Текст книги "The Game Plan"

Автор книги: Kristen Callihan

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Fiona

Airport again. Why do they all smell the same? Dex walks me to the TSA line, and I feel like I’m going to my execution. My entire body wants to resist moving forward. Maybe Dex does too because he doesn’t try to hurry me along, even though my sluggish pace causes him to take unnaturally short steps.

When we get within sight of the line, his fingertips press my lower back, as if he’s entertaining ideas of grabbing hold and pulling me away. I wouldn’t object.

With a soft sort of grunt, he turns me into his embrace. I get a glimpse of his eyes, serious and pained. His warm hands cradle my cheeks, and then he’s kissing me.

It’s deep, desperate, and savoring, as if he’s putting his entire heart into each touch and taste, as if he’s trying to memorize every second. And I’m lost. Utterly lost.

Sounds fade. There is only Ethan and how good he feels, how good he makes me feel. I’m on my toes, my arms wrapped around his neck, as I kiss him back, consumed by my need for him. I don’t know how long we stand there, but when he moves his mouth from mine to explore my jaw, taking soft nibbles, my lips feel tender and swollen.

Big hands caress my back, my sides, sliding down to the crest of my butt and up to just under my breasts. Keeping it decent but driving me wild all the same.

“Be sure to drink water,” he murmurs against my skin, kissing my neck, my chin, mouth, cheek.

“’Kay.” My hands roam too, finding the hard rounds of his massive shoulders, sliding over his firm pecs.

He tugs me closer, his breath warm on my skin. “Some strange guy tries to talk to you, tell him to fuck off.”

I laugh at that.

Ethan doesn’t. He grazes the side of my neck with his teeth, his beard tickling. “Make an effort to stretch your legs.”

“Ethan,” I run my fingers through his silky hair. “It’s not that long of a plane ride.”

“It’s too long,” he grumps. And I know he isn’t talking about time but distance. My breath hitches with a twinge of pain.

It breaks the spell between us. He takes a step back, his hands falling away as if holding me any longer hurts him.

He stares down at me with eyes suspiciously bright and glassy. “Safe flight, Fi.”

“See you soon, Ethan.”

His nod is a ghost of a movement.

It takes effort to move, to take the handle of my roll-on bag. I’m turning to go when he mutters an oath and grabs me. I’m engulfed by a wall of muscle and arms of steel. He hugs me tight, hunching over me, his nose buried in the crook of my neck.

My arms wrap around his waist, fingers digging into the loose fabric of his shirt.

He breathes in deep, then lets it go with a shaky gust. “I hate this. I hate it so much.” His grip makes my ribs protest, and his voice goes rough. “I feel like some essential organ is being ripped from me.”

My eyes burn, my throat locking up tight. I have to swallow hard to speak. “Ethan…”

But he shakes his head and sets me away from him. His expression is almost angry, jaw set beneath the blanket of his beard. “Time to go, Cherry. Just…don’t look back, okay? Or I won’t be able to let you go.”

Fuck. My vision blurs. Sniffling, I nod. “All right.”

But I can’t move.

With a sad smile, he takes me by the shoulders and turns me toward the dreaded TSA line. “Go on now.” His big hand slaps my butt. “Get.”

I jump a little, glaring over my shoulder. “You sounded awfully Southern just now, mister.”

That smile quirks. “Went to a Southern university. Guess I picked up a few things, ma’am.” The smile falls. “Go on, Cherry. Don’t look back.”

“I won’t.” I can’t. Or I’ll never leave.

My rolling bag weighs a thousand pounds as I drag it behind me, every step taking me farther away from Ethan. I don’t turn around, but I feel him watching. I know he won’t go until I’m out of sight.

Tears threaten to fall, but I breathe through them. I can’t let him see me cry.

When I’m through the line, my cell dings. Glancing down, I almost lose it again.

FearTheBeard: <3 <—mine goes with you. Always.

Chapter Thirty

Dex

Monday Night Football. The audience is not as rowdy as in college. Fans are more likely to shout “you suck” than give their undying love. Because it’s about the win. Sure, we had that need to win in college. But school spirit trumped the team’s record. Here? My job is on the line if I don’t perform.

The stadium isn’t as big. Doesn’t need to be. Cameras are everywhere, taking in every fucking move we make for an audience that grows year by year—a big, voracious mass of unseen fans. Damn if I haven’t begun to think if it not as a sport but theater. We’re giving them a show, and it had better be good.

Right now, I’m facing off against a big bastard of a nose tackle. Emmet Sampson. We played against each other in college, and I know his ways well. He loves to talk shit. Excels, at it, actually. I’m pretty sure he makes a study of his opposition to find the worst dirt he can on them.

Emmet can’t stand me because I’ve never once blinked in the face of his bullshit. Not that he doesn’t keep trying.

“Lookie here,” he says as we take the field. “It’s old Paul Bunyan. Where’s your big blue ox, boy?”

At your mamma’s house having a smoke.

But I don’t say it. Not speaking is much more effective.

I hunker down, my quads giving a nice stretch that brings me right back into the physical.

“So that shit true, Dexter?” he goes on. “You haven’t busted your cherry? Damn, man.” He shakes head. “Some sorry-ass shit right there.”

I breathe in deep. Pay attention to my team. His team. Watch. Wait. Listen.

“Naw, I don’t believe it. What’s the matter, Dexter? Afraid of the pussy?”

Emmet is meowing like a cat. The sound fades as I focus on the line. The pads of my gloved fingers rest on the ball, the shape grounding me. I draw in a breath, let my gaze open up until I see the whole picture—my guys, the defense, how they line up.

I call out a play adjustment. My guys hustle, changing positions. And the defense scrambles to follow.

The instant Finn makes his signal, I snap the ball and explode into action. Emmet and I meet like a thunderclap, helmets clacking, bones rattling. My thighs bunch as I push forward, the balls of my feet digging into soft earth as I drive him back. He’s hammering his fists at my wrists, sending shards of pain up my arms, straight to my brain. But I hold tight and strong-arm him to the side to clear a path for my guy.

Emmet goes down in a tumble. And, when the play ends, I lean over him. “If you ran your ass half as good as you run your mouth, I just might be afraid, bitch.”

Trotting back to the huddle, I give Finn a slap on the helmet. “Let’s light ’em up, rook.”

He gives me a grin. “You know it.”

For the rest of the game, we do just that. We play smart, crafty, and light them up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. My guys play like a well-oiled machine—Finn picking apart the defense with a football sense you can’t learn; it’s just innate, and a beautiful fucking thing to witness.

But the taunts don’t stop, they grow. Doesn’t matter if I play my best. It’s no longer all about my performance. The world is pulling down the walls I’ve built to protect myself, exposing me without my consent.

Fiona

I love parties. I love the noise and the chatter and the chance to talk to new people. I love free booze and sampling cute little appetizers. I love dressing up and looking at other women’s dresses—I always find myself envying at least one outfit. But this party? Kind of blows.

Oh, the food is stellar. Champagne flows, and the decor is as impeccable as the view. Janice Mark’s penthouse is incredible, with views of the entire city spread out beneath us like a sequined dress, glittering and twinkling in the night.

By all accounts, I ought to be loving this. Dozens of top interior designers are here, giving me the chance to network. And the energy in the room is high.

I just don’t feel it. Because Ethan isn’t here. The sad part is I’m equally sure he’d hate this party. I can imagine him now, tugging at his collar and finding a nice corner to prop up. Now that he holds all my attention, memories of him before we were together come flooding back. He was always in the corner, nursing one of his water bottles, talking to a few guys—or listening, rather, and saying little.

But what he said always seemed to count for more. Ethan chooses his words carefully, never giving up useless spares. I remember that now and how it fascinated me then, because I usually have words enough for two people.

I remember that he used to watch me with those deep-set hazel eyes. It hadn’t made much of an impression then because I was loud, and people usually glanced my way when I was in a room. Never really bothered me. I’d assumed Ethan was doing the same—giving crazy Fi Mackenzie a onceover before going back to his life.

Now I know it had been more. Strangely, this makes me warm all over. He saw when I wasn’t “on” or trying to impress him, but as myself. And he’d wanted me anyway.

But now he’s in New Orleans, and I’m stuck fifty stories over Manhattan, surrounded by the type of people I grew up around. And it all feels foreign and off. Nothing is right anymore.

“Fabulous party, isn’t it?” Jackson is resplendent in a shiny, sapphire blue Zegna suit that would look ridiculous on most men but he pulls off with aplomb.

“Yes.” It is. Even if I’d rather be somewhere else, I can admit that much. “Makes me wonder why Felix isn’t here.” My boss should be all over this.

“As I said before, Janice, our lovely hostess, is mortal enemies with his current client, Cecelia. The very notion of letting a potential spy into her nest would enrage Janice. Which reminds me…” He drops his voice. “Let’s not tell anyone you’re working for Felix, eh?”

My lips quirk. “Don’t want to be kicked out on your couture?”

“Don’t even jest.” He fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, a silk peacock print that somehow works with the outfit.

“Fine.” I set down the glass of champagne I’ve been holding for the past half hour. It’s warm and flat now. “I’ll keep quiet.”

“What’s wrong?” Jackson looks me over with a frown. “Missing your big football player?”

I give him the side eye. “How did you know that?”

“Because Benedict Cumberbatch just walked by, and you didn’t even blink.”

“What?” I whip my head around, searching the room. “Where?”

“I’m kidding.” He laughs when I glare at him. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“You dickweed.” I give his side an elbow. “That was beyond low.” Jackson knows I have a thing for Cumberbatch—with that deep voice and quiet way of his that you just know hides a total perv in the bedroom.

Jackson fends off my attempt to pull the perfectly folded aqua handkerchief from his coat pocket so I can bat him with it. “Hey now, pixie, easy with the outfit. I give. I give. I was a dick.”

“Damn right you were,” I say with a sniff. “I’d like to see how you’d handle it if I said I saw Fassy.”

He makes a look of mock horror. “You wouldn’t. My love of Fassy far exceeds your high-school-girl-crush on Sherlock.”

“Actually, I liked him better as Khan.”

“Oh, me too. I think if I ever met him I’d have to shout it a la Captain Kirk.” Jackson makes a face as if he’s silently screaming out, “Khaaahhnn!” and I laugh.

Smiling, I lean my head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around me, giving me a squeeze. “So you’re missing your man?”

“Seriously, Jax, how did you know?”

“I’m fairly certain I had that look on my face when I first met Hal and he decided he had to live in Milan for a summer to learn about textiles. The bastard.” Jackson takes a sip of his white wine as he strolls me over to the wall of windows facing downtown. “It was misery. But at least I had the comfort of knowing he was miserable too.”

“Cold comfort. I don’t want Dex to be unhappy.”

Jackson gives the top of my head a kiss. “Sweet girl.”

“It hurts, Jax. I actually hurt.” I press my fist against my chest where the pain is centered. “I don’t like it.”

He stares down at me with solemn eyes. “What are you going to do about it?”

With a ragged sigh I stare out the window. The old me would have run, ditched the troublesome baggage and moved on. It hits me that there is an old me, because I’ve changed. I don’t think Dex has changed me, but being with him, caring about him, has. And the new me does not run.

Unfortunately the new me did not come with a set of instructions on how to handle a long-distance relationship. Which would have been awesome. So what am I going to do?

“Something drastic,” I find myself saying. I take a breath and meet Jackson’s eyes. “Something crazy.”

Just stating it has my heartbeat speeding up with anticipation. Yes, something risky and daring and right. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

My old friend starts to grin as if he’s been waiting for me to say as much.

“By the way.” Jackson reaches into his inner suit pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “Sold your table the other day.”

“You did?” I practically squeal but manage to hold onto my dignity by a thread.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hands me the paper. “Your check.”

My jaw falls as soon as I read it. “Get the fudgesticks out!” I gape at Jackson, then at the check. “Is this for real?”

“I’m going to assume that’s rhetorical.”

Well, it is and it isn’t. Because I cannot believe what I’m looking at. “I made thirty-thousand dollars on a dining set?”

Jackson gives me a bored look. “Honey, this is Manhattan. You create furniture like that and sell it to the right people, you’d better be making thirty large. At the very least.”

My lips feel numb. “I had no idea. I mean, I know how much we pay for our clients’ furniture, but I didn’t expect I’d make this much. I’m hardly a known name.”

“Not yet. But I am, and I know how to sell. As for you, this is only the beginning, Fi-da-lee.” Jackson’s expression goes serious. “Honey, I’m never going to have kids, so you’ll have to humor me as my surrogate.”

Smiling, I kiss his cheek. “Papa Jackson. Can I fill out my Christmas list now?”

He gives my shoulder a nudge. “I wasn’t finished, cheeky. Come work with us, Fiona. Make your furniture, and we’ll sell it. When you’re established, you can go it on your own.”

For a second, I can only stare at him. “You’re serious.”

“As a personal trainer on New Year’s Day.” His smile is soft. “Be your own boss, and forge your own path.”

Just beyond Jackson’s shoulder, the lights of New York glitter. It’s as familiar a sight as my own face, and yet it never fails to fascinate me. But I want more.

“Do I have to be here in New York?”

“Setting up camp elsewhere makes it trickier, but honey, we’ll make it work.” Jackson’s smile grows sly. “And there’s a certain southern city that’s ripe for the picking, especially when one has contacts in the area.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Fiona

Sitting alone in the office, I let the quiet ground me. All is still, the sounds of Manhattan a distant hum. I glance out the window toward that gray light. I love this city. Love it with all my heart. But I’ve been happy other places as well.

And I’m not happy here. Was it Elena’s fault? Yes and no. Yes, she made my life misery. But it wouldn’t have mattered if I truly loved my job.

I know the world is full of Elenas. I’ll meet her time and again. But the question is, what do I want to fight for? Felix’s approval? No. I have no respect for him anymore.

Turning in my seat, I slide my hand over my portfolio, the leather smooth under my palm. A small smile pulls at my mouth. It’s bittersweet. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing. I don’t know. I thought I’d have a better sense of my life’s path when I graduated college, that everything would be clear.

I loved college. Loved it. Life was one big party, peppered with frantic bits of studying in between. I didn’t take anything too seriously, and that was just fine. I had time. Because, let’s be honest, being in college is safe—a bit like high school but without parental supervision.

But now? Nothing is safe. I’m swinging along without a net. And it feels surprisingly good. Exciting. Yeah, I might fuck up spectacularly. I might never find what I’m looking for in terms of a career. But I do have one thing.

Ethan. He’s mine. All mine. It’s surprising how completely satisfying that is. And terrifying. If I slip and fall with him, down I’ll crash, all broken and damaged. But at least I want to fight for him.

I used to think maybe a guy would make me whole. But that’s not really the truth. It’s up to me to figure my shit out, but Ethan makes the struggles easier to bear. He’s my reward when it’s all said and done.

And this place? I’m done with it.

There’s only one thing left to do.

“Fiona?” As if summoned, Elena walks around the corner and notices me sitting at her desk. “What are you doing here?”

Reflexively, my palm pushes against the cool leather of my portfolio. “I was waiting for you.”

Her steps slow, and I wonder if she’s on to me. I give her a bright smile, the same one she’s given me for months.

“I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” My hand is steady as I flip open the case and pull out a stack of drawings.

She hesitates, her hand hovering and a frown on her brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I quit this morning, and I’m thinking of using these for my resume.”

“You quit?” There’s a weird touch of panic in her voice. “But why?”

“I don’t know…” I shrug. “I’m not a good fit here. Felix has a certain vision…” I shrug again.

“Oh, but you’ll get there!” She insists. “I’ll help you.”

I want to laugh at the irony. “So help me now. Quitting is a done deal.”

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.

“Dex.” A pretty brunette saunters up. She’s wearing my jersey, or what remains of it, because she’s cut the sleeves off and tied it into a knot to bare her midriff. “You look tired. I’d love to give you a massage.”

And they wait for me after practice. I shake my head, shrug off her grasping hands, and keep walking. Shockey, on the other hand, slows.

“Aw, honey, don’t waste your time on him. Why don’t you come and keep me company in my post-workout bath?”

The girl eyes me as if she’s trying to figure out if I’ll cave. I don’t break stride. My keys are out, and I’m in my car. Shockey leads the girl away, and I sit back and just breathe in the scent of fine leather.

I don’t care who you are, every guy goes a little crazy when he signs and gets his first big check. You’d have to be inhuman not to. Some go too crazy, buying everything in sight and saving nothing for later. Others get a few big-ticket items and then manage to hold back. Me, I bought a townhouse and a car.

My friends expected me to go in for a truck, maybe an SUV. They were wrong. I fell in love with a sweet little blue Aston Martin Vanquish. Drew instantly wanted one too, but Anna convinced him that he lives in New York City and doesn’t need a car. Now he has to admire mine from afar. Sucker.

I’m probably too big for this car, but I don’t care. I love her. And right now she’s my sanctuary. Okay, she will be as soon as I pluck the numerous perfume-scented notes and scraps of panties that are scattered like snow on the windshield. That people have pawed my car makes my eye twitch.

“Fucking hell…” I take a breath, tossing all of the mess onto the passenger side of my car—because I refuse to fucking litter—and slamming the door shut.

This has to end. Soon. I’m not used to being hounded this badly. I don’t like it. At all.

Worse? It’s not going away. It’s growing. I’m the butt of every damn sex joke in sports right now. Maybe I shouldn’t be embarrassed. But I am. My skin feels too tight and my stomach leaden. Every time a woman approaches me, seeking out her opportunity, it feels like high school all over again.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I turn the car on and pull out. I revel in the act of driving, losing myself in the purr of the engine and the way the car responds to my slightest touch. I’m home too soon.

Only to find my street blocked by a few reporters and groups of desperate chicks—a few guys too, who assume maybe I’m just not yet out of the closet. I drive around to the back of my property and park in the small carriage garage.

The engine ticks as I sit there, not wanting to get out.

The team’s PR department loves this mess. I’m getting attention—not for drugs or violence, but for being virtuous, which is like a hidden gold mine for them. More ticket sales, more press.

Ivy tells me I should just come out and confess to being with Fi. Or she did until I asked point blank, “And do you honestly believe they’ll leave her alone?”

No. Ivy couldn’t assure me of that.

I think of Fi, the one perfect thing in my life. I want to keep her safe, shelter her from all this ugliness. Just keep her. Forever. She’s mine. Mine to protect. And I really don’t give a shit if that makes me sound like a caveman. Because, frankly, Fi drags the caveman out of me and sets him front and center.

But the truth of the matter hits me like a hammer to the chest. Right now, with all of this shit going on, Fi doesn’t need protection from anything but me.