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She ignores the accusation. “Mark’s a wonderful man, Xavier, quite generous in a way you never were.”
Her words are daggers, precisely aimed. I grit my teeth. “Careful, Rachel. I know all the tricks because I wrote the damn playbook.” I hang up before she can reply, my grip on the phone tightening until my knuckles turn white.
Shaking my head, I place the phone back into my bag and pause, leaning against the locker as a storm of conflicting emotions sweeps over me. “Two can play this fucking game,” I murmur to myself. It’s less of a statement, more of a vow.
As I sling my bag over my shoulder, the phone buzzes again, another text. This time, it’s from Emma: You’re on. Tonight at seven at The Peninsula. I’ll meet you there.
Damn, I didn’t expect that. I read it, then read it again, a feeling of anticipation tinged with a hint of nervousness, which feels foreign to me. I was partly joking when I suggested dinner. What am I getting into?
Her message still hanging in my mind, I make my way through the locker room and out the door into the embrace of the night air. Emma, Jeff, Rachel—all of them are becoming threads in a complex tapestry I’m weaving, intentionally or not. And as I settle into my car, one question settles over me like a fog: Who is Emma Thompson, really?
I ignite the engine and pull away from the lot, the stadium lights shrinking in my rearview mirror. Another vow crystallizes in my mind: Regardless of what the game of life—or football—throws at me, I’ll play it my way.
Unapologetically. On my own terms.
FIVE
EMMA
The sun hangs low over the Chicago skyline as I make my way down Michigan Avenue, the click of my heels keeping pace with the rapidfire thrumming of my heart. I take a deep breath before the grand archway of The Peninsula, steeling my nerves for the evening ahead.
What was I thinking, agreeing to have dinner with Xavier Johnson? The man is arrogant, infuriating, and...okay, fine. Objectively attractive. But definitely off-limits.
That hasn’t stopped my traitorous mind from replaying our charged argument from the other day on a loop. The way his eyes blazed with challenge, his muscles taut beneath that fitted t-shirt.
This isn’t a date. It’s a business transaction.
I smooth my hands over my simple black sheath dress, wondering if it’s too formal. Maybe I should have gone with something more casual, like my go-to jeans and booties. But I can’t afford to be anything less than put together around Xavier. He’d see right through me.
“Just hear him out,” I mutter under my breath. “See if he actually has anything worthwhile to offer Jeff.”
Before I can talk myself into bailing, I stride through the polished doors. The host’s eyes widen slightly, an expression that quickly smooths into professionalism.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
“I have a reservation under Xavier Johnson,” I say, trying to keep my voice as cool as winter air.
“Ah, Miss Thompson,” he says, looking at his computer before giving me a polite smile. “Please, follow me.”
I let him lead me through the maze of luxurious dining, avoiding eye contact with patrons who scream privilege—people my parents would have considered their bosses in another life. Men are in tailored suits that probably cost more than my rent, while women flaunt diamond-encrusted necklaces and carry designer handbags. The atmosphere is heavy with the aroma of seared steak and truffle, clouded with quiet laughter and the clinking of wine glasses. I keep my focus ahead, trying not to trip over the irony that, for Jeff, the guy who used to eat cereal for dinner, I’m stepping into this strange world.
Finally, the host takes a sharp turn and leads me to a back corner. My heart jackhammers as I see Xavier. He’s sitting alone in a booth made of supple leather, his jacket thrown casually over the side. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, displaying those sculpted forearms that I remember being splashed across sports magazines. He looks up and raises his hand slightly, an inscrutable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a brief moment, my pace stumbles, but I regain my composure.
You’ve navigated harder situations, Emma. He’s just another guy. A very, very infuriating guy.
I give the host a nod as I slide into the booth. “Thank you,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady.
Xavier leans back, his eyes examining me like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “You made it. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”
I bite back the sharp retort on my tongue as I smooth the napkin over my lap. I promised myself I’d at least try to be civil tonight. “Apologies for keeping you waiting,” I say lightly. “I know how busy your social calendar must be.”
His lips quirk up. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re the highlight of my week.”
I press my lips together, unsure how to take that backhanded compliment. Before the awkward silence can stretch too long, the waiter appears to take our drink order. Xavier orders a merlot—a name filled with so many vowels and accents, it sounds like a song. When it’s my turn, I opt for water.
“Really, Emma? Water?” Xavier teases, taking the liberty to choose a white wine on my behalf.
My jaw clenches. He’s usurping my choices now? But I swallow the sharp words that rise like bile. Keep your eyes on the prize, Emma. You need him. Jeff needs him.
