Holding Penalty (Love The Game #1)

Chapter 1

PIPER

I’m sitting in the back of a limo, next to my fiancé, wearing a dress I maxed out my credit card for, when my life falls apart.

We’re being driven back home from an event his company held at a swanky country club outside of Austin, Texas.

The limo was his idea. We have to keep up appearances and not let him be outshined by the other junior executives looking to impress their bosses in the image-obsessed finance industry, after all.

Me maxing out my credit card was also his idea. We can’t let his coworkers think that he can’t afford to buy his fiancée the best clothes for important industry events, after all.

Even though he literally can’t. Hence my maxed-out credit card.

But he reminded me that just one week from now, when we get married, and the inheritance I’ve been waiting for finally hits my account a couple months later, paying off the debt will be no big deal.

So, I went along with it, even though I think the obsession with appearances among the people he works with is stupid.

Actually, I know it’s stupid.

Not that I don’t enjoy looking good as hell in a dress I have no business buying, don’t get me wrong.

I’m not against irresponsibly splurging for a fun night—as a matter of fact, it’s one of my favorite things to do—but tonight wasn’t even fun. “Splurging” to impress a bunch of stuck-up, boring finance bros? Ugh, it gives me a sour taste in my mouth.

But it’s for Crew’s career, so I try to swallow it down. The free flutes of top-shelf champagne at the club helped with that, at least.

Crew has his phone out, trying to pull up a meme to show me.

He and some of his coworkers were laughing their heads off over earlier.

Apparently, it’s relatable if you work in finance.

As a baker, I probably won’t get the joke, but Crew has dutifully sat through plenty of occasions where I showed him memes he didn’t understand, so I’ll be a good partner and do the same.

“Here it is,” he says, excitement in his voice.

It’s cute that he’s enthusiastic about showing me something, even if it’s not at all in my wheelhouse.

Just like I get excited yapping to him about whichever book I’m reading, even though I know he couldn’t really care less.

So, I summon a smile and try to seem invested.

“Hold this, I’m going to refill my drink,” he tells me.

I take the phone as the video starts to play, while he turns and fumbles with the liquor bottles in the built-in backseat bar.

Instantly, my attention zeroes in on his phone screen, so much so that even my lungs forget to work, breath staying trapped in my throat.

Not because of the video that’s playing. The sound from it doesn’t register with my ears, nor do my eyes watch the images.

No, I’m looking at what just popped up above it, at the top of the screen. A notification.

I know you told me not to text this number, but putting on this underwear made me remember that time in your office when …

The rest of the message is cut off, but I can see that a photo is attached.

I feel my hand move to click on the notification. It’s a robotic motion, like someone else is controlling my limbs. The strangely calm, dissociative feeling remains as my eyes take in the text thread that opens.

The first thing I see is the picture. It’s a woman. A mirror selfie. Full-length. She’s wearing a light-blue, lacy bra-and-panties set, the thin material leaving very little to the imagination.

Then, my eyes scan over the text. Apparently, what this woman is remembering from Crew’s office involved the surface of his desk, creative use of a necktie, and—I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—him finishing way too soon.

I sense that Crew has stopped fiddling around with the alcohol. I feel him sitting attentively straight, his eyes latched to the same thing mine are. It’s strange, though. He feels distant. Like he’s miles away, even though our shoulders touch.

It hits me that maybe that’s how it’s always felt with him.

My gaze ticks up to the last exchange of messages, about two weeks ago.

I need you so bad right now, the unnamed number says to my fiancé.

Then Crew’s response, telling her not to use this number anymore, and giving another number I don’t recognize.

“Piper, it’s totally not what it looks like.” Crew’s voice seems distant, too, like he’s standing outside the limo and I’m barely hearing the dull vibration of his words through the closed door.

I’m staring at irrefutable proof that my fiancé is cheating on me, and I don’t feel anything.

I’m still. Calm, even. My lungs have started back up, pulling in slow, deep breaths. My eyes blink steadily. My grip on Crew’s phone is secure and still. My hands aren’t shaking or anything.

What are you supposed to do in a moment like this?

Crew takes his phone back, sliding it out of my grip. My hand stays hovering in front of my face for a beat before I return it to my lap. I sit perfectly composed, numb, still unsure what I should be doing or thinking right now.

“It’s great that you’re being so cool about this, babe,” Crew says. He sounds nervous, but relieved. “You see, the thing is …”

A sudden flash of inspiration hits me. I know exactly what I should be doing right now. In fact, there’s no doubt in my mind about the precise course of action I should take this very second.

Crew is still talking. His voice is more assured, like he’s building up confidence in whatever explanation he’s giving. But I’ve tuned him out.

I hitch my knee, lifting my foot off the limo floor. My right hand dips down to slide the shoe off my left foot. My shoe with the long, pointy heel.

I shift the shoe in my hand, getting the grip right. Getting the direction of the heel right.

With each movement of my body, I’m feeling less on autopilot, more in control. Now, I feel fully lucid. Fully intentional.

Yeah, when my arm lifts to raise the shoe above my head, it’s all me.

With a rush of force, I bring it down. The sharp heel smashes into the screen of Crew’s phone, shattering it.

Crew chokes on whatever line of bullshit he’s spewing, and I do it again. Smash, smash, smash. My cheating piece of shit fiancé is too stunned to move his phone, and I get plenty of good whacks at it. Satisfaction pulses through me every time I feel my heel crash through the glass screen.

“Piper, what the hell!” he finally exclaims, the late verbal ejaculation an ironic counterpoint to the premature sexual one that led to this moment.

He pulls his phone away. I frown at the disappointing sensation when my improvised weapon finds only empty air.

Welp, since I don’t get to smash the hell out of his phone anymore, there’s no reason for me to stay in this limo.

“Pull over!” I yell, knocking on the divider that separates us from the driver.

The limo rolls to a stop, pulling to the side of the road.

“Piper, what are you doing?” I ignore Crew’s question, sliding my shoe back on and pushing my door open.

“Piper! You—” he calls after me, but I slam the door behind me, cutting off his sentence.

The air outside is humid and still. Inky dark clouds hang motionless in the black sky above. We’re on a long stretch of empty road, still about twenty minutes outside the city.

I take a step away from the car and wobble. The heel of my shoe snaps, the one that was just so useful moments ago. I sigh. She gave her life for a worthy cause.

I love these shoes, too. As a matter of fact, I maxed out a different credit card for them a couple years ago.

The night out I bought these shoes for was way better than the night I bought this stupid dress for.

The limo door opens behind me, and Crew sticks his head out. “Piper, get back in the car.”

I don’t answer. I just walk down the side of the road, toward the city. Okay, I’m more hobbling than walking, thanks to my broken heel. But I’ll hobble all the way home before I even think about sharing a confined space with my fiancé right now.

Ex-fiancé?

The title flashes in my head. The reality of what just happened sharpens, and a pang of emotion slices through me, anger and betrayal and disappointment and rage and hurt … with an undercurrent of relief?

My stomach clenches. This isn’t the right moment to take stock of my emotions, or of the ramifications of what just happened. I need to get home first.

I keep walking.

I hear Crew pound on the divider. “Driver, drive next to her!” he yells.

I huff a laugh. Crew won’t even get outside and follow me on his own two feet.

The limo rolls forward, inching along to match my slow pace.

“You’re seriously not going to let me explain?” Crew asks. There’s reproach in his voice, like I’m the one at fault here.

I don’t answer. I really, really don’t want to cry right now, so I keep my mouth closed tight. I’m not sure whether I’m on the verge of tears or not, but I don’t want to risk it.

“You can’t walk all the way home. You’re being ridiculous.”

I don’t answer.

“You’re making a huge mistake. I told you, what you saw isn’t at all what it looks like. You won’t even let me explain myself.”

Crew keeps trying to get my attention. He keeps urging me to get back in the limo. But I keep my lips pressed shut and my gaze pointed down the long, straight road leading to Austin.

All the while, he doesn’t even get out of the car.

I hear the driver tell Crew inside the limo, “Listen, buddy, my shift’s over in half an hour. I can’t do this forever.”

Crew sighs, exasperated. “Seriously, Piper, you’re not getting in? You’re going to walk all the way home just because you’re freaking out and not letting me explain what happened? You’re acting hysterical.”

My eyes narrow at the word. I still have one good heel left, and Crew’s walking a fine line.

“Whatever’s going on is none of my business,” the driver says over the now rolled-down divider, “but I need to get home. You can either get out or stay in, but I’m driving into the city now.”

“Last chance, Piper.” Crew actually has the audacity to sound angry at me. “Get in right now, or we’re leaving.”

Bye, then.