serious only when I’m in cars with people who make my life harder than it needs to be.”
“That can’t be true,” he says with a shake of his head. “You seem like the type who’s serious everywhere. The kind who alphabetizes her stress.”
I glare at him. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Not when it’s this easy to get a rise out of you.”
I exhale and turn toward the window. Broadway blurs past in billboards, delivery trucks, a woman walking three dogs in matching sweaters. I try to breathe, to stop thinking about how close he is and how four days ago he kissed me just to get me to shut up.