“We’re dealing with too many variables to be able to predict how this will play out. If we can at least get the broad strokes worked out for all the different what-ifs, it’ll make it easier to deal with them if they come to fruition,” Jordan explains to the room. The ease and confidence with which she speaks makes it clear to see why people seek her out for representation. Hell, Brantley would sell a kidney to have her represent me when I go pro.
“First things first”—Jordan swipes along the iPad’s screen and turns it to face Kay and me—“I’m sorry to say it, Kay, but I think your days of hiding have come to an end.”
On the screen is ESPN’s website, opened to an article titled: U of J’s Mason Nova scores more than touchdowns in last night’s win over Penn State.
Above the link for the article is a shot of me kissing Kay after the game. Seeing the picture in all it’s high-pixel glory fills me with an immense sense of satisfaction. In bold red lettering, my name and number are clearly visible stamped across Kay’s back for all the world to see. If that isn’t enough to show she is mine, the way the two of us are wrapped around each other does. My arm is curled around her underneath the white outline of the large #87, my helmet hanging just so, making it look like Kay’s delectable ass is sitting on it. The grip of my other hand on her thigh is all possession, the quality of the lens used to take the shot high enough to pick up the whitening of my knuckles.
Fuck I love this picture. There’s a reason I set it as the background on my phone.
My favorite part about it—and I mean my absolute favorite—is how equally clearly my girl is claiming me right back.
Her legs are wrapped around my hips, her feet hooked together at the ankles, keeping us locked together. Her arms mirror the hold around my neck, the black of her nail polish covering the smear of eye black on my cheek with her hand spread along the side of my face, the other cupping the back of my head with a proprietorial hold on my hair.
Hottest. Fucking. Thing. Ever.
I remember the sting of my scalp as she tugged on my hair with each squeeze of her legs, bobbing slightly on my body…the mingling of our breaths, the salty taste of my sweat, and the lingering sweetness from her coffee each time our tongues stroked each other.
This picture is a physical manifestation of the adrenaline from what happened both before the game and during and what we were feeling because of it. With one kiss, we each owned the other—wholly.
“Dayumn.” JT blows out a dramatic whistle, having stood to look at the screen over my shoulder. “That kiss is almost not suitable for public.” He waves a hand over the iPad. “I feel like there should be a black censor block on top of you two.”
“Shut up.” Pink stains Kay’s cheeks in an adorable blush, but JT only laughs. “Why is this even the article?”
“Because…” I pass the iPad back to Jordan when she gestures for it. “Stuff like this? It’s clickbait gold. Romantic pictures like this get picked up by the BuzzFeeds, Reddits, and Tumblrs of the world and pull in the non-sports-minded readership. I can almost guaran-damn-tee you this picture will be pinned and repinned on countless Pinterest boards. You two”—she circles her finger in front of Kay and me—“are what we in the biz”—the tilt of her lips only adds to the sarcasm in the coined phrase—“like to call media darlings.”
#Chapter11
Ugh. Media darlings. Awesome. Oh you heard that sarcasm, did you?
I don’t know what makes me want to groan more, those two words or the proud dimples peeking out from Mason’s cheeks.
“Is this where you tell me to steer into the skid and take a page out of your book?” I ask Jordan. As a sister to not one but two top players in the NHL and the wife to another, she has mastered the art of her own public profile. The follower count of her TheMrsDonovan Instagram account is close to those of the athletes she manages.
The beeps from the heart rate monitor pick up speed, and I glare at it for giving away the anxiety building inside me.
“That’s kind of an extreme flip from your stance now,” Jordan