Chapter 10
brANDON
The sound of my feet pounding the pavement at dawn is eerily quiet, even with my bodyguard a few steps behind.
There’s a dusting of snow on Chicago’s scenic lakefront path as it follows Lake Michigan.
Occasionally, I glance over to the giant chunks of ice covering the lake in a pattern similar to shattered glass.
In those first few months of being here, I related to the lake—cold, silent, and numb.
The lake soon became my solace. It was the loudest quiet while my heart smashed into smithereens.
Despite the fifteen-mile run warming my body, I can’t feel my lips.
Every other part of my body is covered, protecting me from the freezing conditions, even my eyes.
I have passed only a handful of people running and cycling around the lake.
It’s nothing like the summer months, the warmth and gentle breeze, and packs of joyful joggers even at five a.m.
Ewan slows his pace, his breath louder than mine.
He’s a Croatian body builder who doubles as my fitness coach and bodyguard when I run.
Ewan was the X factor when I first moved to Chicago.
His untraditional training methods lifted my fitness, and I got faster and stronger.
Most times, he told me to harden the fuck up, often cussing in Croatian.
Some words I have picked up on, but since I can’t speak the language, I go by his tone.
The wintery wind bites my cheeks as it whips off the water. I feel it in my bones, even through the fleecy material covering my body. It spurs me on, a need to warm my body, and I quicken the pace, leaving Ewan behind me.
“Moja gre?ka,” he groans out.
“What’s your fault?” I shout.
“You’re fit as fuck!”
I laugh. “Bez muke nema nauke.”
Ewan said it means no pain, no gain, so I use it against him.
In the distance, my car appears, a sleek shadow against the snow-covered street. A dark figure leans casually on the door—Chase, blowing warm air onto his hands before rubbing them together for warmth. He’s both my driver and my second guard, a constant presence.
Ewan and I slow our pace, our breath visible in the cold air.
My hands rest on my hips as I tip my head back, letting the delicate fluff of snowflakes kiss my face.
The icy sting sends a shiver through me, a contrast to the burn in my lungs.
Eyes squeezed shut, I focus inward, tuning in to the rhythm of my body.
For years, I’ve been numb. But in moments like this—during winter runs, when the cold bites and the world feels raw—I come alive again.
We stop near my BMW, and I finish a series of stretches before sliding into the back seat. Both men take the front seats.
“Home, Mr. Johns?”
“Yes, please, Chase. Since it’s a Sunday, would you both like to join me for breakfast at the restaurant?”
“No fried foods,” Ewan instructs.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I open my messages, anticipating the usual Sunday texts I receive from my parents.
Nothing.
It drives a knife farther into my chest. While I’m surrounded by staff and, at times, fans, in the last three years, I have never felt more alone.
My phone dings, and I smile.
Flint.
My smile fades.
What the hell does he want? My manager works for me, yet lately, he’s been screwing me around with more talks of trade and negotiations with other teams. It’s time I find someone new.
Can we meet for lunch?
No, not today.
I have appointments with my physiotherapist and a Pilates session.
It’s urgent.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say under my breath.
Where?
Call it intuition but I rely on it more as the years go on.
I have a bad feeling about this meeting with Flint.
Preferring to go alone, I send Ewan and Chase home. I walk out the foyer door to the porte-cochère and stop to speak to Bert.
“Good morning, Mr. Johns.” Bert tips his hat. “Your car will be here in a minute.”
“Thanks, Bert. How’s the family?”
“My wife is visiting our daughter in Michigan. She’s almost finished her freshman year.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.” It’s why the last three years have felt like ten to me.
The valet driver pulls up in my McLaren 750S, and the sight of it steals my breath for a moment.
Sleek, powerful, and gleaming under the lights, it’s impossible not to admire.
“I’ll see you later, Bert,” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat with a satisfied smirk.
Behind the wheel, I push my foot to the metal, the rumble stirring satisfaction as I drive away.
The drive doesn’t take long, and as I arrive at Flint’s office, I knock on the door.
The moment he pulls open the glass, it’s clear something is bothering him. “Take a seat.”
“I need to make it to my other appointments, so I hope this won’t take long.”
He gives me a single nod, adjusting his butt-ugly tie.
“Just get to it,” I snap.
“There’s a lot going on behind the scenes that I have not shared because I know your mindset is important.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s why I pay you well.
Besides, I told you I’m happy to finish the year, play out the rest of my contract, and then I am heading back home.
” I look across the table to a pile of magazines.
The top one catches my eye, and as I reach to grab it, my hand freezes mid-air.
“What the fuck is this?” I pick up the glossy cover and stare at the face that haunts me most nights—her blue eyes stare back and into my soul.
Her intense expression stops me cold, stealing the breath from my lungs as my eyes trace every detail.
Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, a stance that commands attention.
Long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, soft against the sharp lines of a pale pink suit tailored so perfectly it might have been made just for her.
The skirt reveals only her shapely legs, accentuated by high designer heels.
She’s a vision of power and poise, impossible to ignore.
Charlotte looks fucking hot despite the business look she has going on.
Her expression screams don’t-fuck-with-me.
Yet every locked-up emotion surfaces and smashes into me like a freight train.
“I have good news. She wants you back.”
“What?” I toss the magazine aside and push up from the table, slamming my hand on the wood finish of his desk. “Don’t fucking mess with me.”
“I have a contract for you to look over.”
I grit my teeth. “After they told me I’d never play for them again, Charlotte Hendricks said she wants me back?” I’m studying every inch of his reaction. If he is lying…
“W-well, not Ms. Hendricks h-herself,” he stutters. “The board. Her brothers have given their approval of the contract.”
“Her brothers?” I close my eyes and focus on breathing. “Then the answer is no.”
“Kid, I’m sorry. The Stingers have already agreed, as you don’t have a no-trade agreement in place. We have a few weeks to get this done and for the association to approve.”
“I don’t fucking approve,” I growl, pressing both hands to my forehead as the pressure builds. “I can’t go.”
The words taste bitter, sharp, like they’re cutting me on the way out.
Every second feels stolen, like I’ve been living on borrowed time, and now it’s running out.
My chest tightens as if the air has been sucked from the room.
A hole opens up beneath me, and I’m free-falling—spiraling, out of control, tumbling into an abyss I can’t escape.
“I need more time,” I whisper, the desperation clawing at my throat. My gaze snaps up. “You have to put a stop to it.”
There was a time when I wanted this, but now, I’m so fucking scared. It’s not about the game anymore. We need to start slow and make our way back to being friends, having coffee, chatting…
“I won’t get on the court.”
“They are paying you well. Why does it matter?”
“It matters because it’s been my entire life,” I snap, the words sharp enough to cut.
I stride toward the door, my steps heavy with anger. At the threshold, I pause, gripping the doorframe as if it’s the only thing holding me steady. My chest tightens, and I turn back to Flint, locking eyes with him, my voice low but firm.
“If you don’t put a stop to this, then you and I are done.” The finality in my tone hangs in the air like a challenge, daring him to respond.