Book 2 in the Missing Ivy Series
Seattle sidewalks always smell like rain, even when it hasn’t.
I’m walking fast, earbuds in, hood up, steam rising off a street grate in the distance. I pull my phone out and text Ashton.
And the stupid part? I really like her. Enough that I’ve cut off every casual thing in my orbit, muted the DMs, told the after-game regulars goodnight for good.
I haven’t even taken her on a real date, and I’m already playing like there’s something to protect.
She keeps me honest just by standing there with those law-school eyes and that don’t-BS-me voice.
We’re not anything, and I’m choosing quiet over easy because of her. That’s either growth or a concussion.
Finally, I type one more thing, something stupid and maybe slightly cocky, but just before I hit send, my phone rings.
Nathan.
I swipe to answer. “Yo.”
“Where the hell are you?” His voice is clipped, like he’s walking and talking and pissed off all at once.
“Uh… heading to see Ashton? Why?”
“You’re fifteen minutes late.”
“For what?”
“The Jade Sinclair interview.”
I stop walking. “The what now?”
He exhales like I’ve just told him I forgot pants. “It’s been booked for weeks. Downtown. Hotel suite. PR confirmed. You confirmed. You were supposed to be there at two sharp.”
My stomach turns, the way it does when you try to remember if you left the stove on at home…only worse.
“Shit… I forgot,” I admit, rubbing my temple. “I said yes before I ended things with her. I didn’t think she’d still want to do the interview. Things got… weird.”
Nathan’s quiet for a second. “You ghosted her, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t ghost her. I… lightly faded away.”
“Bishop.”
“What? It wasn’t working.”
“You’re a man of your word. If you said you’d show, you show. Go in, get it done, keep it professional, and get the hell out. You’ll never have to talk to her again.”
I groan. “Fine.”
“That’s why you love me,” he mutters, hanging up.
I stare at the phone for a beat, then sigh and type out a quick text to Ashton.
Bishop: Sorry.
Bishop: Something came up. I’ll be a little late. I’ll explain after.
I pocket the phone and double back toward downtown.
It’s just an interview. What could possibly go wrong?
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing inside the hotel, fixing the collar of my jacket like that’s going to change how weird this already feels. The elevator doors are just starting to close when a hand slips in—a man’s hand, strong, tanned, wearing a watch that costs more than my first apartment.
He steps inside without a word.
He’s Italian-looking. Dark hair slicked back, tailored charcoal suit, shoes silent on the floor. He stands on the opposite side of the elevator, hands in his pockets, posture far too relaxed.
Something about him feels… deliberate.
He doesn’t look at me, but he clocks me. The air shifts—subtle tension, the kind that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
We ride in silence.
When the doors open on the fifteenth floor, we both step out.
He turns right. I turn left.
But the second I walk away, something crawls up my spine—being watched. Followed. Or studied.
I look back once.
The man unlocks a room with a keycard, glances briefly down the hall in my direction, then disappears inside. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
I shake it off, move toward Jade’s room, and raise my hand to knock—but the unease lingers, churning low in my stomach.
I knock once.
Jade opens the door like she was standing right behind it. Her smile is all gloss and game.
“Bishop Towns,” she says. “Nice of you to show.”
“Traffic,” I lie, stepping inside.
The suite’s staged like every other media space I’ve been in: a camera on a tripod, a low-slung couch, a table with bottled water. But something’s off.
No crew, lights or sound guy.
Just her.
She closes the door behind me, slow and soft.
“You look good,” she says, eyes lingering. “Tired. But good.”
I don’t answer. I sit on the couch, keeping distance.
She stays standing.
“Ready to roll?” I ask, nodding at the camera.
“Oh, I’ve been ready,” she says, walking over and clicking the red light on. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yeah. Let’s keep it about football, though.”
She smiles but doesn’t respond. She hands me a glass of water. Already poured. I eye it but take a sip anyway.
And then we start.
Jade leans back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, voice syrup-sweet.
“So… let’s talk about your comeback season.”
I nod, keeping my posture relaxed. “Happy to.”
“You’ve had a solid year so far. Touchdowns are up, injuries down. Seems like you’re finally finding your rhythm again.”
I nod once. “It’s been a grind. Worth it, though.”
“And the fans…God, the fans love you. There are entire Twitter accounts just for your arms. It’s insane.”
I let out a polite laugh. “Not sure what to say to that.”
She chuckles. “Don’t be modest.”
She taps her pen against the notebook on her lap, then casually flips to a new page. Her tone changes… just a shade… but it’s there.
“Off the field,” she says lightly, “have you heard anything about the rumors circling the league lately?”
I tilt my head. “What kind of rumors?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You know. That gambling ring drama. Players allegedly leaking info. Dropping passes on purpose. It’s wild.”
My eyes narrow slightly. “I’ve heard the rumors, sure. But I stay in my lane.”
“You ever been approached?”
“No.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you’ve never even known anyone involved in something like that?”
“I’m saying I don’t deal in speculation.”
I keep my voice cool, professional, not sure where she’s headed with all this. My foot bounces once, twice under the table.
Jade tilts her head. “Interesting. Because some say the people involved are… higher profile than anyone wants to admit.”
I exhale slowly. “I’m not here to talk about gossip.”
She leans forward. “Well, what about your own record then?”
My shoulders stiffen. “What about it?”
She taps her pen again. “Theft, wasn’t it?”
My pulse spikes.
My mind instantly flashes to my mom in a hospital bed, fever climbing, no insurance, a desperate 16-year-old me, stealing antibiotics we couldn’t afford.
I haven’t thought about that night in years.
“How does she know that?” I ask myself quietly.
Did I tell her? One of the nights I stayed over? One of the nights I was drinking?
Or is she bluffing?
She smiles like she sees the panic behind my eyes.
I stand, slow and controlled. “This is done.”
She stands too fast. “Why? Because I hit a nerve?”
“You ambushed me,” I say. “This isn’t an interview…it’s a setup.”
Her voice sharpens. “You can’t just ghost people, Bishop.”
“That’s enough,” I growl.
The edges of my vision blur. My patience shatters. I reach up and yank off the mic.
“We’re done here.”
Her smile drops.
I stand and turn toward the door. “This was a mistake…all of this.” I gesture vaguely in her direction.
“Wait.” She rises from her chair and steps in front of me, reaching for my arm. “Don’t go.”
She grabs my sleeve. “Please. I didn’t mean to come on so strong.”
I ignore her and reach for the handle.
“Just wait a second, okay?” she says, her voice softening, lips parted.
And then…out of nowhere…she leans in and tries to kiss me.
The move is so sudden, so off, it doesn’t even register until her face is inches from mine. I recoil, instinct taking over, and push her back…not hard, just enough to create space between us.
She stumbles slightly, and a sharp sound slips from her lips.
“Ouch.” She reaches for her head.
A long, pale strand of her hair dangles from my wristwatch.
I pluck it free and stare at it, disgust curling in my chest.
“I told you we are over,” I snap. I go to leave, hand gripping the door handle. But it doesn’t budge.
The deadbolt’s engaged.
My fingers fumble at the latch, but something’s off. My balance tilts slightly.
I blink. The room sways.
My throat is dry. My chest tightens.
I slam my fist against the wood.
Once.
Twice.
Harder.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
Everything fades to black then…
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
Same sound.
My room.
My house.
My eyes fly open.
I’m face-down in my own bed.
Clothes still on. Wristwatch crooked. Mouth dry. Brain full of static.
Then another BANG. BANG.
“Bishop!”
I stumble out of bed to the door, unlock it, and Nathan’s standing there, fuming.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning.”
I squint at him, confused. “What? What time is it?”
“Eleven. You haven’t seen the news?”
“No…”
He pushes past me, grabs the remote, and turns on the TV.
A news anchor fills the screen.
“Breaking News this morning: Sports journalist Jade Sinclair has been found dead in a downtown Seattle hotel. Authorities are investigating the cause of death. The last person seen with her was none other than star wide receiver Bishop Towns, caught on surveillance exiting the Hotel just hours before her body was discovered.”
I go cold.
Nathan turns to me, expression stunned. “Bishop… what happened last night?”
I stare at the screen as I lick my parched lips. “I don’t know. I showed up, she asked me some messed-up questions about gambling, and then about when I stole antibiotics for my mom back in the day…”
Nathan stares. “How the hell did she know that?”
“I don’t know… I must’ve told her one of the nights we were together. I honestly don’t remember.”
Nathan studies me. “And you don’t remember leaving?”
I shake my head slowly, trying to recall anything. But there’s just a blank space where memories should be. “No. I don’t remember how I got home. I don’t remember anything after that interview.”
And then we’re just standing there.
One of us accused of murder.
The other wondering how fast everything can fall apart.
Coming Soon…