Kiptyn

We fucking dominated the court. The team was on point all night long, bringing in a 112-79 win. I'm on cloud nine, floating with the gods just where I belong. I imagine if Zeus were here, he’d be slapping me on the back right about now. I'm looking forward to the next four games. I make it my own personal goal to beat them by even more next time.

“Guess beer’s on me tonight,” Chris says, stepping from the shower.

“Seven shy of me buying. Too bad ya missed that shot.” I duck away from him as his hand shoots out, barely missing my shoulder.

“Fuck you, Kip. I wasn’t lined up right,” he says, scowling at me.

“Yeah, is that what happened? I thought the basket might have jumped over two feet or something.”

Chris is even more of a sore loser than he is a poor shot. He’s one hell of a center, though, and he makes sure I don’t get trampled on while making the winning baskets.

Wrapping a towel around my hips, I head to my locker, laughing. “Come on. Let's deal with the hornets’ nest of reporters, and then we’ll head out,” I say, dreading the crowd that I know is waiting outside.

“You deal with them fuckers. They’re only worried about you anyway, oh magnificent Lord Kiptyn Price,” he mocks, his voice sharp. I glance back over at him, trying to decipher his tone, when the doors open and the cameras start flashing. Would it be so damn hard for them to let me finish getting dressed before they bombarded me with questions? Apparently so.

It worries me that Chris thinks he’s not good enough to get the attention of reporters. It’s not that they don’t want to talk to him. I’m just a prize none of them have had the chance to uncover yet.

Up until now, I've denied all interviews, choosing to leave that to my agent or the members of the team. How was I supposed to know that would just make them want to speak to me even more? I catch his eye before he darts out the back exit. He brings his hand to his brow and salutes me with a wink, letting me know he was just joking around.

With that weight lifted off my chest, I put on my best Kiptyn Price smile and spin around to greet the swarm.

“Kiptyn.”

“Mr. Price, how do you do it?”

“Kiptyn, can you tell us your plans for the playoffs?”

The questions barrel at me at me an astounding rate. I hold my hand up, warding them off and silently requesting a moment to soak them in before another ten are tossed out. I catch a glimpse of my agent from the corner of my eye and turn toward him. He looks worried that I might bolt at any minute. The thought crosses my mind, but I gave him my word, and if there’s one thing Kiptyn Price does, it’s keep his word.

The reporters have still not stopped tossing questions and flashing their cameras. Stars are dancing before my vision from all the flash. Now I remember why I don't deal with this shit. Tim claims it’ll be good for my career and that the fans would love to hear from me directly, so I told him I’d try. I should have known better. He slaps me on the shoulder, congratulating me on the win before turning to the crowd. They silence immediately.

“Mr. Price will take questions in a moment, but let’s all try to act like rational human beings here and not bombard him.”

The hands shoot up, all waiting for their chance. Tim glances around the room, making them wait before picking someone. Good for him. If it were up to me, I’d make them wait forever after the shitty way they greeted me, but I’m not the one in charge here. He opens his mouth to call on someone, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. He glances over at me, and I shake my head without looking at him. My gaze is locked on someone in the crowd, and I refuse to look away. He understands what my shake says. ‘I changed my mind. I don’t want to answer any question from them.’

Not now.

Not when standing two feet across from me in a mouthwatering tight skirt is her—my Midnight Sky.

What the hell is she doing here? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? I’m dehydrated. That has to be it. My eyes meet hers, and I see the moment she recognizes me. Her eyes widen. She takes a step back and plants a hand on her chest, just above her heart.

She’s real. I know from her reaction, and now she’s finally within reach.

“I'll do one interview, an exclusive.” The crowded room goes nuts. Every person in here knows what it would do for their careers to interview the elusive Kiptyn Price.

“With you,” I say, and I point straight at her.

She knows I'm speaking to her. I can tell by the tightness in her shoulders and the tiny shake of her head. It figures. The one person in the room I say can interview me doesn’t want to. That, or I just make her nervous. Yeah, I’ll bet that’s it.

Every head in the room turns toward her. I can almost hear the thoughts ricocheting in their tiny peanut brains, ‘What, why her?’

Because I want her, that’s why.

I can’t say that out loud. I wish I could, but that’s a statement I don’t need in the papers. I’ve had enough of the Gossip Central reporting on my many affairs. Ha, little do they know that their articles are practically supplying the pussy for me. It’s like the golden rule with women—what one woman has, every other woman wants—and since none of them have made me want to give up the playboy title, bachelorhood, and to settle down, they all take it as their own cross to bear. I don’t mind. Not one bit. I’ll happily fuck them all, starting with the bombshell standing in front of me.

Her hand flies to her mouth moments before she turns and runs.

She fucking ran away from me again. This chick is seriously damaging my ego. I can’t let her get away this time. I fly through the crowd, chasing after her.

Me, Kiptyn fucking Price, chasing a fucking woman. The interview is long forgotten. My agent is no doubt spewing some dribble to accommodate the crowd right this second, but they aren’t listening. I know from the cameras flashing behind me. I can only imagine the stories I’ll read tomorrow, not that I care. No, the only thing I care about is the sexy as sin woman hiding in the bathroom right now and the many, many ways I plan to make her mine.

I wait outside the bathroom door for her. I don’t know how much time passes.

Five minutes? Three? Ten?

I think about rushing in there and demanding she speak to me and then stop when I imagine her reaction. As much as I want to be buried deep inside of her over and over again, I’ll never demand it. I refuse to be that guy, the one who makes a woman feel like she has to do something. Or rather, I wasn’t that guy until a few minutes ago when I decided to give her an exclusive interview. I had no doubt that she would agree to do it.

Any one of a hundred different reporters across the country would jump at the chance. She would be no different. What is she doing in there? Does she plan to hide in there all night? I’ve never in my life had a woman run away from me. Hide from me? Ha! That is downright laughable.

I reach out and knock on the door—once, twice, three times—and then I tighten my towel back around my waist. “Miss, are you okay in there?” I ask through the door. I wait a few seconds.

No response. I knock again,

“Skila?”

Leaning my ear against the door, I hear a rustling of fabric and imagine her drying her hands on paper towels. The door swings open so fast I stumble forward. Luckily, I catch myself on the door frame before I crash to her feet. Her eyes are bright and angry, surprising me with the fire I see in them.

“WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT?” She hammers out the words slowly and with steady calm. I can feel the anger pulsing off her in waves. For the first time in all my life, I second-guess myself.