Last Strike

Welcome Home

Ashton’s POV:

A deer caught in headlights — that’s how I must have looked when Elizabeth said that I’d be staying with her tonight. I had wanted to question her, but the expression on her face assured me that she was serious. What in hell had I got myself into with her?

When I returned from the locker room with my gear bag, she was furiously tapping away on her phone. I quietly stood in the doorway, waiting for her to acknowledge my presence, but she appeared to be fully engrossed in whatever she was doing on her phone. I cleared my throat in an attempt to get her attention.

She looked up, and I realized her eyes were still red and swollen. I knew I must have made her cry earlier. A pang of guilt made the muscles in my chest tighten. Should I apologize again or leave it be? I really didn’t have the energy to rehash the incident with her. I already feared that this was going to be a very long night.

She asked, “Did you drive yourself here before the game? If so, you’ll need to leave your car here as the paparazzi will be waiting to tail your vehicle the moment you leave.”

“I didn’t drive. My agent picked me up this morning and dropped me off.”

Liz casually swept her hair out of her eyes and nodded, “Good. One less thing to worry about right now. Let’s get out of here for now.”

Thirty minutes later, we stepped out of her car, which was now parked in the underground parking garage for an exclusive apartment building. She handed me a worn-out baseball cap and told me to put on my shades, too. I did as I was told and followed her into the building.

A man, who looked like he could easily bench-press a semi, flashed Elizabeth a smile and greeted her, “Welcome back to Chicago, Ms. Mason. It’s been a while.”

A sincere smile spread across her tired-looking face, brightening her features, “Thank you, Teddy. It’s nice to see you. Can you please do me a favor and notify me if you see anyone loitering outside the building?”

The burly man dragged his gaze over me, studying me. “Understood, Ms. Mason. Have a good night.”

She swiped a keycard against the sensor on the elevator door. Once the doors closed, and we were alone, I asked, “How long have you been away from Chicago?” Her eyes remained focused on the closed elevator doors before us, but she answered, “I’ve been in Atlanta since the start of the season.”

Her answer only deepened my curiosity. “Is Chicago your home, or do you just keep apartments in a variety of cities?”

She sighed, apparently annoyed at my attempt to make small talk. “Typically, it’s a part of my contract that a team will provide me with accommodations, but this apartment is my own. I hate to disappoint you, but yes, Chicago is my home.”

Clearly, I should stop trying to make small talk with her. I’d have better luck talking with an iceberg, which I was certain would feel warmer than my ex-girlfriend, who stood next to me.

We stepped into her apartment, and its size and grandeur initially took me aback. While it wasn’t as impressive as my own, it was still a very nice living space, much nicer than I would have expected for someone like her. Just how much money does she get paid to handle public relations? The team has a PR staff, and I know without a doubt that none of them can afford to live in such an exclusive apartment building. What makes Elizabeth Tate so special?

She pointed down the hallway towards a door, “You can put your gear bag in the room on the right. You’ll find some spare clothes in there that should fit you. If you want to change at any time, you’re welcome to ask Malcom to bring you some or order some to be delivered.”

Feeling the need to get away from our proximity, I headed for the room she had pointed out. I dropped my bag at the foot of the bed and examined the room.

In the walk-in closet, I discovered several pairs of men’s jeans and slacks as well as a few dress shirts and T-shirts. A particular T-shirt caught my eye. That can’t be what I think it is.

****

Elizabeth’s POV:

Ashton had wandered off to the spare bedroom, which gave me a much-needed reprieve from his presence. Why did I agree to this job? Am I secretly a masochist? If it weren’t for the fact that all the executives for the Grizzlies were good friends with my father, I would have said no. Of course, if any of them actually knew my past with Ashton, they probably wouldn’t have asked me to do this in the first place.

Ugh, that tiny little voice in the back of my mind is screaming at me right now, ‘Liz, you’re an i***t! This is going to be nothing but trouble! You should quit now before your reputation goes down in flames!’

I stare into the abyss of an empty refrigerator that hasn’t seen the light of day in months. Damn it, I should have thought ahead. If I had skipped the game, I could have come home and prepared the apartment, but instead, I spent the afternoon putting up with James Adams and his condescending remarks while watching Ashton have a sh*tty game.

Should I bother asking him what he’d like to eat, or should I order? Unless his food preferences have drastically changed, I sadly still remember his likes and dislikes. Just as I was about to place an order on my phone, Ashton stepped into the living room wearing a shirt I never expected to see on him again. I mentally scold myself. I really should have burned it.

He studies my face for a reaction. I feel as if my heart has leaped into my throat, and all logical thoughts have exited my brain. The only thing I can focus on is the man standing before me wearing a beloved, worn-out Grizzlies T-shirt that still fits him like a glove. A memory of the last time I saw him wear it flashes through my mind — the day he shattered my heart.

“What are you doing in that shirt?”

“I think the better question is, why was it hanging up in the closet along with other men's clothing? How many other men have worn it?”

There’s a harshness in his tone, and the sharp look in his eyes could cut glass. A chill runs down my spine, but I’m not about to back down, especially not to him. “I sometimes need to provide clothing for clients when they are forced to flee their living spaces due to incidents like yours. Like I said earlier, you’re more than welcome to ask Malcom to deliver you some clothing, or you can order some to be delivered.”

He smirked, and I immediately had the urge to wipe that smug look off his face. “That still doesn’t explain to me why you have this particular shirt in the closet.”

“I’m the one who bought it. Why shouldn’t I keep it and put it to better use? Just because a jacka*s previously worn doesn’t mean it can’t still serve a purpose.”

Well, that shut him up. In a flash, he turned on his heels, heading back towards the spare bedroom, where he proceeded to slam the door shut behind him. I collapsed onto the barstool next to the kitchen island. How can I possibly make this work? If it were any other arrogant athlete, I could handle it, but Ashton might prove to be the one I can’t help.

I stared at the picture on my lock screen—a photo of my dad. His kind face was smiling at me. Even after our harsh break-up, I knew my father still had a soft spot in his heart for Ashton. He had loved him like a son and was almost as heartbroken as I was when we broke up. Yet, I knew that over the years, he still followed Ashton’s career closely.

What would my father say if he were here right now? He was always the one I turned to for advice when handling a challenging athlete. In this situation, would he tell me to throw in the towel, or would he want me to do what I can to salvage Ashton’s career?

I know what he’d say.

I forced myself up off the barstool and made my way down the hallway to the spare bedroom door. I reluctantly knocked on the door and asked, “Ashton, what do you want on the pizza?”