Sterling (Carolina Reapers 6)

“This is a fantastic event,” he said by way of greeting, settling into the spot Maxim had just vacated. I released a breath so loud he laughed. “Did you think I was coming over here to reprimand you?”

I chuckled nervously. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m nervous. I love the Reapers, and I wanted to make you proud.” God, did that sound cheesy? I couldn’t help it, it was the truth.

“Well, you’ve certainly done that,” he said, and the bartender set a drink before him. He hadn’t even ordered one. The bartender appeared to know who he was and exactly what he liked. Damn, what was it like to be a billionaire with that kind of influence and power? And with how young he still was? His rugged good looks? I couldn’t imagine the kind of advances and scandals he dealt with on a daily basis. And here I thought being in the middle of two brother’s painful history was bad.

“Thank you,” I said, another knot of nerves loosening. “I love this job.”

“It shows,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “I hope you plan to stay with us.”

“Where else would I ever go?”

Silas grinned. “I have a few owner buddies who’ve made a game in trying to poach my employees.”

“Like Weston Rutherford?” His eyebrows raised, and I waved him off. “My best friend is married to Hendrix Malone.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you know a few of my friends.”

I nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

And now that I had his approval…

“Can I be totally honest with you?” I asked, my heart in my throat. God, I hoped I wasn’t about to blow what trust I’d just earned from him.

“I’d prefer it,” he said, his tone so business-like I wondered if he always had his owner’s hat on or if he ever let loose.

“What are your thoughts on…” I swallowed hard. “Players and staff…fraternizing?” I had no other way to ask, but I couldn’t not ask. Not if I wanted to continue with my career and hopefully, possibly ever mend things with Jansen.

A small, almost sad smile shaped his lips. He looked down at the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before his eyes glanced across the room. His sister Harper danced with Nathan Noble, one of his top players. “It’s never bothered me before. As long as the job gets done,” he said, returning his attention to me. “Who am I to stand in the way of people who are actually capable of finding real love?”

I parted my lips, my heart snagging on the flicker of pain in his hazel eyes. I wondered over his statement, wondered how hard it might be for a billionaire like him to discern real affection from false. But before I could express my gratitude or my concern, he scooped his tumbler from the bar and motioned it toward the party. “Speaking of,” he said, then gave me a wink and sauntered into the fray.

My eyes followed where he’d motioned, and my heart stopped before it took off at a gallop.

Jansen Sterling stood at one of the tables near the entryway, chatting with Briggs. He looked good enough to eat in a crisp dark tuxedo, those crushing blue eyes striking even from across the room.

He looked so damn wonderful, I thought my knees might actually buckle.

19

Sterling

The party was in full swing by the time I got there at eleven p.m. Having spotted an empty seat next to Briggs, I tugged at my bowtie and made my way across the busy ballroom. The fucking suit was tailored to me, and yet I still felt choked, but that could have been nerves, too.

London hadn’t been our coordinator for the last two games, which meant I hadn’t even seen her since before Christmas, and yet here I was, ready to shoot my shot.

“There you are,” Briggs said as I took the chair next to his at one of the tables that lined the dance floor. He rolled a glass of amber liquid between his palms, and I could tell from the bubbles that it was ginger ale.

“Did I miss anything exciting?” I glanced over the dancing couples like I wasn’t looking for London, but who was I kidding? I was looking for London.

“If you count Langley hauling off the rookies by their ears after they got trashed out of their minds, then maybe.” He laughed and thanked a waitress who put another tumbler of amber liquid on our little table. “It’s ginger ale,” he said, pushing it toward me.

“I figured. Thanks.” I took a sip of the sweet stuff, hoping it would calm the nausea that rose in my gut every time I thought about getting an answer out of London.

“It keeps women from offering to buy me a drink.” He shrugged.

“Good point.” The band switched songs, playing something a little slower that sounded like it was from the forties. “Hey, I heard you signed a new endorsement yesterday.”