Chapter 50: Sadie: That Dixie

SADIE

"Are you sure this is it?" Dawson flicks the edge of his script. "Because I have, what, two lines? I’ll barely make it into the video."

"It’s a sixty-second clip, Dawson," I tell him. "None of us is getting a character arc."

He mutters something that sounds like an insult to the creative process and turns away.

His grumbling is much closer to what I expected from this collaboration. I assumed the hockey team would treat it like community service: show up when forced, do the least they could get away with, and make sure everyone knew how much they were suffering.

Instead, half the team is crowded into the lounge with me today and their biggest problem is that the sixty-second video doesn’t give them enough time to shine.

The script has been finished at least four times, but someone always finds a reason to reopen negotiations. Another sentence. A better entrance. A few extra seconds in front of the camera.

They’ve even helped me rework the original idea, which leaves only two reasonable explanations: Trey threatened them, or something hit the entire team in the head at once. I don’t particularly care which, as long as nobody recovers before we finish filming.

"Anyway." I look around at all eleven of them. "Nobody is allowed to disappear after the game tomorrow. If I show up ready to film and half of you are suddenly unreachable, I’m going to be very disappointed."

"Relax." Nash waves off the warning. "Nobody’s going anywhere. Everyone will cooperate with you, Captain."

My eyes narrow. "Your actual captain will eat me alive if he hears you calling me that."

"Bit dramatic, don’t you think?" Trey’s voice cuts across the lounge from the door.

I turn as he strolls into the lounge without a trace of guilt over keeping me waiting. He’s lucky his teammates have been useful, because without them, I would’ve spent all this time curled up on one of these couches, wondering when His Majesty planned to remember our arrangement.

He stops beside the small crowd hunched over their scripts and takes one of the sheets from Michael. "What are you doing?"

"Our jobs," Michael answers. "You should try it. You’ve got a lot to catch up on."

He reads over the page before his attention finally reaches me.

I make no effort to hide what I think of him. He has sixty minutes worth of irritation coming, and I’m generous enough to give him all of it.

"Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for an hour."

Cam whistles from the couch. "An hour late? Damn. Should we give you two some privacy?"

Laughter fills the lounge. I was already angry at Trey, but his teammates are making a strong case for sharing the blame, especially when he doesn’t have the decency to look remorseful.

His bag lands beside the couch before he pulls over a chair and makes himself comfortable. "I went to see a doctor."

"A doctor?" I scoff. "So now you’re lying in addition to being late?"

His expression barely changes, which earns him an additional fifty-dollar charge.

"That’ll be a hundred and fifty dollars. One hundred as agreed, plus fifty for wasting an hour of my time."

"Okay."

I pause. That was much easier than it was supposed to be.

"You’re actually going to pay me?"

"You just asked me to."

That’s not the point. The point was for him to argue so I could explain, in detail, why my time is valuable. Instead, he’s throwing money at the problem as always.

Before I can raise the price on principle, Nash gets to his feet. "Come on. We’re supposed to do forty laps before Coach gets back."

The room immediately fills with groans and several creative variations of fuck that.

"I’m not skating laps because Jenson woke up pissed," Cam complains from the couch.

Nash ignores him and claps his hands. "You can complain while you move. If he comes back and finds us sitting here, he’ll make it worse."

Another round of complaints follows, but everyone gets up and trails after Nash. Their argument over who deserves the most screen time continues down the hallway until the lounge finally starts to quiet.

Trey waits until most of them are gone before dragging his chair closer.

A sweet, expensive scent comes with him.

It isn’t his. That much is obvious. What’s less obvious is why some woman’s perfume is clinging to his clothes strongly enough for me to notice when my senses usually contribute nothing to my life.

"Who were you with?"

The question is already between us by the time I remember it might not be any of my business.

"With where?" His forehead creases. "What are you talking about?"

"Wherever you went. You reek of another woman."

Someone lingering near the door lets out a slow ooh. "Cap, better start looking for somewhere else to sleep tonight."

I’m not saying Trey has been evicted from his own apartment, but the option is under serious consideration. Especially if he kept me waiting because he was busy with one of those hockey—

What did Lola call them? Puck bunnies.

Trey glances down at his clothes as though the guilty woman might still be attached to them. "I can’t smell anything."

"Well, I can." I fold my arms. "So don’t bother lying. Where were you?"

Something flickers across his face. He doesn’t want to tell me, and for some reason, that irritates me more than the scent itself.

"I said I’ll pay you," he reminds me. "The full hundred and fifty."

"I don’t care about the money." The sharpness in my voice surprises even me. "Did you keep me waiting because you were with another girl?"

His mouth curves. "You sound jealous, roomie."

"Jealous?"

The sheer nerve of the word gets me to my feet. I gather my notebook, pen, and everything else into one furious pile.

"If wasting an hour means nothing to you, fine. My time still matters to me." I yank the zipper of my bag closed. "Your perfume-soaked friend can tutor you instead."

His hand catches my arm when I turn away.

"Let go."

He does.

"Fine. I ran into an old friend, but that was after the clinic." He reaches into his pocket and produces a small pharmacy bag. His name is printed across the label, with ibuprofen listed underneath. "I wasn’t lying about that or about seeing her afterward."

That should settle it.

He went to the clinic, crossed paths with someone he knows, and came straight here. There is no reason for me to ask another question.

"Who is she?"

His brow lifts.

"The friend. What’s her name?"

"Dixie." He gives me a moment. "You know her?"

Of course I know her.

The scent clinging to him becomes twice as offensive. "That Dixie?"

Lola has mentioned her plenty of times—popular journalism major, massive social media following, always filming something—but I remember her for a much simpler reason. She had me removed from the WAG group while I was still typing out my defense.

Now I can add old friend of Trey’s to the list.

I don’t like that one at all, especially when my imagination turns it into a much less innocent description.

Have they slept together? And why does my mind keep going there every time another woman gets close to him?

I point at his chest, staying well away from those filthy fingers he claims women rave about. "So you ran into her, and what? Her scent threw itself all over you?" I roll my eyes. "You really have no boundaries."

He leans back slightly. "Dixie is clingy."

I don’t care whether he’s baiting me. I’m too angry to question the familiar presence stirring inside my chest, the same one I felt at the party. Heat comes with it this time, urging me to do something, but I’ve already thrown hands once over this man. I’m not doing it again today.

"You can’t keep a promise." My bag lands on the chair with a heavy thud. "You told me you treat me differently from other girls, but maybe you say that to all of us whenever it’s convenient."

His smirk disappears.

"And I don’t even have a trace of my scent on you," I blurt and the words settle between us before the full horror of saying them catches up with me.

Silence follows.

I don’t want my scent on him. Obviously. I’m only pointing out an inconsistency, and if he gives me enough time, I’m certain I can explain why it matters without using the word jealousy. He doesn’t.

Trey rises. All six-foot-whatever of him closes the distance between us. I step back and collide with the foot of the couch, losing my balance before his arm circles my waist and pulls me against him.

My palms land flat on his chest and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

This is probably where I should push him away. Instead, I lift my face and become painfully aware of every place we’re touching. Especially the hard length pressed against my thigh.

Oh.

My heart slams against my ribs. Is that because of me? The thought sends a hot pulse straight between my legs.

"You’re getting your scent all over me now," he murmurs. A shiver follows his voice down my spine. "Problem solved. Any girl who gets close enough will know I’ve got someone and back off."

That is enough to drag my common sense back from wherever it disappeared to.

I pull away so quickly I nearly stumble into the couch again. Both hands go straight to my hair. It doesn’t need fixing, but I need to pretend something here does.

"I—I didn’t mean it like that." My voice betrays me on the last word.

What in the Goddess’s name just happened?

No. Absolutely not.

This is Trey. The wrong Mercer brother. The brother of the man who was supposed to be my mate.

Using him to irritate Ezra is one thing. Wondering whether he was hard because of me—

No.

There will be no finishing that thought again. Ever.

I drop back into my chair and drag the notebook toward me.

"Let’s start." I keep my attention on the pages, although the slight tremble in my fingers makes turning one difficult than it should be. "We—we’ve got a lot to cover."