Page 45 of Playing Her Game

“Damn right I am. You’ve been telling everyone you don’t have time for a relationship, and now you’re buying groceries for a woman who’s probably gonna be cooking dinner for you in your jersey tonight.”

“It’s dinner, Gabe. Not a marriage proposal.”

He laughs. “Oh, you’re fucked.”

“Goodbye, Gabe.” I end the call before he can say anything else.

The lake house is still thirty minutes out. Snow falls heavier now, the road a narrow path between white banks. I keep my speed steady, my hands loose on the wheel.

Gabe’s an asshole, but he’s not wrong.

CHAPTER 9

AIRBN… BULLSHIT

Anna

It takes me most of the morning to talk myself into accepting the invitation to stay at this secluded, stunning lake house. Instead of spending hours scrolling aimlessly on my phone, I listen to an audiobook. Romance, of course, which gives me the idea to live in this moment for a little while and enjoy the hell out of it.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't torn between staying and calling a cab, or a snowplow, to take me to a hotel. I'm sure I could get rid of bedbugs long before I could get rid of last night’s memory. However, after a couple of very descriptive sex scenes between the hero and heroine, I've decided I'd like a few more rounds with the hot-as-hell bad boy on ice before returning to Germany single and throwing up walls every time someone looks at me with interest.

I'm self-aware enough to know I don't have a winning personality. I've never been good at playing the damsel in distress because, until the other day, I've never been that girl. I value what is real and raw. Someone who's interested in me and makes me feel like a sexual being from time to time, without the pomp and circumstance. Daniil Reznik delivered all that and more. He may not have said much, but I know he wants me in his bed as much as I want to be there, and not just for one night.

Now I lose myself in an endless cycle of ESPN replays. They're less erotic than my audiobook, but only slightly. If I concentrate on the commentators bickering over stats and strategies instead of the players, their voices provide a steady rhythm that keeps my mind from spiraling.

The garage door opens, followed by the crunch of tires on snow, cutting through the muffled world of sports debate.

Moments later, Daniil steps inside. The heat in his eyes and the confidence in his movements are only slightly diminished by the gust of icy air that follows him. He toes off his boots as I approach to take one of the grocery bags.

“I've got them,” he says, his gaze settling on me.

“You're early.”

“The storm isn't letting up, so Coach called practice early.” He sets the bags on the kitchen island. “Picked up the things you asked for and a few other essentials. Thought you might like some options besides protein shakes and oatmeal.”

I snort softly. “I do appreciate a good breakfast spread.”

Before we can say anything else, my phone vibrates across the coffee table. Hildy's name flashes on the screen, her video call request insistently lighting it up.

My stomach clenches. Panic catches me so abruptly that I have to remind myself to breathe before I press answer.

“Anna!” Hildy's voice fills the room. “How are you? Did you make it back?”

“Hey. Hi. How's the weather there?” I fumble for casualness, angling the phone so the camera captures as little of my surroundings as possible.

“Where are you?” Hildy cuts straight to the point. Her tone is light, but I can hear the concern beneath it.

“As you know, I was headed for Munich.” I keep my voice measured, relying on logic to make the situation sound less chaotic than it feels.

“But?”

“The snowstorm.” I gesture vaguely around me, as if she could somehow see the weather through the screen. “I needed to get to a direct flight, and Chicago was the only option. Now flights are grounded. All of them, as far as I can tell.”

“And now?” Her eyebrows rise.

Rez, still silent, catches my eye. He raises a pad of paper with four bold words scrawled across it.

TELL HER THE TRUTH.