Page 148 of Bone Deep
“They’ve agreed to pay out your guarantees, no question. However, if you come out of retirement, they want first right of refusal. If you go to another team, they will claw back your guarantee. Are you good with that?”
“Wait, are you saying that I’m free?” I ask, excitedly.
“If you want to be.”
I nod. “Yep. I’m never playing professionally again, Anthony. Let’s just wrap it up.”
“Consider it handled,” Anthony says and grips the back of my neck. “Let’s go help these guys get setup.”
Forty-Three
Iris
Spencer
It's been almost two months since I've had my condo to myself. Two months.
Ryan is doing some kind of project with Anthony tonight. When I tried asking what exactly they were doing, he got all squirrely about it, which would've been more convincing if Ryan possessed even a single deceptive bone in that absurdly beautiful body of his. He's the worst liar ever. Not necessarily a bad thing.
Then I texted Tyler.
Me:Want to grab dinner?
Tyler:Can't. Busy.
Me:Doing what?
Tyler:Stuff.
Me:What kind of stuff?
Tyler:The busy kind.
Crystal fucking clear. Those two are up to something.
It doesn't feel like anything bad, necessarily. More like they're planning something. Or hiding something. Whatever it is, I'm not invited, which leaves me home alone. And I don't know what the fuck to do with myself.
Ryan broke my regularly scheduled programming. Normally, I'd be sitting at the island eating takeout while reviewing contracts. Then I'd migrate to my office and continue working until it was time for bed. Productive. Efficient. Predictable.
Instead, I find myself wandering around my condo like a ghost. I don't want to work. That's the problem. Somewherealong the way, I got used to my evenings being filled with conversation and laughter and Ryan singing badly in my kitchen while he cooked something ridiculous. I even got into a couple streaming series. The man is a terrible influence.
I could turn one on now. But I don't want to watch it without him. The realization makes me grimace into my wine. Pathetic. I sit on the couch with a glass of 2009 Bordeaux. An epic vintage. And I'm staring at a wall. Literally staring at a wall.
Get it together, Stark.
One night. He's preoccupied for one night and you're what? Completely incapable of entertaining yourself?
Apparently.
Fucker is curled up beside me on the couch, equally useless. I glance at him. He blinks slowly.
“Your father's absence has affected you too, huh?”
He yawns. Turncoat.
I could read Ryan’s post for the hundredth time. I swear, my sense of pride gets more pronounced with every read. The way he told the world who he is—and to basically ‘deal with it’, was inspiring. I wish it would have happened for him without the unfortunate live outing, but he’s handled it with strength, humility, and grace. I hope people can look past the incident and see him for the role model he is.
With a sigh, I grab my phone to play some solitaire. Fitting. I open the app, but don't even get a game started before there's a knock at the door. My brows pull together. I look over at Fucker. He lifts his head. We stare at each other.
