CHAPTER TWO
Lucas
Austin hums the way cities do when they’re not trying to impress anyone.
It’s loud without being obnoxious. Alive without begging for attention. A place that doesn’t care who you are or what you’ve done—mostly.
Or maybe it does. In my case, maybe it only knows the version of me it thinks is already dead.
I keep my hat pulled low as I walk with the brim shadowing my eyes.
My normally short hair is longer, curling around my ears, and the beard I’m sporting, which helps hide who I am for now, will be gone when I report to camp in the morning.
None of this is because I’m hiding though.
It’s more that I just don’t feel like answering questions tonight.
The ink on my contract isn’t even dry, no press release has been issued, and there hasn’t been an announcement by my agent or the team. Just a quiet arrival with twenty-four hours to get my bearings before camp officially starts.
A few people glance my way as I stroll down the street. A double take here. A pause there.
A murmured, “You look familiar.”
My nonchalant, “I get that a lot,” in response.
I don’t glance at people when they whisper. I don’t acknowledge them in any way. If they’re not certain, then I’m not going to slow down and give them a closer look so they can be.
Besides, this is my time. My calm before the storm of my fourteenth season in the NFL. My last night to have a drink—the ritual I allow myself before the start of every season. Two beers. Nothing more. Once camp begins, alcohol disappears from my life like it never existed.
Discipline matters.
Routine matters.
Especially now. Especially with a shoulder that has put an unwelcome question mark over my career and its future.
I step into a bar that looks busy but not packed. Wood everywhere. Warm lighting. Music’s low enough that conversation can exist without shouting, and it’s the kind of place people come to unwind, not get annihilated.
Good enough.
I slide onto a stool near the middle, nod once to the bartender, and order a beer. Simple and forgettable.
I take a pull on the bottle, welcome the taste, and when I let myself look around, that’s when I notice her.
She’s sitting alone a few seats down near the end of the bar.
Pretty isn’t the right word for her. Gorgeous isn’t either, though she’s definitely that. It’s something quieter. Something softer. Like she doesn’t realize how much space she takes up or how much attention gravitates toward her.
Another thing I don’t do during camp. Date. The distraction is just that when I need to be focused—front and center.
And yet I look her way again.
This time though, I notice something more.
She’s holding a glass of red wine with both hands .
. . as if it’s anchoring her in place. A place I’m not sure she wants to be if the stiffness in her posture is any indication.
She looks around the bar, almost like her head is disconnected from her shoulders, and when she looks my way, I notice how glassy and unfocused her eyes are.
She’s drunk, right? Because something feels off to me. Like she’s not quite present.
And the guy next to her in the pink shirt? He’s too close. Too . . . controlling. Leaning in. Talking at her instead of to her. Putting his hand on her back that she continually shrugs off. Smiling in a way that makes my jaw clench.
Mind your own business, Hale.
I’ve had more media training than I care to remember. More prevention and awareness meetings. So I’ve learned that it’s wiser not to insert yourself into situations you don’t fully understand. Don’t be alone with anyone who could later say you did something to them that you know you didn’t.
Don’t play hero. Don’t play fixer. Many people are out to make a name for themselves off my name—and that includes lawsuits and false accusations.
I take another drink, eyes still focused on the situation at the end of the bar when they shouldn’t be.
The guy laughs. She doesn’t. Is she really that drunk that she can’t form coherent words? Although it looks like the shake of her head and her demeanor reflects a clear no.
The Polo Prick doesn’t move away.
Something cold and uneasy settles in my gut.
I watch longer than I should. Long enough to notice the bartender glance over at them, frown slightly, then look away again when another group calls him over.
“Hey,” I say, getting his attention as he moves past me. “They come in together?” I ask with a lift of my chin in the couple’s direction.
“No. Both separate. Why?” He glances their way.
“I don’t know, something doesn’t feel right,” I murmur more to myself than to him. Stay out of it, Hale.
“Maybe, but she hasn’t signaled for help from me. I’ve stood over there a few times to make sure.”
“Hm. Thanks,” I say and glance back at them. But the bartender’s been busy covering thirty-plus immediate customers as well as the servers bringing in orders from the floor.
She takes another sip of wine, but she almost knocks it over when she sets it down. His hand slides around her waist and he leans in, his lips whispering something in her ear. Her reflex—revulsion—seems to reflect the words her mouth is having trouble forming.
Something is definitely not right.
I drain my beer, set the bottle down harder than necessary, push a twenty spot across the bar, and against my better judgment slide off the stool.
Still at odds with right and wrong and if I should intervene, I take a few steps closer to them to make sure I’m not seeing shit. Worst-case scenario, I help her. Best-case, nothing’s going on and she thanks me for looking out for her.
But I don’t go charging into the situation, and I don’t make a scene. I move even closer, casual as anything, and stop on the side of her opposite of him.
“Hey.” I take the now-empty seat beside her. “You okay?” I ask quietly, hoping the Polo Prick doesn’t notice.
Her eyes flick up to mine. They’re definitely glassy and wage a war of confusion like I’ve never seen before. She studies me with a lax jaw and parted lips as if she’s trying to place me but can’t quite manage it.
“Mm-hmm,” she says. The sound—the one that felt like she was fighting to get it out—and the nod of her head are not in sync.
The guy bristles immediately. “We’re good, man,” he bites out.
We both look at him, but she’s way more unsteady than I am—and she’s sitting down.
“She doesn’t look good,” I say casually.
“She’s fine,” he snaps.
His nostrils flare as the woman starts to stand up but struggles to get her foot off the bottom rung of the barstool she’s seated on. “I . . . I was just about to leave.”
But her body slumps.
“I said she’s fine,” he says, closing his hand over her shoulder. “Right, babe?”
“Babe?” I ask. “But the bartender said you just met.”
The guy stiffens. “What the hell—”
“I think she needs some air,” I say. My voice remains even, but the undertone of don’t fuck with me is unmistakable. “You mind?”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. I do mind.”
Her head tips toward me as her body sways, her shoulder brushing my arm. She struggles to sit up straight.
That’s all it takes for me to know this fucker did something to her—slipped something into her drink. She’s not lucid enough to protest, and she’s definitely not demonstrating her want to go with him.
I can’t just let this go.
“Hey,” I say to her, ignoring him now. “Let’s step outside for a minute, okay?”
She nods immediately. The action is innocent and vulnerable. There’s no way I’m leaving her here with him. Not when it feels like she’s relieved that someone else made the decision for her.
The guy’s fingers curl around her wrist, and every muscle in my body goes tight.
“Don’t,” I warn, tone lethal.
The bartender’s watching now. So are a few other patrons. The guy looks around, calculates how much attention we’ve now attracted, then scoffs. “Whatever. She’s your problem now.”
He releases his hold on her wrist and she sways violently.
I pull her against my side before she can fall, and her head drops against my chest like it belongs there. Like she has no strength or wherewithal to hold it up herself.
Shit.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur without thinking as I virtually carry her out of there with my hand around her waist.
Outside, the night air hits hard. It’s still thick with humidity, but it’s definitely cooler than inside. She inhales sharply but then her knees buckle.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispers as if this is her first clear thought.
“I know. It is.”
“I think—I’m—please get me out of here,” she slurs, her body falling against mine.
I swear under my breath and lift her fully into my arms before she can hit the concrete.
Do I take her to the hospital? Do I call the cops without proof of any wrongdoing? Do I . . . what the hell do I do?
Her head lolls against my shoulder, and her body becomes limp.
“I’m going to call the cops.”
“No. Please. I can’t mess up tomorrow.” It’s the first coherent yet defiant thing she’s said.
And I hate to break it to her but tomorrow seems like it’s already going to be messed up with whatever wicked hangover she’ll have.
Every rule I’ve ever been taught screams in my head.
Don’t be alone with her.
Don’t listen to her. Call the damn cops.
Don’t touch her more than necessary.
Don’t put yourself in a position you can’t explain.
“I’m scared,” she whispers, her fingers clutching weakly at my shirt.
Shit. I can’t exactly leave her here although self-preservation tells me that’s the better of my ideas.
I scan the street. People are everywhere, all coming here for the same thing I was. Music. Laughter. Fun. And they’re all doing just that, so much so that not a single person is paying attention to the man cradle-carrying a woman on the sidewalk.
She mumbles something incoherent. It sounds like, “Please don’t leave me,” but I don’t know for sure.
Fuck.
I don’t know her name, I don’t know who she is, and I don’t know what she drank or how much of whatever that prick slipped into it.
All I know is I can’t walk away when she’s in this state.
I flag down a car with the illuminated rideshare sign in their window. Within seconds I have her in the back seat beside me. I keep my body angled so she’s supported but not pressed against me more than necessary.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“Good fucking question,” I bark out with a laugh that is full of disbelief. “Um, what’s the closest hotel?”
I meet the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He lifts his brows as if to question what exactly I’m doing taking a woman who is clearly out of it to a hotel.
Me too, brother. Me fucking too.
But I’m definitely not taking her to my new place where a million things can be misconstrued. Like a hotel is any better though.
“My sister’s messed up,” I lie. “I need to get her somewhere where she can lie down for a bit.”
“Uh-huh,” he says but puts the car in gear and starts driving.
The ride is a blur though with a million thoughts running through my head. She fades in and out, her head lolling against the window and then my shoulder.
What the hell am I going to do at a hotel? Put her in a room and leave her? Put her in a room and stay with her where I can be accused of a million things?
This is fucking ridiculous.
By the time we reach the hotel, her mumbling is no longer making sense.
I get us two rooms at the front desk.
Two.
Adjoining.
The clerk gives me a look. I don’t explain. I don’t smile. I just slide my credit card and take the keys.
I question myself with every step I take, but I can’t just leave her. Within minutes, I have her in one room, lay her carefully on the bed, and immediately step back.
I prop her on her side, grab one of the complimentary bottles of water on the dresser for her, and place a trash can next to the bed. The hangover basics.
“You’re safe,” I tell her, even though her breathing has evened out and she doesn’t seem to hear me. “You’re safe.”
I retreat to the adjoining room and leave the door between us cracked open in case she wakes up and needs something.
This can go south in so many fucking ways.
I sit on the edge of the bed and scrub a hand over my face.
This is the last shit I need, and yet, what is a guy supposed to do? Let that prick lead her out and do whatever the fuck he wanted to with her when she’s in this state?
I sleep for shit. Every breath. Every movement. Every sound from the other side of the door has me startling awake.
Waiting for her to wake up.
Waiting to make sure she’s okay.
Waiting for the first day of my new chapter in my life to start.
It sure as shit wasn’t supposed to be this way.