Chapter 18
R ain comes down in torrents, in heavy sheets of fat water.
It’s the kind of rain that seeps into your bones and makes you shiver even when the temperature is sweltering enough to make you sweat on top of the rain.
It’s oppressive and miserable, but thankfully I’m wearing rain gear since I’m not playing.
“Settle down, Rookie,” I speak into my mouthpiece that goes directly into his helmet speaker.
“Balls are going to drop like panties on prom night in this weather. Focus on the defense. If you’re slow, so is the defense coming at you.
Fade right and hand off left. They won’t expect it.
We’re six minutes away from tying this game, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to stand out here for fucking overtime. Let’s win this shit now.”
The rookie grunts, but he calls out the play I just suggested in the huddle.
There isn’t much of a crowd here tonight.
Preseason, mixed with monsoon-like conditions, keeps fans watching from the dry comfort of their sofas.
Right now, it feels like a scrimmage or a shitty high school game, but we lost our first preseason game, and as much as it chides my ass to help this kid take over my role, I also want my team to win.
I won’t have a shot to win back my spot for another two months, at the earliest, and when— if —I return to the team as the starting quarterback, I want us to be in a position to make the playoffs and win it all.
The center snaps the ball to the kid, and he drops back into the pocket, tucking the wet ball against his chest. He does the fake to the right only to spin around and hand it off left.
The spin was some unnecessary fancy bullshit, and he’s lucky it didn’t cost him because the fake worked.
Our running back secures the ball with two hands and shoots straight up the field with hurried, determined strides, his singular focus, the end zone.
One. Two. Three defenders all come chasing, but our running back is fast and books it toward that patch of green turf that will deliver six points our way.
No one catches him. No one stands a chance.
He stiff-arms the last defender and jumps over a guy sprawling out as he attempts to catch his legs, and there he is in the end zone.
Touchdown Rebels.
I shoot straight in the air, jumping high off the ground—smart enough to remember to not shoot my arms up with my body—and hollering out in a way you’d think we just won the Super Bowl.
I might not be playing tonight, but the high still gets me every time.
Our kicker nails the extra point, and with just over four minutes left on the clock, I’m feeling good.
The game is far from over, but our defense has held Cinci pretty well all night.
Not to mention, no one wants to get hurt during the preseason.
Trust me, it sucks balls.
The kid comes racing off the field, a smile on his face that easily matches my own. “Nice move, Rookie.”
“Nice call, old man.”
I roll my eyes, but he sobers quickly. “Hey, listen. I didn’t mean what I said about that girl.”
I stare stunned and then wave him off. “We’re cool, man.”
“No.” He grips my arm. “I’d burn down your world if the roles had been reversed and you were talking about one of my sisters that way. I mean it. I’m sorry. Thank you for your help tonight. I needed it.”
Color me shocked.
I hold out my fist and he gives me a solid pound. The kid’s finally learning. Maybe we have a shot this season after all, though it’s far too soon for that kind of talk.
Time ticks off the clock, and Cincy doesn’t pull much in terms of an offense, and we win our first preseason game. Coach goes into the locker room barking at everyone, and I’m starting to like him less and less.
He’s Wynter’s father, but she calls him Joe, and Gary Hathaway, Dad. She hates him, and I’m starting to need to know why more and more. Hiding my situation with Wynter, as well as Mason, is risky for me. It could mean the end of my career here if he found out.
Boston, this team—they’re everything to me.
But so are Wynter and Mason.
I push that off and congratulate my teammates—because that’s my job now that he’s done berating them.
After showering and changing—thank God for hot water and dry clothes—we climb onto the team plane and end up sitting on the tarmac due to thunderstorms back in Boston.
I’ve avoided it all night. All day. I haven’t pulled up the video apps once, but now that we’re sitting and it’s dark and stormy outside and I have nothing better to occupy my thoughts than my big guy and my ice queen back home, I no longer resist. The video feed immediately comes in, and there he is on his back in his crib, arms splayed out on either side of his head.
A hard swallow sticks in my throat.
Good night, big guy. Sweet dreams. I love you. I’ll see you when you wake up.
I continue to watch the feed, still mesmerized by my son and knowing that will never change. I’ve missed so much. Ten months of his life. Ten months of growing and changing. I hated leaving him, even for a couple of nights.
I tap my screen and pull up my text message thread with Wynter, debating if I should write anything. I put all my cards on the table with her the other day, and since that time, I’ve given her space. It hasn’t been easy.
I’m a bull. I charge in and dominate any situation with horns and a lot of snuffing, using my weight and size when necessary.
But that’s not what she needs. She needs to know she can rely on me.
That my words are genuine. I need her trust the way I need oxygen.
Hell, I simply need her. Body, soul, mind, and spirit.
I want to do this. I want to see where it can go.
I’ve never met anyone like her, and I can’t stop thinking about her.
It’s constant and pervasive, and I love it as much as I hate it.
I tap the screen some more and then start writing, only to immediately delete it.
It’s after ten now, and if she’s asleep, I don’t want to wake her.
Joe wasn’t happy about her not accompanying the team to Cincy, but she held firm on her stance about not going, and he relented.
I don’t even know if she knows I’m coming home tonight.
I told her I’d see her Monday because we don’t land until late.
She’s living with me, and I know she sets limits on us for reasons I understand, but I don’t care.
I think she’s it. The real deal.
Now I just have to prove it to her.
The plane finally kicks off the runway, and I settle in for the short flight, my eyes closing only to snap back open when we have a bumpy landing.
Rain is coming down hard in Boston too, along with rumbles of thunder and streaks of lightning.
I drive home, pull into my spot in the underground garage, and park next to Wynter’s car.
Her car is old. And not my first choice for her and my son. I know she must make good money as a surgeon, but I also know how Wynter’s mind works, and I know she’d view a car as a frivolous purchase. She’s pragmatic, whereas I’m adventurous.
We are opposites in so many ways.
Still, I wonder if she’d agree to allow me to buy them one if I said it was in the name of safety and not bestowing gifts. Gifts I’m dying to shower her in.
With a yawn, I get in the elevator and shoot up to my place at the top, ready to crawl into bed and then spend tomorrow with my guy since I have a day off. Only as I reach the edge of my room, I stop dead in my tracks.
Squinting against the thick darkness I take in the form under rumpled blankets and the dark hair spread across my white pillow.
Wynter is fast asleep in my bed.
My groin tightens, making my slacks uncomfortable, so I take them off along with my shirt. Unmasked desire rages through me, and I climb on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight as I move in toward her.
Her body stirs as I climb beneath the covers, and then I roll her until she’s on top of me.
She’s not wearing a lot. I can’t see much of anything, but I can feel, and my hands rove her curves of their own volition.
A thong and a T-shirt—my T-shirt, if the size and smell of it are anything to go by.
She’s so sexy, I can hardly stand not thrusting straight into her.
Her in my clothes, sleeping in my bed like a sneak. Like a thief. It makes me impossibly hard, and I know she feels it since I’m doing nothing to hide it from her.
“Look at this sweet surprise I found waiting for me in my bed.”
She pushes up, planting her hands on the bed on either side of me, her eyes wide in shock. “I didn’t know you were coming home tonight.”
I grin. “That doesn’t explain how you got here.”
She licks her lips, the outline of her features barely visible against the streetlamps that filter through my blinds. “I had a nightmare. A bad one and I woke up, and then it was storming.”
I run my fingers across her face and back through her hair, my other hand on her hip beneath the shirt.
“And?”
Her face twists in annoyance. “And I’m leaving.”
In a flash, I roll us until she’s pinned beneath me. “Try again.”
“Get off me, Asher.”
“Why did you come to sleep in my bed and put on my T-shirt?” I want her to answer because there are only so many explanations for it.
“Screw you.”
“It’ll be the other way around. But first I’d like your answer.” My hand pinches her ass, and she yelps.
“Move!”
“Tell me first, and then I’ll move.”
“Argh.” She smacks my good shoulder—ever the conscientious doctor—in frustration. “You’re such an ass. Fine. I was scared. I was alone in this big, dark apartment that’s not mine and… I needed… I don’t know.”
“The smell of me to comfort you?”
Her head turns away, her expression pinched. “Yes. Happy now? Move!”
With a wicked grin she’s missing, I slide down her body, heading beneath the blanket. Straight for her pussy.
“What are you doing?!” She gasps, lifting the covers up so she can see me.