We’ll take care of our situation, and then no one will ever know. At least, that's what I tell myself. That's what I have to tell myself, because to do otherwise would be to admit that I just don't think I can stay away from Macklin Pride.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My head is pounding when I wake up, not in that hungover way I'm used to, but in a way that signifies I was having the best sex of my life last night, and I might have spent every last ounce of energy I'd been saving up for the pre-season, and hell, maybe the entire season while I'm at it. In fact, I'm quite likely dehydrated. I turn over and realize that this is the first time I've slept with a woman where I knew her full name, her history, her likes and dislikes, and the way she styles her hair in the morning to boot. If you'd asked me a month and a half ago, when Renata was in the back of my mind instead of in the front of it, I'd have told you that it didn't make any difference which type of way you had sex with someone.
But I know her.
Each piece of her. The good parts and the bad. The pushy, over-confident mask she shows everyone, and the inner sweetness, the part that she barely shows to anyone besides me and Wingate.
She showed that to me last night, that vulnerability. She'd kept it hiding the whole time she was here, going through the motions of getting me that fake fantasy girlfriend that all the men in the league are supposed to have. She'd gotten lost in her craft, and there was no room for that other side of her to escape. Until I touched her, until I felt her, until I made her scream my name.
Even thinking about her makes my cock start to stiffen, and I want to run back over to the guest house and have her again.
But this is a day full of interviews, meetings, workouts, and practice as we head to the pre-season.
I roll out of bed and pull on my work out shorts and shirt. The biggest thing I have on my mind is a protein shake and a cup of coffee because I can’t think about Kinley or the whole stupid engagement anymore. Not until this afternoon, anyway, when we have our interview.
“Just get through it, Mack. Get through it, and we’ll figure something out.” I mutter the words to myself, and when I walk into the kitchen, I’m expecting an empty blender, an empty counter, and no response. Instead, Wingate is standing right there, his long arms crossed. This time, he’s wearing a pair of reading glasses, jauntily sitting on the tip of his nose. I roll my eyes, ignore him, and pull a couple of bananas off of my banana rack and stick them in the blender with a half cup of peanut butter and some of the chocolate protein shit that Darius gave me last week.
“You know, I’ve been reading over this contract, Mack. And I’m not seeing anything in here about either of you sleeping with other people.” He pushes the glasses up to the bridge of his nose and noisily rustles the papers.
“I never should have given you a key. ‘Come over any time,’ I said. ‘Make yourself a protein shake and get some weight on you.’ But no, you use this as an opportunity to come and harass me in my own house.”
“And you use Renata being back here as an opportunity to get your dick wet.”
I growl and angrily turn on the blender. The thick concoction slows down the blades, but I add a dollop of yogurt and half cup of milk to loosen it up. The blender still slows down, and I smack at it, ignoring Wingate shuffling papers next to me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say between blender smacks.
“I saw you waltz down there last night after you thought everyone had gone home. And as I was still getting the crew to clean up—I noticed you were still there two hours later.”
“So?” I finally get the blender working again and pour the concoction into a glass. I drink it while I get to work on the coffee, reminding myself to drink some water after all this shit. I do think I might be dehydrated, come to think of it. The shake tastes thick and comforting, and it helps me ignore Wingate’s eyes, searing into me. I shrug for emphasis.
I’m not listening. I’m an adult man, an NFL superstar, and I do what the hell I want.
“If you look online, you might be singing a different tune.” He picks up his phone and flicks through it. “Here’s a good headline. ‘Kinley Edwards in Tears over Fiancé’s Supposed ‘Secret Lover.’ That one was in Star, so no one takes it too seriously.”
I glance at him, my stomach sinking. “Does that article mention the fact that she’s been screwing the wide receiver since before she met me? Yeah, that’s right. She has. And she tried to sleep with me too.”
“Nope, there’s nothing in the article about that. Which means it didn’t happen. Not in the eyes of the public. Now I don’t know how anyone got this information—maybe Kinley’s onto you. Maybe she’s playing you to get more money or more sympathy or I don’t know what the fuck she wants. But she’s scary as hell. I don’t know what Renata’s doing with you, but she’s a lot less savvy than I thought if she’s messing with a man who walked out on her—”