I stare at the screen, waiting for a reply, which never comes. Shit, she really is not making this easy on me, eh?
Me: Also those women you saw photos of me with when I was on tour. I never fucked any of them. They were photo-ops. That’s all. I never stopped thinking about you Abby. Not for a minute.
The seconds stretch. There’s no response from her. I glare at the screen until black spots crowd my vision. Only then, do I lower the phone to my side. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That last message? That was me trying to get some kind of response from her. I hoped if I put her mind at ease about the women I was seen with, she’d definitely respond... And say what? Thank you?
I should have come clean about this to her a long time ago. As usual, I hadn’t managed to pull my head out of my arse in time. Anything else I tell her is only going to make things worse. Maybe, I shouldn’t have messaged her. Maybe, I’ve already made things worse.
I begin to pace, then pause and stare at the screen again.
At least, she did text me, even if it was to tell me to stop sending her flowers. That’s a positive, right? My fingers tingle. I hold them poised over the screen, wanting to message her again, then stop.
This entire groveling thing is definitely a learned art. Not sure if I’m ever going to get used to it. The flowers were a start, but clearly, not enough if, at the end of a month, all I’ve gotten is one measly text message from her.
I need to up my game, but how? Should I talk to the guys for help? Fuck, that’ll only make the three of them tell me, ‘I told you so.’ Would that be so bad, if it helps me convey to her just how sorry I am? And I am. I’ll never forgive myself for how shitty I was to her. If I could go back and start all over again, I would. But I can’t. So, I’ll play the cards I was dealt. The cards I dealt myself. Which means, figuring out how to get through to her in a way that ensures she realizes I truly mean it.
Unable to work out, I walk up to my bedroom, and have a shower. As I dry myself, I touch the puckered skin on the left side of my chest. The scar’s fading, but the line across my ribcage is still an angry red. I touch it and wince. It was worth every single pain-filled moment if it saved her life. If only I could get her to give me a chance to apologize in person.
I dress, then head out to the 7A Club. I reach the lounge and order myself a club soda. I’ve just taken my seat when my phone buzzes. I answer the FaceTime call.
"King, my man." My agent’s grinning voice fills the screen.
"Sup!" I jerk my chin in his direction.
"Good news. The liquor company wants to renew the sponsorship deal and—"
"I’m not doing it."
There’s silence, then he laughs. "I don’t think I heard that clearly, you—"
"I’m. Not. Doing. It."
"Now let’s not be too hasty." He laughs. "If it’s about the money..."
"The non-profit you mentioned a while ago, are they still interested?"
"Of course, they are, but—"
"Let them know I’m happy to endorse them."
"B-but…they can’t pay you."
"You questioning me, Mullet?"
He blinks rapidly. "It’s a billion dollars. The liquor company was ready to pay you a billion and—"
"I’m not interested."
"You don’t need the positive spin the non-profit will provide for you. Your little engagement stunt did that well enough."
A slow curl of anger creeps up my chest. "That wasn’t a stunt."
"Of course, not. It was an opportunity you took to change the narrative about your public image. And it worked. It was a brilliant plan. Only, the thing with Abby is—"
"Don’t fucking talk about her," I snap.
He laughs. "You don’t have to act the jealous paramour with me. I’m sure you’ll agree that you could have done better with who you chose as your fiancée. Someone more striking, someone more glamorous, not to mention slimmer, someone—"
"You’re fired."
"What?" He gapes, then chuckles. "Good one, King. I mean, I know how much you like variety, although, of course, you’ll need to curtail your indiscretions for a while longer, until—"
"Get out of my face, you motherfucker."
His face reddens. "Now, you listen, you—"
"No, you listen. Our deal is over. Kaput. You’re no longer my agent."
"You’re serious?" He gasps.
"Abso-fucking-lutely."
His gaze narrows and a cunning look comes into his eyes. "You realize you won’t get far without me? Who do you think owns your relationships with the sponsors? You drop me, and I’ll get them to drop you. And I’ll spread the word that your engagement was nothing but a farce. By the time I’m done with you—"
"No, you listen, you wanktrap—don’t fucking speak about her, you feel me? If I catch you spreading rumors about her or doing anything to cause her grief, I’ll personally come over and pull your tongue from your mouth and stuff it up your arsehole."
His features grow purple, and his eyes bulge. "Y-you…you."
"You feel me, you piece of shit?"
He nods slowly. "I’m going to get back at you for this. I’m not going to stop until you’re ruined, you—"
I cut the call and drop the phone on the table.
Slow clapping greets me. "Living dangerously, King?" JJ slides into the chair opposite me.
"He had it coming."
"No doubt, but he’s not going to take the insult lying down," JJ warns.
"He can’t hurt me."
"He can make sure your sponsorships dry up."
"I have enough money. Besides,"—I sip from my club soda—"the sponsors who are loyal will continue to work with me. He was only the go-between. I’m the talent who’s the face of their product."
"He’s also going to weaken your position with the cricket team."
I frown. "I’m still a damn good player; they need me."
He searches my features, then nods. "I see your priorities have changed?"
"For the better."
"And how’s the groveling going?"
I blow out a breath.
"That bad?"
I look away, then back at him. "It’s not going great, I admit."
"What have you done so far?"
"I sent her flowers."
He blinks slowly. "Flowers? You sent her flowers?"
"Roses, her favorite, and every day for the last thirty days."
"That all you could think of?"
My neck heats. "The fuck do you mean?"
"You’re the most sought-after athlete in the world… You’re a world class player on the field… You’ve made billions so far from your talent… Clearly, you’re creative and intelligent and more than strategic when it comes to winning matches, and all you could come up with was roses?"
"That was phase one of my plan."
He leans forward in his seat. "What’s next?"