Page 95 of The Player's Club

“This isn’t over,” she vowed.

I gave her a sad smile. “Sweetheart, it never even began in the first place.”

Our home game the following weekend was a disaster. We lost by three points, and Coach was pissed and looked apoplectic.What was worse was that I couldn’t muster the energy to care. I’d fallen into a pit of pathetic, self-pitying despair ever since I’d seen Elodie. I’d spent my nights drinking, my days hating the world, and with little interest in what I thought I’d care most about in the entire world.

I also didn’t care that my brother Brian wasn’t around as my decoy. He’d bailed at the last minute, telling me he had to go to the East Coast. Whether it was for work or for a woman, I didn’t ask.

So when I exited the stadium, I expected the usual crowd. What I didn’t expect was a literal mob of people.

“Mac! When did you join The Scarlet Rope?” one reporter yelled as he tried to shove a mic in my face.

Another reporter asked, “When did you get into BDSM? Are you a sub or a Dom?”

It felt like time slowed down. I couldn’t get through the mob of people fast enough, like I was being pulled back toward them by an inexorable current.

How had they found out? Had Elodie’s coworker gotten someone to squeal? Or was it Elodie herself?

“How does your dad the pastor feel about your interests?” another reporter asked me.

I felt ice drip down my spine. The reporter asked the question snidely, like they couldn’t wait to see my reaction. It took everything inside me not to grab the guy and punch his lights out. I pushed through the reporters and paparazzi, pulling my hat down over my face as far as I could. But the questions wouldn’t stop. Even as some of my other teammates came outside to see what all the commotion was, I was the only player they cared about.

“What made you get into something like BDSM?” a woman asked me. She had a wide smile on her face, her expression almost deranged.

I just looked at her and shook my head. “No comment,” I growled and continued to push my way through the crowd.

They followed me, even as I could hear Brady and some of my other teammates tell them to back off. They stalked me to my car. One even tried to open my passenger door, like he’d get into my car with me.

I was shaking now. Rage beat at me, wanting to take it out on this mob of assholes who thought my private life was fair game. These people who thought they could dig up dirt on me and then get me to talk about it against my will. They mobbed my car as I tried to drive away. Only when I heard shouts did the mob break up enough for me to pull out and drive away.

I sweat, my head pounded, and my gorge rising. I kept checking to see if anyone had followed me, and of course, there were multiple cars on my tail. Only when I got on the freeway and started driving way above the speed limit did I lose them.

I barely registered that I was home when I arrived. I practically fell out of my car, and I realized I was shaking.With horror. And with such an intense, all-consuming rage that I could barely see straight.

I was about to go into my house through the garage—I parked my shit Corolla outside since my garage was full of my nicer cars—when I heard rustling in the bushes. I paused, listening, knowing that I was acting like a paranoid crazy person.

I heard a voice then. Not a raccoon. I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing. I stalked to those bushes and grabbed a man from them, hauling him to his feet and then punching him in the face before he could say a word.

The man fell to the ground, yelling and cursing. His camera equipment fell all around us, and before the reporter could blink, I was smashing his camera against the wall of my house.

“Hey!” the reporter cried out, scrambling to his feet. “Hey, what the fuck! That’s my camera!”

“Get the fuck off my property!” I snarled.

“You don’t have a right to destroy my stuff!”

“The fuck I don’t! You’re trespassing, and you think you have any rights here?” I grabbed the guy by his collar, enjoying how he struggled to breathe. “You have a lot of fucking nerve.”

The man tried to loosen my grip, but I was twice his size. I let him dangle for a long moment before I finally let him go. He gasped for breath.

I tossed him his broken camera. “Who are you? How did you get past my gate?”

The man was wheezing. His nose was bleeding from where I’d punched him, and the sight filled me with satisfaction.

“Your gardener left the gate open,” he finally replied, coughing. “Blame him.”

“That still doesn’t give you a right to hide in my goddamn bushes!”

“Look, I didn’t come out here to be assaulted.” The man held up his hands. “I’m just doing my job.”