backrooms of clubhouses and in the banter of locker rooms - even if most of them are assuming someone who looks more like my dad than me before I show up.
Which I definitely use in my favor, by the way.
I will get Holden Cade signed to the Bulls, and I’m going to do it in spite of his juvenile bullshit. He might be used to everyone rolling out the red carpet for him, and he might be used to women going to mush and spreading their legs whenever he deigns to smile at them. But I resolve one thing right there on that rooftop patio.
I will not get caught up in the Holden Cade show. I will not be getting all tongue-tied and gushy like some kind of teenaged pop-star fan, I will not be letting Holden “get” to me, and I will most certainly not be opening my legs.
Certainly not , I say again quickly inside my own head as I head back into the bar for a refill.
It’s not the last time I reaffirm it to myself as I sit on that patio through two more drinks, or even later once I take the elevator back to my room.
In fact, I’m still repeating it, like a sort of mantra, as I crawl into bed later with visions of that chest and those abs and those sharp blue eyes dancing disturbingly through my head.
4
Holden
“ C ’mon , Randy, the fucking Bulls ?”
I glare at my manager as I yank a shirt on later after London Jacobs has breezed in and blown right back out of my locker room.
“Why are we even having this discussion?”
Randy scowls at me as he pushes his thinning hair over the massive bald spot above his forehead. I’ve told him just to shave it like a man but he insists on the terrible comb-over.
“Holden, this is hardly the first time we’ve had this discussion.”
I give my very much full head of hair another pat dry with my towel before fixing it in the mirror with my fingers.
“About other teams ,” I hiss under my breath as I turn back to him. “Other real teams, not the fucking Bulls. ”
Randy sighs heavily. “Define ‘real teams’.”
“New York? Miami? New England? Hell, Randy, someone who’s fucking won a game at some point in the last five years?”
He looks at me pointedly. “We’ve already been through that, buddy.”
“Oh c’mon , man.” I roll my eyes as I stuff my shit back into my locker. “We did go to the playoffs last year.”
Randy says nothing and I frown at him. “Oh, what .”
“She’s right, Holden.” He shrugs. “LJ that is.”
“ London , Randy. Her name is fucking London. That LJ bullshit is just to get her in the door because no one would say yes to a fucking meeting if they knew she was just another spoiled daddy’s girl.”
Yeah, I’m still pissed. I’m still pissed at the way I feel tricked into meeting her - still pissed that my usual full-bluster technique of commanding the room and owning the conversation fell flat like a bad pass.
I’m still pissed that London Jacobs didn’t look at me, and bat her eyes at me, and get all gushy with me like literally every other woman I’ve ever met.
Randy snorts. “Name aside, she knows her shit, pal.”
I groan. ”You seriously want me to consider an offer from the Bulls? The fucking joke of the league.”
All of my endorsements - well the one’s I think I still have at least - and all of my press centers on one thing: Holden Cade is a fucking winner . Shattered high school records, college MVP three years in a row, and a damn first-round pick my first year in the league. And I win off the field as much as I do on it. Fast cars, exclusive clubs, and more hot, eager chicks than I can bang in a lifetime.
Yeah, I’m a winner, and the Bulls are nothing but losers.
“Randy, there are internet memes about how bad they are.”
He grins at me. “Well, think of what it'll do for your image if you can turn them around.” He shrugs. “You put some wins up for a team like that and people are going to talk.”
“People talking about me and a team like that is what I’m afraid of,” I mutter as I stuff