Saylor

“Nice to meet you. I’m Lucian Steele.”

I smile tightly, wishing I’d brushed up on my football flashcards so I could’ve placed the stranger in front of me, but it’s no use. I don’t know who he is. However, the power exuding from every single one of his pores is more telling than any thirty-minute episode on ESPN. The guy’s rich. He has connections. And, for some reason, he wants to sit by the infamous Owen Daniels, aka the football prince who was dethroned before he had the chance to reign.

The question is, why?

“Heard you’re coaching football,” Lucian Steele mentions as he pulls out his seat.

Owen sits back in his chair and laughs. “I was a gym teacher at an elementary school. I wouldn’t exactly call it coaching football.”

“Was?” I ask under my breath, but Owen hears me and squeezes my knee.

“We’ll, uh, we’ll talk about it later, okay?” he mutters to me.

“Heard you might be looking for a new job,” Lucian Steele continues.

Another laugh escapes Owen as his reassuring touch disappears. He squeezes the back of his neck and shifts in his chair. “Oh, I dunno about––”

“I think we should have a chat after this. Maybe tomorrow before the game? There’s an opportunity that I think you’d be interested in.”

Owen’s gaze flicks toward me before he nods. “An opportunity?”

“Yeah. I think you’d be perfect for it. You interested?”

“Possibly. Depends on the details.”

“Then, I guess we’ll have to discuss them tomorrow,” Lucian returns. His arrogance radiates off him in waves. I’m afraid I might choke on it.

Owen’s warm hand returns to my knee before he squeezes it. “Sure thing.”

The blood drains from my face.

“Perfect,” Lucian replies as the speaker system crackles. Everyone turns to the podium, and the lights dim as an older man with little hair and a bulging belly steps up to the microphone.

“Ladies, and gentlemen, we’d like to thank you for….”

The ringing in my ears drowns out his voice, making it impossible for me to register a single word.

I think I’m going to be sick.

25

Saylor

“Where’s the restroom?” I whisper to Owen.

“What?”

“The restroom. I need to use it.”

&nbs

p; “Oh.” Owen turns in his chair to scan the space behind us, then points to a long hallway. “Probably back there. Do you want me to go with you?”

“I think I can use a restroom on my own. Thanks, though.” My legs feel like rubber as I stand up with my clutch in hand.

Owen grabs my wrist and prevents my escape. “You okay?”

I lick my lips and nod, afraid my voice will crack if I try to use it.