RISKY PLAY (RED CARD #1) BY RACHEL VAN DYKEN Page 0,73

fell out of love with him—she cheated to make him as jealous as he was making her. And when he didn’t notice, she just kept doing it. It was a cry for help. And then it was too late and he just left her. He promised her forever, he gave her a ring. They both messed up, and the media made her the monster. That’s all I’m saying. He’s poison you don’t even know you’re drinking until you stop breathing. I wish I was wrong . . .”

“Why is this so personal?” I asked with a shaky voice.

“Fuck.” Jagger just shook his head. “Because I dated her first.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because,” Jagger said through clenched teeth, “before she ever knew Slade—she was with me. Five. Years. She was mine. Engaged. And he ruined her forever.”

“But—”

“Everything okay?” Slade walked up behind us and wrapped an arm around me.

“Yup!” I said way too fast while Jagger locked eyes with me one last time and then nodded his head at Slade and walked off.

I tried to stop the shaking.

The overanalyzing.

The stupid worries. Fears. The thoughts.

I didn’t talk the entire way to the restaurant.

And when we walked in.

I saw Slade in a different light.

Fame was easy for him.

People asked for autographs.

He gave them.

They wanted pictures?

He gave them.

They wanted to talk soccer?

He handed over his time.

Two hours later, we were finally ordering and he had to be back at the stadium in twenty minutes.

I didn’t realize it until I was back in my car, after a kiss goodbye.

His life was soccer. His life was full.

His life . . . didn’t allow room for two loves.

Because he didn’t let it.

Chapter Forty-Seven

SLADE

“Right there, Slade, yeah, just like that, and smile!” The photographer, who introduced himself as J, fired off a few more shots. The model next to me wore a bikini bottom and a men’s button-down shirt and was holding a motorcycle helmet. I was shirtless, in leather pants that were too tight, and I was sweating.

It wasn’t a good sweat.

More like a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here sweat.

Matt gave me a thumbs-up from behind the camera.

And Mack stood next to him, her expression indifferent.

She’d been acting oddly ever since talking to Jagger—and when I approached Jagger about it, the jackass actually looked guilty, like he’d said or done something.

But every time I thought about asking Mack, she’d snap out of it. And it’s not like our sex life slowed down.

If anything, it was crazier. I was hardly getting any sleep, and this morning I woke up with her mouth wrapped around me.

I told her it was one of the best mornings of my life.

And I meant it.

So why the face?

“Over here, Slade.” J snapped his fingers. “Alright, now lean down and kiss her neck.”

I hesitated.

Matt gave me a What the hell, just do it look.

And Mack looked down.

Fuck.

This was my job.

They were paying me to do this.

I started sweating even more, my legs dying a slow death in the leather pants and my dick reminding me that it needed blood flow or it was going to fall off in the next picture.

J sighed in irritation. “Slade, her neck, I need a slow kiss, then hesitate and look up.”

Screw it.

I kissed her neck and paused.

J snapped a few more photos and cursed. “You look bored. Can you at least pretend you find one of the world’s hottest supermodels attractive?”

Hell, I didn’t even know her name.

It wasn’t important.

She wasn’t Mack.

“That your girlfriend?” she asked, peering up at me under long lashes, with bright-blue eyes and lips that had to be cosmetically enlarged.

“Yes.” I offered a polite smile.

“So . . .” The model shrugged. “Pretend I’m her.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Slade! Are we talking or are we working?” J yelled, then turned to Matt and started firing off words that made Matt’s face turn red.

“Sorry!” I called. “I’ll do better, I’m just . . . hot.”

“Yeah, you are,” the model murmured.

My heart cracked a bit in my chest. That had to be the reason it hurt to breathe, the reason I felt like I wanted to cut and run and turn down a ten-million-dollar Gucci campaign.

“Hey, the sooner you do a few good shots, the sooner you can take your girl out for drinks, alright?” The model winked. “Showtime.”

She wrapped her legs around my waist and leaned back against the motorcycle.

“Yes!” J snapped more pictures and got closer. “Slade, I want you to straddle the motorcycle and then lean over her, take her bottom lip between your teeth and tug. Be sure to keep your chin