GAME ON
By Katie McCoy
Copyright © 2015 Katie McCoy
Cover art/design by: Shady Creek Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
To my real life Nathan Ryder, if I had a World Series ring, I’d give it to you.
Chapter One
Austin was hot as balls. I yanked my broken suitcase towards the doors of the Driskill Hotel, sweating like a sinner in church. Maybe I could afford a new one after this assignment. A fancy suitcase, with actual wheels and a zipper that didn’t need to be duct taped to stay closed.
“It’s got personality,” I could hear my mom say. It had been a gift from her. A really good find in her favorite thrift store in South Houston.
“Inanimate objects should not have personality,” I muttered to myself. “Personality is just another word for cheap.” I was tired of things with personality. I wanted something with class. With style.
The whoosh of the automatic doors greeted me, as did the orgasmic rush of A/C that filled the hotel lobby. I let out a whistle under my breath. It was the most beautiful hotel I had ever seen—gleaming white floors, a chrome staircase curving down the middle, and above me, a beautiful crystal chandelier. The Register had spared no expense with this trip—a hotel with A/C and a chandelier? I had arrived.
Now I just needed to make sure I stayed arrived. I had worked too damn hard to get to where I was, I needed to knock this interview out of the park and prove to them that I was worthy of the promotion they had given me. Perhaps my future held more than just a new suitcase.
I was dragging my old one towards the front desk when my phone—also in desperate need of an update—rang. I fished it out of my pocket. Nick. Of course. He probably wanted to know where the peanut butter was. I ignored it and flashed the patent “I might be annoying, but I’m also adorable” smile at the hotel clerk. Something else I had gotten from my mother.
“Welcome, ma’am,” he said with a lovely twang. He looked barely eighteen, with puberty’s last zits fading on his chin. Not that I really could talk; I had just turned twenty-three and was practically an infant to most of my co-workers, who had been reporters for the length of my entire life.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
I opened my mouth and my phone rang. Loudly. Nick again. I switched it to vibrate, put it in my pocket and turned back to the clerk.
“Checking in,” I said. “Sophie Hall.”
“Of course, Ms. Hall,” the clerk said. His nametag said Greg. “We’ve been expecting you.”
My phone vibrated.
“Sorry,” I pulled it from my pocket, doing the obnoxious “one minute” finger that I had hated being on the other end of during my years as a waitress. I knew it was rude to answer the phone, but I didn’t think Nick was going to stop calling. “It’s on the top shelf,” I said, as my greeting. Might as well get to the point as quickly as possible.
“Sophie.” Nick’s usual baritone voice took on a high-pitched whine through my beat-up phone speakers. I winced. I definitely needed a new phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Austin, Nick,” I said, trying to control my frustration. This happened each time I had to go somewhere for an assignment. “I told you three times. And I left you a note. Two notes actually.”
“Why are you in Austin?”
“I’m interviewing Nathan Ryder,” I told him patiently. “The Longhorns’ star player, remember? Houston boy? The one who’s probably heading to the majors next year?”
I was sure he wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Nick didn’t know anything about sports. If it didn’t play an instrument he wasn’t interested.
“But my band is playing tonight,” he said and this time the whine wasn’t just from the phone.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t be there, but this is a really important assignment.”
He sighed. It was one of his specialty guilt sighs. I hated it, especially since I was pretty sure he had learned it from my mom even though they had never met. We’d been together for six months and this was the first time I was missing one of his shows. Sometimes I was the only person in the audience, which is probably why it was so vital I was there. But I was not going to give up this important opportunity to listen to the same five songs. Not this time.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, not sure if he had hung up on me or fallen asleep. It was two in the afternoon, which was pretty early for him. When I had left the apartment several hours ago, he had still been sleeping. He looked so handsome when he was sleeping, all tousled hair and sexy cheekbones.
“I just don’t think this is working,” he said.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, much louder than I had intended. The clerk, who been looking down at his computer politely, raised his eyebrows. I turned away from the desk, dragging my suitcase behind me, and I ducked out of the way of the people milling in the lobby. Somehow I ended up behind an enormous potted plant.
“I just don’t think we should be together anymore,” he said. “I really need someone who can be supportive of my musical career.”
“I am supportive,” I said. “I just can’t be there tonight.”
He sighed again and I wanted to punch him through the phone.
“It’s just not working,” he said, and I immediately went from mild annoyance to full-on anger.
“No,” I said between gritted teeth. “You know what’s not working. You. You haven’t had a job since you moved in three months ago. Who is going to pay your rent, Nick? Who is going to pay for gas so you can get to your rehearsals and gigs? Who is going to buy you the peanut butter you can’t find even though it’s on the same fucking shelf every fucking time?”
His struggling artist thing had been appealing when we first met. Before landing my job at the paper, I had been freelance writing and working nights at the coffee shop he frequented. He played with his band, but also worked at the hardware store, which I had found really attractive. Nothing like a guy who can hang a shelf for you. And that’s what he would do. At first. He repaired everything in my shoddy apartment when he had his own place; it was only after he moved in, after I got a desk at the Register, that he quit the hardware store to focus on his music full time.