The Game Plan (Game On 3)

And it is. My resignation letter is sitting on his desk. And I’m not about to give him two weeks notice. Shitty? Yes. But he’ll survive. Besides, I don’t need his reference; I have other plans.

I push the designs toward her.

Finally she picks them up, her eyes scanning the pages. “These are great. I love them.”

So did half of Manhattan’s elite when they admired Janice Mark’s penthouse. Do I feel guilty about showing Elena what are essentially sketches of the apartment? Maybe I should, but I don’t.

I rise and snap my case shut. “Can I leave them with you for the weekend? I don’t want to be here when Felix gets in.” I give an exaggerated pause. “He hasn’t seen these, and I don’t want him to, okay?”

There. If she steals these designs, her fall is all on her.

She doesn’t even blink when she gives me a solemn nod, her hand already spreading over the pages. “I’ll guard them well.”

I give a nod of my own. But when she begins to pull them toward her, my hand comes down on the sketches with a slap. “You know what? I can’t do this. I was going to give you these, knowing they’re bad, knowing you’d take them for your own. But I cannot walk out of here and pretend that what you did, what you’ve been doing, isn’t seriously fucked up.”

Her face pales as she gapes at me. Then she’s flushing dark red, her gaze narrowing. “This again? Jesus, Fiona, you have to stop. It’s pathetic. I didn’t copy your designs. I just did them better.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to get through the day, Elena.” I lean forward, the urge to hit her so strong that my fingers actually curl into a fist. “That shit you pulled with the curtains? Pretending we’d talked about them? That’s not right. And it’s just one of many lies you’ve told. So don’t you dare act like what’s gone down is all in my head.”

“This is business. You do what you have to do to get ahead.”

“I don’t want to win that way.”

An ugly smile curls her lips. “News flash, Fi. You didn’t win.”

One punch. Surely one punch would be okay?

I keep it together by a thread. “I’m not the only one who knows.”

She flinches. “What?”

“Felix knows. He’s always known. He just doesn’t care because your mother has the contacts he needs.” I take a breath. “Which is why I’m quitting. I can’t work for a man who has no morals, or alongside a woman who uses people as her personal creative well.”

Elena’s hands fist as well. “I have talent—”

“That’s the tragic thing. You do. Real, honest-to-God talent. But instead of cultivating it, you waste your time stealing other people’s ideas.”

Her faces scrunches up, going bright red. “I used to think you were nice. You’re nothing but a bitter bitch.”

I have to laugh. “If being a bitter bitch means I’m no longer your stepping stone, then I gladly accept the title.” With that I stand. “Have a nice life, Elena.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says suddenly. “The pressure. My mom. Everyone knows who she is—”

“I don’t know what that’s like?” I gape down at her. “Are you kidding? My dad was a superstar before I was even born. My mom runs her own business. My sister is fast becoming a regular fixture on ESPN. Hell, I’m swimming in a pool of overachieving family members.”

“That’s not the same. You aren’t in those industries.” Her fist hits her chest. “I have to make my mark in this business.”

I could understand. Hell, I could almost empathize. Almost. “Our parents don’t define us, Elena. Our actions do. And yours suck.”

She goes from flushed to bone white. “Fuck you, Fiona.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling now. “You already have fucked me. And yet I’m the one walking out with my head up.”

And I do, leaving my sketches, Elena, and all her bullshit behind.

There’s a faint fishy smell in the air. I don’t want to be around when it grows stronger. Because I left a present for Felix too. Operation Rotten Fish, as Ivy likes to call it.

We did the same prank on our bitchy ex-camp counselor one summer, smearing fish oil under her bunk and on the inside lining of her trunk. Call it a little fuck you for dunking my head underwater when I couldn’t swim, and for telling Ivy she looked like a flagpole when she clearly had worries about being the tallest, thinnest girl in the camp.

By the end of the summer, the stench had gotten so bad, they had to fumigate. But the trunk remained, and so did the smell.

And though I’d like to believe I’ve grown up since then, the thought of all the fish oil I smeared under Felix’s desk and the tables in Elena’s office gives me a surge of satisfaction. Maybe part of us never grows up. I am surprisingly okay with that.

Dex

“Dexter, man, you’re living the dream!” Shockey, one of my linemen, gives me a hearty slap on the shoulder as we walk to our cars.

“Not my dream,” I grouse.

The “dream” Shockey refers to is the swarm of women currently dogging my every step. Panties in my locker. Tweets offering blowjobs, hand jobs, rim jobs, don’t-know-what-the-fuck-half-of-this-shit-is jobs. Women showing up outside my townhouse. Waiting for me before practice. It isn’t necessarily anything new. All players get this. It’s the sheer volume and intensity that’s driving me nuts.