After being cheated on by their long-term partners, can a pro-wide receiver and a PR agent remain friends with benefits without falling for each other?
I've been in love with Ava since I was fifteen. She was my first, my only, my everything, destroy...
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Whump. Whump. Whump.
This was a horrible idea. Whatever motivation I gathered from my shit-tastic day was gone, and my legs ached with each slammed step.
An unfortunate step onto Jay's scale and a pack of media vultures led me into the basement gym. Step one of revenge—showing Dante what he'd lost—involved digging deep into my self-improvement. Tighten up the loose, cinch in the jiggles, and squat until my ass broke.
I needed structure and regularity. A plan. Pass the pause button, I was ready for a reset one.
Ten minutes into my treadmill start, the cloud of revenge carrying me down here poofed into thin air.
Under the hum of televisions, one lone sole curled their biceps on a bench. The older man's loose skin flapped around his slim muscles as he raised his arm and turned on the news I'd come here to escape from.
"A video picture of Seattle's wide receiver, Dante Marshall, has been released by the Estorian Hotel. The second-round draft pick is seen engaging in public indecency with not one but—"
Pitching forward, I grasped the handlebar and caught myself from slamming my chin on the display panel. Stomping loud, thudding clomps, I squeezed the bar for dear life. Straightening my arms, I lifted my chin as if a quick-spurt jog followed by a push-up was my plan.
"—two unknown women, engaging in a shocking display of sexual acts. We caution, what you are about to see is inappropriate for younger viewers."
Of course, the rating mongers flashed the content. The same replay loop sickening my stomach at work flashed on all four screens and their window reflections, forcing me to look at the awkward yet impressively intriguing threesome positioning.
There was no other way to say it. My life had become a slow-burn dumpster floating down a gasoline channel, bobbing between a fireworks factory and a gunpowder warehouse.
Railing one woman while munching the other's ass brought new meaning to his nickname, 'D-train.' Despite a blurry feed and— thank fuck—a lack of sound, their o-faces were crystal-clear. I closed my eyes, swaying my steps.
How the press thought I still entertained a loose-dick, more-is-better cheater didn't matter. The piranhas lurked in the parking lot while Dante 'secretly' met with team executives, chomping on me when I'd left work.
"Ms. Roberts!" "Ms. Roberts!" White flashes snapped in my face, spotting my vision. "Any comment on your fiancé's video? Are you one of the unnamed women?"
Me? I didn't wear stringy extensions, and my skirts covered my ass, thank you, personal space invaders.
I clutched my purse like chest armor. Flash after flash impeded my path. Shading my eyes didn't help me see, let alone process the barrage of questions from when I'd last seen them to if I was eating through my depression.
