Chapter 3

Three

SCOTTIE

I pull my black sheer sleeves down as far as they'll go and trap them to my palms with shaky fingers. It will be a miracle if Emory Olson, one of the best goalies in the division, actually shows up from a stupid handwritten note on a gum wrapper that I found in the bottom of my purse.

You would think someone who has such an elaborate plan to eliminate the problems in their life would come prepared, but no. One gum wrapper and a borrowed pen from a nearby fan, and that's all she wrote, friends.

I walk over to the mirror in the quiet bathroom and puff my rosy cheeks out before letting all the air empty into the space. My blue eyes pool with dread and fear, but I shake the feelings away and fill myself with confidence.

Emory Olson isn't a good guy, if the rumors are true, and considering his previous team dropped him, I'd say a majority of them are. That's why I don't feel bad about this. I am so sick of rotten humans getting what they want instead of people like me who try their hardest to do the right thing or make a difference and yet still get shit on.

The jaded woman staring back at me in the mirror nods.

"You can do this, Scottie," I say.

"So Cherry isn't your real name?" His clipped scoff sends a line of fear down my spine. "Who would've thought?"

A scream erupts from my mouth, and my hands fall to the porcelain sink for stability. The very second I see Emory Olson leaning against the tiled wall with his arms crossed over his chest, I immediately forget the objective.

My lips part, and the only thing that comes out is hot air.

I'm not intimidated by men, but I would be a big fat liar if I said Emory Olson didn't unnerve me a little.

Without the rink's glass separating us as a barrier, I'm unsettled. He's much taller and broader than I thought he would be underneath his pads, and there are so many different hues of blue in his eyes that I can't pinpoint the exact shade. When he raises an eyebrow in my direction, his jaw becomes ten times sturdier, and the little bit of scruff along the edge does nothing but accentuate how attractive he really is. Except, the air around him is thick with arrogance, and he looks at me as if I should be kissing the ground he walks on.

"I'm becoming impatient," he says.

I snap out of my stupor, and a rush of defiance zips down my legs to ground me.

My confidence is shaky at best, but I push off the sink and straighten my shoulders. "Do you remember me?"

Emory doesn't hesitate. "No."

Not off to a good start.

I thought for sure that he'd look me over a little more closely and try to rack his brain for a memory that I know doesn't really exist, but he acts completely at ease, and it causes the room to sway.

"Well…" Shit. "You should."

My face flushes, and I want to run out of this bathroom like a little damsel in distress because this entire scheme is an act of pure desperation, and I'm failing miserably.

"I should?" Emory asks with a lazy tone. He pushes off the bathroom wall, and you could hear a pin drop with the silence.

Fuck.

I stumble over my words but manage to pull out my phone while Emory erases the space between us. He smells good, like a freshly showered man who wears expensive cologne. He is nothing like the men I grew up around.

He's a few feet away from me when I quickly enlarge the photo and turn the phone around so he can get a good look. He freezes mid-step and looks closer at the image. I quietly swallow and wait for his reaction.

Tight jaw.

Flickering temples.

Narrowing glare that shoots to mine. My hand tightens around the tiny device as I wait.

"That's fake." His voice is low and lethal.

"Is it?" I question.

Of course it is. Photoshop is my most trusted confidant. It's what got me through my adolescent years. I'd spend hours piecing together photos I'd taken of my surroundings to make the real picture seem so much better than it really was.

Emory takes a step closer after he seems to get over his shock. I back up as he continues to prowl toward me until my heels hit the wall. He advances like a villain with his face growing redder by the second.

I swallow and tilt my chin to meet his glare. I have looked into the eyes of very bad men before—corrupted men, ones who've taken advantage of women, evaded the law, and chose drugs over everything else. Yet looking into the eyes of Emory Olson has me losing all ability to speak.

He's intimidating, but there's something enticing about him too. Part of me wants to run, but the other part of me wants to take my soft palm and smooth his stony features.

"What do you want?" He peers down at me so sharply that I have to angle my head even more to meet his eye. One of his palms presses against the wall beside my head, and I push myself further onto the tile.

Want?

More like need.

"Money," I answer quietly.

Emory laughs. He whispers under his breath, "Un-fucking-believable."

His head falls, and I get a whiff of his shampoo. It takes everything in me not to go in for a second sniff. When he abruptly snaps his attention back to mine, the humor has vanished completely. "Money? You want my money?"

I say nothing, but again, it's not a want. It's a need. A desperate need. Otherwise, I wouldn't stoop so low.

"You think you can write me a note on a stupid little gum wrapper..." I follow his movements when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out my note before crumpling it and letting it fall to the floor between us. "And create some photoshopped picture of me taking advantage of you so you can exploit me and force me into giving you money?"

Well, when he puts it like that…

Nope. It sounds just as bad as before.

My stomach fills with dread, and my confidence is quivering. Those morals that I must've been born with—because God knows I didn't get them from my mother—are starting to rear their head and… what the fuck am I doing?

"What's your plan, Scottie?" Emory's glare narrows even more, and I can't speak. "If I don't hand over my bank account information, are you going to run to the media with that photo, and then what? Tell them that I took advantage of you? Ruin my life because you're sick of yours?" He scoffs, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my lips from trembling. "Is that what you want? To ruin my life and reputation even more? I have never met you, and you want to ruin my life? Fucking typical."

God. What am I doing?

"I—" My mouth opens, but nothing comes out because I'm ashamed. It doesn't matter the reason I need the money. No excuse I can come up with will make this okay.

"I'll work!" I cry. It's a pathetic attempt to rid my guilt and fix the situation, but I try anyway.

"You'll work?"

I nod. "You can pay me for something. Whatever you want. I'm yours."

Emory's forehead furrows. He drops his hand from the wall and crosses his arms. "A stripper offering to do whatever I want? Sounds like a trick."

My jaw slacks, and I gasp. "No! I…" I shake my head. "Not like that. I didn't mean…"

Can someone please come into this bathroom, shove me into a stall, and drown me in toilet water to put me out of my misery? This was a terrible plan built from desperation and fear. I can't even be angry with his judgment.

"You've gotta be a shitty person to specifically hunt me down and threaten to blackmail me for money when you don't even know me."

My cheeks burn. I refuse to look in the mirror, because I know I'll be mortified.

I try to make the situation seem justified. "There are rumors."

"And you believe them? You're mighty brave for being in a bathroom alone with me if you truly believe what the media is saying."

I know the rumors aren't true. It took all of two seconds of looking into his eyes to know they're fabricated truths, if not lies altogether.

"I…" I finally bring myself to look him in the face again, and the disgust painted across his features sends me reeling. "I'm sorry…" I shake my head. "I don't know what I'm doing."

I meet his eyes once more before taking off in a full sprint out of the bathroom. My name echoes from behind, but I keep going because what the hell was I thinking?