Playing for Real - Book 2

Chapter 1

Quinn 

Three thousand one hundred and ten miles isn't far enough. If Harvard were on the moon, I would much prefer it. I spent the entire plane ride silently sobbing and staring out the window, wishing the last six months in Bexley were a terrible, horrible dream. But they weren't. As I grab my luggage off the carousel and hail a taxi, the reality of what transpired in the past twenty-four hours hits me harder than Cash's slap shot. I was the other woman. He played me.

My stomach twists with a strange combination of regret and agony. I close my eyes, forcing away the image of him with her.

"Where to, miss?" the cab driver asks.

I clear my throat, attempting to erase the trembling ache in my voice. I give him the name of a hotel near Copley Square.

He nods and pulls into a stream of cars. I can see the pity on his face as he glances back at me through the rear-view mirror. Not surprising. My eyes and cheeks are puffy, and I wear a permanent frown. This is my lowest point. This moment of truth, I feared, would crush me when and if I ever learned more about Cash's past.

I should never have let him have my heart.

With each mile closer to the hotel, a swirl of nausea twists in my stomach as I think of how Cash hid his secret wife from me—from everyone.

I wipe away the unwanted tears trickling down my cheeks and turn my head to gaze out the window. The traffic heading into downtown Boston is thick, and the city buzzes with an artsy and historic vibe that California lacks. Every building is architecturally fascinating, and fish markets, boutiques, and restaurants line streets paved in cobblestone. Up the Charles River, my future at Harvard Business School awaits. This should be the most exciting and satisfying moment of my academic career. Unfortunately, I can't even enjoy starting classes for my MBA.

When the cab driver approached the hotel, I handed him the money without lifting my eyes from my purse resting in my lap. The cell phone inside hasn't stopped buzzing since the second I landed in Boston. Ignoring what I know are calls from Cash and pretending nothing happened isn't easy. But I can't look back. I can't hear what he has to say. I can't trust him anymore.

"Here's your change," the cab driver says.

"Keep it," I reply.

He pulled my luggage out from the trunk, and I wheeled the bag towards the hotel entrance.

"I hope everything for you turns out okay," the driver says gently behind me.

I turn around and meet his sympathetic brown eyes. He's a stranger I will never see again, but his words make me take my first calm and steadying breath since I walked away from Cash at the airport in California. I don't feel so burdened by Cash's lies for a moment.

"Thank you. Me, too." I walk into the hotel lobby.

I check in at the front counter and ride the elevator to the seventeenth floor, feeling like an absolute wreck. The second I walk into the hotel room, I flop down on the bed and lie flat on my backside. The silence presses at me, and a million and one thoughts trample through my head.

Could it be true? Does Cash have a secret wife? How could he have hidden her from me? How did the league not know about her? What the fuck does she have to do with his brother, Cory?

Asking Cash these questions could answer the chaos swirling around in my brain. But I could never believe a word that escaped his lips. Besides, it doesn't matter what he hid from me anymore or why. What matters is that he did it.

I am done with Cash Brooks.

My phone continues to vibrate in my purse on the floor beside the edge of the bed. I hear it buzz from where I lie, numb, gazing out the window at the sprawling landscape of city lights. I will not answer it. I told him not to contact me. I told him he was dead to me. And I meant it.