I’ve tried to give Saige until the very last second, but I’m on the way to the game now, and if she doesn’t throw a drink in my face before I take the ice, I’m screwed.
My phone rings as I drive toward her office with the hope that she’s still there.
“What’s up, Maksim?” I ask.
“I just left your girl’s office.”
“She’s not my girl,” I say, checking my blind spot before changing lanes.
“She’s not Joran’s either. You know that, right?”
“The reason for your call?”
“Did you hear what happened?” he asks, as though he has a piece of juicy gossip the paparazzi would be eavesdropping to overhear.
“What?”
“Maverick Sanders isn’t using her anymore.”
“I didn’t even know he was.” I haven’t looked into Saige’s business—mostly because I don’t care one iota about social media. I think it’s great
