“No shit.”
At that, Livia tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she studied me. “Interesting that you’re still thinking about her this morning.”
“Well, I haven’t been insulted so many times in a ten-minute period since rookie camp, so let’s just say she left an impression.”
Livia tongued her cheek for a moment before she straightened. “I need to get going. Got an afternoon full of patients before tonight.” She paused. “Maven King is her full name, by the way. You should look her up.”
“With all my free time,” I joked.
She just smirked and wiggled her fingers at me before disappearing down the tunnel, and I hung back for a moment before making my way inside, too.
? ? ?
Later that night, when I slipped inside my Maserati parked in the player lot, still high off our second home game win and far too keyed up to even think about sleep, I couldn’t help myself.
I pulled up Instagram and typed in Maven King.
Opportunity of a Lifetime
Maven
I walked into the office on Thursday with my eyes glued to my phone screen, where a dozen Instagram notifications stared back at my dumbstruck face.
I’d woken up to find that Vince fucking Tanev had followed me.
He’d also liked six of my photos.
I couldn’t wrap my head around how he’d found out my name, let alone why he would have had the balls to follow me and to not even try to hide the fact that he’d scrolled through my profile.
One of the photos he’d liked was my most recent, me and Livia in our gowns at the gala with champagne flutes tipped to our lips.
But he’d also liked one of me in my hammock that I posted last month, and one of me with my parents when we’d done beach cleanup in the spring, and one from my meditation retreat last fall.
The motherfucker had stalked me, and hadn’t even been the least bit ashamed. It was like he wanted me to know.
I was still blinking in half-confusion, half-irritation at his audacity when I swung into my office. My heels click-clacked on the marble floor, and I slung my purse over the hook on the back of my door before flopping down into my chair.
My mouth was a little dry as I clicked on his profile.
Vince Tanev
41
your friendly Tampa Bay Ospreys ice king
also known as Vince Cool or Tanny Boy
I snorted at the ice king reference, tapping my thumb on his most recent photograph. It was a professional one I assumed was taken by someone who worked for the team, and it showed him celebrating a goal at their away game earlier in the week.
Clicking out of it, I scrolled past photo after photo of him on the ice, broken up only by him in well-tailored suits showing up to the game, or hanging out with his teammates at the bars they loved to frequent after a win.
I paused when I saw one of him posing with a youth hockey team, clicking to view it bigger. Then, I swiped through the carousel of images showing him skating with the young players and signing sticks and pucks.
“Real genuine,” I mumbled under my breath.
It was almost disappointing, how much his profile confirmed exactly what I’d assumed about him. He was just another cocky playboy athlete with no concept of the real world.
Just like my ex.
James Baldridge had swept me off my feet so quickly it was dizzying. We were in our junior year of college, both drunk at a party when we stumbled into each other. The connection was instant, the sex was hot, and we couldn’t get enough of one another.
The more time we spent together, the more we started falling.
We were soul mates — at least, that’s what it felt like.
But we were complete opposites — him from a well-off family who spent their summers in the Hamptons with Livia’s, and me from a family of hippies who spent our summers tending to our garden. He was well known on campus, the best golfer on the university team and one of the best in the nation. He would go on to play in the PGA Tour, and no one doubted it — not then, not ever in his life.
Meanwhile, I was aimless, getting a communications major with no idea how I would use it. He had aspirations for a future in professional golf, while I was content to waste a day at the beach or volunteering at a local animal shelter.
But that was what I loved most about James. He made me feel safe to be exactly who I was, made me feel like he loved me for me. It was such a refreshing change from all the losers I’d hooked up with in high school and the first couple years of college. James didn’t play games. James showed me what a healthy relationship was. James was end game.
I didn’t realize just how much we didn’t mix — not until I was on his arm at his brother’s wedding.
I was underdressed, unimpressive, and so far from welcome it was painful. I could still close my eyes and feel those judgmental stares from every corner of the venue, how they assessed me and found me wanting.
The only thing that got me through that experience was knowing James loved me, regardless of my status. We were already talking about having a wedding of our own. We were solid. I believed everything he said to me when he swore it didn’t matter that we were different, that our families were different.
He loved me for me, and we were strong enough to weather any storm.
Except the very next weekend after his brother’s wedding, he broke up with me — and his parents made sure I understood why.
It had been two years, and still, my chest stung with the reminder of that heartbreak, of how I’d held fast to every memory of our relationship, and sobbed for a week straight before I finally shoved it all into a box.
I still had that box, though.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to let go of it, of him, entirely.
I was vaguely aware that it wasn’t fair to judge an entire class or system by the action of one jerk and his family, but since no one had yet to prove me wrong, I was steadfast in my beliefs.
And Vince Tanev was of the James Baldridge variety — that I was sure of.
I scrolled all the way to the top of his profile again, tapping on the little arrow that would take me back to my feed.
Except my nail hit the edge of my phone case, and my thumb dropped down on his profile picture instead — therefore, pulling up his latest story.
“Shit,” I cursed, clicking out of it before I even saw what it was. Panic zipped through me with mortification right on its heels.
And then I laughed out loud at myself, because the likelihood that Vince Cool ever looked at who viewed his stories was nonexistent.
But what if he did?
“Good morning, gorgeous.”
I jumped a little at the knock that came on my doorframe with those words, locking my phone screen and tossing it on my desk. Reya didn’t seem to notice as she slid inside the office with Camilla on her heels.
Reya and Camilla were the founders of Tampa Bae Babes. Both Cuban-American and born and raised in the area, it had started as nothing more than two best friends posting about the places they loved around the Bay. Reya had long brown hair, wide brown eyes, an athletic, petite body, and the kind of calm and inviting smile that could make you confess all your secrets. Camilla, on the other hand, was tall and slender like a model, with short hair angled at her chin, sharp facial features, and gray eyes that sparked with her goofy grin. Where Reya was calm and serene, Camilla was loud and enigmatic, the two of them together making the perfect storm.