Now Or Never by Stella Rhys
HOTHEAD
He's the hottest player in Major League Baseball, the most notorious playboy in all of Manhattan...
And my fake fiancé for the next three months.
I was drunk-dialing my ex the night I met him.
Six-three, sexy as sin and so incredibly rude I could smack the asshole smirk right off his face. Long story short, we got off to a bad start. But when the tabloids interpret our sparring as Drew Maddox "groveling" with a "mystery brunette," his agent presents us both a proposal:
Shacking up as a couple this summer.
It's an alleged "win-win." I need to prove to my ex that I'm fine. Drew needs to prove to his team that he's stable. Thanks to his on-field brawling and never-ending lady drama, Drew Maddox has suddenly found himself on the trade block - which means he needs a fast, easy way to show the team that he's settled down.
Hence this fiance thing.
Our fights are real, our kisses are fake, and thanks to the nonstop heat between us, I'm starting to mix up all my signs. But whether it's real or fake, there's one thing I do know:
I'm already addicted.
CHAPTER ONE
EVIE
Tequilaor my phone – it was either one or the other, but I couldn’t have both.
I wanted to, obviously, but there were too many risk factors involved tonight, starting with the fact that I was still a walking train wreck of a human being. I hadn’t actually shed any tears today, but my eyes were still puffy and red from several weeks’ worth of ugly crying at home, and I was still all weepy and heartbroken and steeped deep in this post-breakup fog where all I wanted was to just talk to him.
Five weeks.
It had only been five weeks since I’d gone from happy and engaged and all packed to move to the city with my fiancé, to single and bawling in a Starbucks while searching Craigslist for rentals I could afford alone.
The good news was that I’d found a cheap studio on Long Island.
The bad news was that until tonight, I hadn’t left the place in about two weeks.
And while I was out for the first time in ages, I was pretty much at the bare minimum of presentable. For starters, the dress code tonight had called for cocktail attire and I’d trudged in wearing leggings and the grey raglan I’d gone to bed in. I did put on a bra, and I did bring makeup and a change of clothes in my purse, but I also got points knocked off for the fact that my purse was a reusable grocery bag from Trader Joe’s.
I know.
My being-out-in-public skills had dulled significantly after spending thirteen days inside. Post-breakup, my existence had basically been a pants-less, bleary-eyed purgatory that involved me doing nothing but sitting on the couch, staring at the TV and trying to figure out just how broken up Mike and I were.
It wasn’t the easiest task considering what he had said to me right before he left.
“We could get back together, Evie. I mean that’s the plan. We’re soul mates. But I need some time apart first.”
Right. So…
Were we over? Were we not? Would we get back together in a month or a year? Or was that line just a fancy way of saying, “You’re my safety in case I don’t end up finding someone better?”
That was definitely the question of the day basically every day since the one he left, and it didn’t help that last week, we spoke on the phone for over three hours. We’d poured out our feelings and even shared a few tearful laughs before the call ended with him saying, “God, I miss you so fucking much… but please don’t call me again. I’ll call once I’ve had enough time.”
Fucking time.
It was the meanest word in the dictionary, as far as I was concerned, because it had me effectively trapped in a mental limbo – in this weird personal hell where I constantly jumped from depressed to confused to, most dangerous of all, hopeful.
Which was stupid.
I knew that.
But I just couldn’t help myself. I’d known and loved Mike Stuart for most of my life. He was as much a part of me as any one of the limbs on my body. I mean we were Mike and Evie. Evie and Mike. For the past seventeen years, our names had rolled off everyone’s tongues like one word, because we were a given. A team. Two best friends and lovebirds joined right at the hip.
At least we were.
Until now.
“You sure you won’t change your mind about this, right?” the bartender asked, letting me slap my phone into his palm as he slid my second Paloma across the bar.
“I won’t. Promise,” I answered with as much confidence as I could muster. “Once the birthday girl arrives, she’ll take my phone from you,” I said, hoisting my ugly tote back onto my shoulder. “But till then, please keep it far away from me and give me zero access – no matter how hard I beg.”
“No matter how hard you beg. Roger that,” the bartender grinned at me. “And which one is the birthday girl?”
“You’ll know. She’s the adorable blonde who everyone’s gonna yell ‘surprise’ at – if and when she decides to arrive,” I grumbled, before sucking down a third of my drink in one sip.
That was the second reason I had to forfeit my phone.
It was Aly’s big surprise party tonight. Her boyfriend Emmett had been planning it for ages, so I couldn’t risk drunk texting her to have her convince me not to drunk dial Mike. She would undoubtedly ask me where and why I got so drunk, at which point I’d probably spill the beans about how I’d actually dragged my ass out of the house to be at her birthday. She was, after all, my best friend and the only person in the world whom I’d break my no-going-out streak for – especially when it required stepping foot in a place like this.
We were at Boulevardier on Ninth Avenue. It was one of those super trendy hot spots where even the staff was drop dead gorgeous, and aside from the fact that I was dressed for the gym and hadn’t washed my hair in three days, I’d apparently also forgotten how to just exist in a crowded room. I’d been holed up in my apartment for so long that it felt as if I had no capacity to handle noise beyond the sound of The Office playing softly in the background of my day-to-day life.
So my solution was drinking.
Boozing, really. I was on pace to finishing my second cocktail in about thirty minutes, which was the opposite of pacing myself, but I reasoned that any tipsy mistakes I’d normally make had been taken off the table. For example: No phone? No drunk dialing. No heels? No falling. No Mike?
No desire to so much as look at another man, apparently.
It was nuts. The room was crawling with objectively handsome, well-groomed men wrapped in expensive custom suits. They were all friends of Emmett and they were all tall, built and beautiful – basically everything I’d fantasized about since the day I hit puberty. But they did absolutely nothing for me tonight because all I wanted was Mike, and after another hour passed without Aly’s arrival, I found myself getting dangerously antsy.
Crap.
The tequila was feeding my restlessness, and my restlessness was feeding my brain. Suddenly, I had a million questions I was convinced I needed to ask Mike now, for example, what was to become of our joint bank account? There was no money in it, but still. Also, we agreed to cat sit for Hillary in August. Which one of us was going to do it? Also, which of our friends already knew about the breakup and which didn’t, and should we hold off on telling the rest in case we got back together?
“Oh God, stop. Stop it now,” I hissed to myself, recognizing well that I was spiraling fast into Crazy Town – population one drunk chick who was now staring thirstily at the bar, and not because she wanted a cocktail.
Ah-ah. You gave them your phone for a reason, so don’t, I scolded myself. Also, you are currently three tequilas deep, so anything you think you need to say tonight can actually wait till tomorrow when you’re just a mess, and not a drunk, particularly emotional mess.
Okay?
I knew my reasoning was sound but still, I could already feel myself breaking. I had so many questions, so little closure and such a desperate need to call Mike that I actually squished my body into a corner in hopes of keeping myself from heading for the bar.
Dear God, please, I groaned inwardly as I stared out the window overlooking Ninth Avenue.
Please, oh please. Either send me Aly or send me the world’s biggest distraction.
CHAPTER TWO
DREW
“Hold up. You’re not serious… are you?”
I squinted at Iain as we sat in the back of the SUV. He was holding out a pink leather pouch that belonged to his girlfriend, and I was waiting for him to tell me that he was kidding about wanting me to put on her makeup tonight. I hoped to God he was, but there was no telling for sure. From nine to six, Iain Thorn was strictly business, but six to nine were the grey hours when he slowly transitioned from being my no-nonsense agent to my some-nonsense friend.
And right now we were at 8:45, so I really wasn’t sure if he was shitting me or not.
“It’s just for your hand, asshole.” Iain flicked his stare from the screen of his phone to my undeniably fucked-up knuckles. “And I’m not asking you to wear glitter. All I want is for you to cover up the bruising. Your bosses are going to be at this party tonight, and no one needs to be reminded of the fact that you decided to break your pitching hand on Cody Bryce’s face last week.”
My jaw clenched at the mention of Tuesday’s game against L.A.
“One, I think the world would agree that he deserved it for bringing up Pattie, and two, I didn’t actually break anything. Won’t even miss a start.”
“It doesn’t matter. The team thought you injured yourself, and the false alarm was enough to revive the topic of what a high-risk investment you are. And since you don’t want to exacerbate those concerns, you’re going to unzip that bag and give your pitching hand the Sephora treatment tonight.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. Unless Sephora’s a hot chick who wants to suck on my fingers, I’m gonna have to go ahead and pass.”
“Funny,” Iain remarked, looking somehow more annoyed with me than usual. “In that case, you can also go ahead and start house-hunting in Cleveland or Atlanta, because the Empires have been taking calls from other teams about you.”
My eyes shot up at him.
“What?” I had to pause for a second, my pulse having jumped so suddenly that I needed time to recover. “Are you fucking with me right now or…” I trailed off. “Iain. What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded, frowning deeply as I studied his blank expression. Fuck me, I knew this look. It was very much a business hours look, and it meant that he wasn’t joking about shit.
Adjusting the knot of his tie, Iain drew in a deep breath.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you this, but from what I understand, the altercation on Tuesday also revived the topic of trading you.”
My heart slammed in my chest as I stared.
“I know I didn’t finish college, but I’m pretty sure the word revive implies that they’ve had this conversation before,” I said tightly. “And that’s not possible considering you would have told me about it if you knew as far back as last year. Am I not right?”
I reevaluated my entire relationship with Iain as I waited for him to answer.
“Last season.” He looked at me and gave another sigh. “They were thinking about trading you to Cleveland for Bautista, Gordon and Fields. The talks fell through because Cleveland took Bautista off the table.”
My pulse jumped into my throat.
Jesus Christ. Apparently, the only reason I didn’t wind up playing for Cleveland last year was because they wanted their rookie more than they wanted me. And I was grateful for that, obviously, but still. What a fucking blow to the nuts.
“So this has been an ongoing discussion for over a year,” I muttered, keeping an even face despite feeling like my world had just flipped on its head.
Ten years in the league and I’d never heard the trade word once. Never worried about any team so much as thinking it. It didn’t make sense in the same sentence as my name because I had been the country’s most coveted prospect since I was thirteen, and I’d dominated the league from the day I came in. Rookie of the Year. Cy Young Award winner. Two-time ALCS MVP and ERA leader for the past five seasons running. I was the best pitcher in baseball. Ego aside, I had actual stats to back me up on that, so it didn’t make sense that anyone would want to trade me.
Especially not the Empires.
“They signed me to the biggest contract in the history of their franchise,” I argued, adding a bitter laugh since the car just so happened to be whipping past my Nike billboard on 34th Street. It had been there for so long that I’d driven by probably a thousand times without looking up. But tonight, I gave myself a glance.
It was a black and white billboard. I was wearing my Empires uniform and emblazoned across the huge thing were three bold words:
Earned.
Not Given.
They were the words that had followed me since I’d signed in New York three years ago, because good as I was, at least half the world doubted I was worth seven years at two hundred twenty-six million dollars.
“Also known as the biggest pitcher contract in the history of baseball. You’re welcome for that seamless negotiation,” Iain said with almost a smirk on his face. I blinked at him.
“Are you really laughing right now when I’m about to have a fucking heart attack?” I asked, annoyed that for once, our roles had reversed. Suddenly, Iain was the one at ease while I was so deathly serious that I was actually ready to skip Emmett’s party and turn the car around so we could talk this out at the office.
“I’m not laughing,” Iain clarified, which to be fair, was true. He smiled plenty but he never really laughed. “That said, if I were, it would be because for the first time in the ten years I’ve known you, I have your undivided attention – and presumably, your willingness to take my advice for once, instead of constantly needing to prove that only you can be right,” he muttered, unzipping the makeup bag and tossing me a black tube that I thought was lipstick till I uncapped it and saw it was green.
“What the hell is this?”
“Color corrector. Keira says to neutralize the redness with it. ‘Blend the NARS concealer on top if necessary,’” he finished by reading from his texts.
“Blend the NARS. Of course,” I muttered, my sleeves hugging my biceps as I leaned onto my knees to study the weird lipstick thing. I stared at it for what felt like a full minute before breaking the silence. “And why the hell is it that the team wants to trade me?” I asked.
“Take a guess,” Iain said dryly.
“I’m applying weird green shit to my knuckles for you. Just answer the question.”
“Fair enough. They signed you hoping that your tendency toward trouble would cool over the years. I think we can both agree that it’s only gotten worse.”
“Yeah? S.I begs to differ.”
The New Drew Maddox. That was the name of the article Sports Illustrated released for my cover issue last year. A “reformed man” was what they called me. I didn’t buy it, obviously. I knew the truth. But at least it meant that I was faking my good behavior well enough for the world to believe.
Iain snorted.
“Yeah, the idea that you went from bad boy rebel to devout team captain is just a feel-good narrative that fans like to follow. It’s also easy for them to believe because they and the rest of the league have had the luxury of witnessing your antics from afar. The Empires, however, have been dealing with your bullshit up close for awhile,” he said as I dragged my palm across my jaw till I could tug on my lip – basically my go-to move to physically shut myself up.
Because there was nothing I could say to defend myself over this particular point.
That much I knew.
“This team has watched you tear apart the clubhouse after being tossed from a game. They were there both times that your wannabe girlfriend stormed the field during batting practice and harassed your teammates for your number. They’re also well versed on the fact that these guys have been stalked to the doors of their hotel rooms by women who want to know where you are, and no, I’m not saying you’re entirely to blame for these people’s behavior. But your indulgent decision-making is generally what leads to these situations, and these situations – these ‘persistent distractions’ – are exactly what the Empires are thinking about when they entertain the idea of trading you.”
My stomach lurched at the T word again.
“And here I thought I had something special with this team,” I said wryly.
“If you think the Empires covered up your tracks all these years to give you a break from the media, let me give you a reality check. All that good PR they showered on you was solely to cover their own asses – so that if it came down to it, they could still trade you without other teams being too worried about that ‘hothead reputation.’”
Well, damn. I managed to raise my eyebrows despite feeling halfway dead inside.
“That… definitely makes sense,” I mumbled while rubbing both hands up and down my face. Everyone in the world is out to protect themselves, and themselves only. Stop forgetting that, I told myself while sucking in a deep breath. “Alright.” I regrouped. I definitely hadn’t expected this bombshell tonight, but I also wasn’t the type to roll over and let it defeat me. “So, what now? How serious are they about trading me and what can I do to change their minds? Because this is my team. I’m not playing anywhere else.”
“And why is that?” Iain asked.
“You know why.”
It was because I’d sacrificed my life and everyone in it to baseball. It was the last thing I cared about in this world, and within the sport, the Empires were the only team that I wanted to play for. I’d been with some shitty organizations in the past and I knew that I had a good thing going on here. Aside from the fact that I actually respected management and ownership and got along with my teammates, I had the best chance of winning it all here. We’d lost the last two World Series to Chicago and St. Louis, which was fucking infuriating, but since acquiring some stellar relief pitching in December, we were favorites to win it all this year.
And considering that championship was the one thing I lived for, there was no way in hell I was going to miss out.
“I’d say your chances of being traded is at about fifty percent right now,” Iain finally said, prompting me to let go of a long, whooshing breath. “But I don’t think it’s impossible for you to flip their decision. You just need to show them some drastic changes as soon as possible. Aside from keeping the temper in check, my suggestion would be to go cold turkey on the late nights and partying. It’s May now and the trade deadline is July thirty-first. That means you have three months at most to convince the front office that you’re a changed man, and that you’ve settled down.”
“Great. And I’m guessing you want me to start tonight by drinking Shirley Temples and going home by midnight,” I said as we pulled up to Boulevardier. Iain actually offered a laugh as he climbed out of the car.
“Before midnight would be ideal,” he said as I followed him out. “If you can manage to do that and act like a civilized human being tonight, then we might very well be able to save your job in New York.”
HOTHEAD
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