Linebacker’s Second Chance(14)
“She doesn’t want to see you. But she guarantees she’ll whip you into shape.”
“She’s not—you’re making this shit up—”
“Renata Young is at your service, you freaking dipshit.” Wingate leans toward me like he did before. I don’t even see his hand move, but somehow it’s lightning fast. He slaps me on the face—not hard, but enough to sting. And then he turns on his heels and leaves the room.
“Oh and by the way, I do have a date tonight, asshole,” Wingate shouts as he opens the door and slams it behind him.
The emotion rises in me.
Renata.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ.
CHAPTER SIX
It’s hotter than the damn third gate of hell when Mack’s private jet arrives in North Carolina.
When I step off the damn thing, the sauna-like heat hits me like a ton of bricks, and the humidity fogs up my designer prescription sunglasses. I curse under my breath and congratulate myself again for moving to San Francisco. It might get windy as anything and foggy all summer long—but the weather allows for being outside the entire year. In North Carolina, spring and fall are completely perfect—but the summer drives everyone permanently inside.
It’s a good thing air conditioning was invented or no one would live here.
I’m at least glad that Wingate and Mack aren’t at their house in Florida—or the one in South Carolina—it’s even worse there. It’s possible I shouldn’t have been stalking my ex through my connections at the sports agency, but I remind myself that it’s part of the job to know my client’s assets. I’ll conveniently choose to disregard the fact that I started keeping tabs on Mack the second Carolina’s incredible team recruited him, and I have a list of every real estate purchase he’s made in the past six years.
Well, it’ll come in handy now. I’ve got a plan for his appearance at each one of these places. And a connection to the press in all of them.
When my heels hit the tarmac and my glasses clear, I see a tall figure walking across the black pavement, as a white SUV looms in the background. The man’s bright blond hair is severely parted in the middle, his height takes up a significant amount of space on the horizon, and his shirtsleeves are just slightly too short for his long arms. When my glasses are completely clear, I see Wingate’s million dollar smile. A surge of emotion takes me over. There’s sadness there, yes, and unsettling disappointment when I think of the nights we spent together with Macklin, playing spades and going out to get one-dollar cocktails at the local campus bar. But most of all, there’s the immense pleasure that comes from seeing a familiar face after years apart.
Before he even speaks to me, Wingate draws me into a tight hug, nearly lifting my body up off the ground as he does so. Those boys—they never knew how their tall bodies worked when it came down to it—especially when they were bending down to hug a woman.
Wingate takes me by the shoulders and steps back just a little, then bends down to plant a kiss on each cheek. “Renata,” he says, and the word sounds good coming off of his tongue. “You’re just as pretty as I remember. Still making all the boys sweat out there in California?”
“I’m the one sweating while we’re standing here, Wingate. Get me in that Escalade over there and turn the air conditioning on full blast. Who can I talk to about this heat around here? Summer hasn’t even really begun, and I’m already over it.” I can hear a Carolina twang coming out in my voice, the syllables blending together in a way they don’t when I talk to someone in California. It’s as natural as breathing in the pulsing, humid air.
I might not love it here, but it’s home.
He laughs and grins at me, leading me over to the car with the air conditioning still running. The cold blast hits me when I get in, and I immediately feel the comfort that comes with it. A deep nostalgia creeps over me—it’s been years since I’ve been in the South in the summertime, and going from heat to air conditioning is one of the most intense, visceral memories of what it feels like to experience the hottest season in the most humid part of the country. In fact, I remember getting into a car with Wingate and Mack on more than one occasion, glasses fogged up, sweat accumulating on my back—and the only thing that would fix it was the immediate, stiff blast from a car’s powerful air conditioner.
“I’m afraid there’s no one to talk to about the weather, Miss Priss,” Wingate says as we start driving from the airport into Charlotte, leaving the plane where I spent the last half a day behind. “It just is what it is. And with global climate change, shit’s heating up in the Carolinas sooner and sooner each summer. And I don’t know if you heard, but there’re gators moving up this direction.”