Too Late, Mr. Player: Watch Me Shine

ce

ollar, and the cheap scent of vanilla crawled up my nose, making my stomach churn-the last sliver of self-decept

athing grew heavy. I dropped the jersey into the trash can, pulled out

ut of the master bedroom into the study, and unlocked the bottom drawer o

nded me this agreement, promising we would be together for the rest of our li

probably nothing more th

dit required by the NHL. But buried on page seven was a brutal morality clause: if Keon ever

llway. Keon stepped out with only a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping fr

t-just like he always did after a road trip. I stepped to the side

irritation flashing acros

k road games. I'm exhausted. Can

e of his neck, and I pressed my lips together bef

s PR department asked for. It's due tomor

rist. He took the pen but didn't sign right away, flipping through the fi

from the side table and handed i

your new endorsement deals need th

yes vanished. He scrawled his flashy signature across the bot

ember of warmth in my chest turned to ash. I

d the hallway, and spok

ight. I have an early golf game wit

t a quiet scoff. Investors? More like Adrianna Shar

ked out onto the balcony and dialed my mot

nid's condescending voice

ur for an actual emergency, and not to w

bit into my cheeks, leavin

five billion in cash and

r end for three seconds befor

r a woman from the slums, y

the cold i

gue and keeps him from being ruined by a morality cla

eathing g

world for good! Don't you dare use this

one onto the sofa, and headed straight into the wa

and swept the diamond necklaces and luxury watches-every sin

a novel. Every single thing in here w

xted a high-end consignment broker I knew and

My phone screen suddenly lit up on the rug beside me, displaying a multimedia message from an unkno