Chapter 8
Eight
Finn
“I hate flying,” Dex grumbles at my side. “And I hate wearing a suit.”
Having come directly to the plane from leaving what will now be known as The Game of Suck, none of us had time to change out
of our suits. Most of the guys have ripped off their ties. Dex has his jacket wadded up on the armrest between us and is currently
digging his big elbow into it as if he can somehow grind the poor thing into dust.
“Flying sucks.” Make no mistake, we have it good in first class. The seats are big, and the food is all right, but it still
wears on you. There’s a loneliness to it. Especially when you’re coming home to an empty house. I used to like that. I’d crave
alone time after being with my team for all hours of the day. Now I think of walking into my dark place, reheating some chicken
and rice to eat in front of the TV, and it just . . . sucks.
“But every time I want to bitch about the suits,” I say to Dex, “I think about what women wear and shut the fuck up.”
Dex grins, which makes him look downright mercenary with that thick beard of his. “Yeah. The heels are for shit. I don’t know
how they do it. Although, I think I might straight-up cry if they stopped wearing those pretty bras and panties.”
There’s a slight flush on his cheeks that makes me think he’s got certain sets in mind.
“You thinking about your girl, Dexter?” I grin, giving him a nudge.
Dex leans his head back and closes his eyes as if in pain. “I try not to. Makes it worse, you know?”
I almost tell him that I do know, the response so immediate that I gurgle.
Because, what the fuck? I don’t have a girl.
Then who the fuck have you been thinking about all week? Why is it that your empty apartment now feels like a tomb instead
of a refuge?
Facts must be stated.
I miss Chess. I miss her like I’m being denied air.
Running a hand over my face, I stifle a groan. Doesn’t do any good. My mind is still filled with Chess. God, I actually sent
her a care package of gelato. I got giddy as a preteen, wondering if she’d like it and which flavors she’d try first.
“Your girl,” I say to Dex. “She’s Ivy Mackenzie’s sister?” Ivy Mac, as our world knows her, is an up-and-coming sports agent
and the wife of Gray Grayson, a brilliant tight end who, unfortunately, does not play for us.
“She is.” Dex’s expression can only be described as moony. I wonder if I’ll soon be wearing that same face. Maybe I’ve worn
it already. Shit.
Dex stretches his massive hands wide, then curls his fingers into a fist. “First saw her in college. At Ivy’s house. Knew
she was it for me right then.”
“But you’re just hooking up now?”
Dex slides me a glance. I get it. We don’t usually talk relationships. Hell, Dex doesn’t usually talk. But he doesn’t ask me why I’m so interested, for which I am grateful. Instead, he shrugs one massive shoulder. “Timing wasn’t
right. I told myself it was for the best, that I wasn’t ready, all that shit.”
Quietly, I nod.
“Now that I’ve . . . That we’ve . . .” Dex flushes and clears his throat. “There’s zero hesitation on the field. Seems fucking
stupid to hesitate in life.”
He’s right. I’ve never hesitated in football.
Staring at the seat back in front of me, I feel as if I’ve been suddenly caught doing something wrong. I shift in the narrow
confines of my seat, trying to find room that isn’t there. “What if . . .” I lick my dry lips, too aware that Dex is quietly
watching me. I huff out an uncomfortable laugh. “What if you don’t know what you want? Only that you want something more than
what you have?”
“You talking about Chess?” When I shoot Dex a look, he quirks a brow. “I guess you’re not aware of how much you mention her.”
The heat on my cheeks is because it’s hot as fuck in the plane and I’m wearing my stupid suit jacket. Nothing else.
Dex has the stare of an agent on draft day.
“Okay, yeah,” I blurt, then sigh. “I think about her. A lot.” Always. “We’re friends but—”
“You want more,” Dex cuts in with a solemn nod that I’m pretty sure is his version of “duh.”
“Well, that’s the thing.” I rub my tight neck. “Chess is looking for a relationship with someone. God knows she deserves it.
Yes, I want her.” Understatement. “And I know a one-off isn’t going to cut it.”
I’m not deluded, nor am I ignorant of my dick’s needs. You don’t lust over someone to this level and think it’s going to die
out with one fuck.
“But . . . ?” Dex prompts.
“When I try to imagine past that, my mind goes blank. And I can’t breathe.” I’m not proud of this, but it’s the truth.
I force myself to look at Dex, and find him watching me with a small frown. He doesn’t say anything, and I swear the bastard
does it to make me sweat. I’m about to tell him to forget the whole conversation when he finally speaks.
“She mean something to you?”
“Yes.”
“Without the sex?”
“Jesus. Yes, all right? I’m not a total pig.”
He nods again. “Then leave it alone until you’re certain. Otherwise, you’re just fucking with her head, and that ain’t right.”
The muscles in my chest draw tight, and the stuffy air of the plane closes in on me. “You’re right.”
It hurts to say it. There’s a voice in my head that is protesting the fuck out of agreeing with Dex. It’s probably my dick,
since he’s a selfish bastard. But it’s the region around my heart that aches.
The plane dips and turns on the final landing leg. Below, New Orleans is a faint glitter to one side, the enormous spread
of Lake Pontchartrain an inky blot on the other side.
Home.
Chess is down there. My hand twitches with the desire to pull my phone out and text her, but the flight attendant has already
chastised Gruben for texting. I really should heed Dex’s advice, pull back from Chess for a while. Not seeing her every chance
I get will probably help clear my head.
Then again, Dex had been warning me off sex, not friendship. I can still be Chess’s friend.
As soon as we land, every guy pulls out his phone and is on it. Including me.
BigManny: Just landed. What you up to, Chester?
She doesn’t answer.
I tuck my phone away and try not to be impatient. It’s evening. She might be eating. Or out. On a date. Yeah, not liking that
idea.
I pull out my phone again. Nothing.
BigManny: You out?
Nothing.
I want to leave it alone; she’s under no obligation to respond. But it feels wrong. Like something’s off. Frowning, I stalk down the gate, my teammates chatting around me.
Rolondo is glued to his phone when he halts. “Shit,” he says, turning to look at me.
That quickly, my skin prickles. “What?”
“Isn’t this your photographer’s place?” He hands me his phone, which is running news footage.
The bottom drops out of me. Chess’s building is an inferno. I can’t breathe. For a second, I can’t even see.
I start running, my heart in my throat. If she’s gone . . . No. Nope. No. No.
She has to be okay. She has to be.
Chess
So this is what shock feels like. I’ve always considered myself a fighter. Life slaps at me, I slap back. Yet, here I sit,
smelling of smoke, unable to do more than stare a rusty blot on the floor. Is it blood? Iodine?
Pain radiates along my wrist at a steady rate. My right butt cheek is so sore, I lean to the left to alleviate the pressure.
I’m guessing there’s a massive bruise forming but no one looked, and I don’t really want to, either. Everything else is numb.
The bustle of the emergency room hums in my ears. The sounds are strangely detached from where I sit behind the thin curtains
that surround me. A woman starts retching. My stomach roils.
I’ve been here for hours. Everything moving at a snail’s pace. I’m finally patched up and free to go, but here I sit.
I can’t stay here forever, yet I don’t move. I can’t. I have nowhere to go.
Panic skitters at the edges of my mind, trying to claw at my skin. I push it down deep, where it can’t get me.
I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t.
But I am afraid. I have no home. No one to comfort me. Loneliness is a gaping maw threatening to swallow me whole. A slow shake starts low in my belly, spreading upward and outward.
In the hall, someone is running, soles scuffing on the linoleum. My curtain pulls back with a trilling ring.
Finn strides in, wearing a frown and a perfectly cut navy blue suit.
The urge to cry surges up my throat. I swallow it down, blinking rapidly. “I broke my laptop,” I blurt out.
He doesn’t stop until I’m wrapped in a giant hug. “Honey,” he says in my damp air.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I lean my head against his crisp suit jacket and draw in the scent of wool and soap. He’s so warm and solid, the ice around
my heart instantly starts to thaw. He strokes my hair and then eases back to look me in the eyes. The compassion I see in
his twists my battered heart. “You all right?” he asks.
No. Not even a little. “Fractured wrist. I’ll live.” I just don’t know where.
Finn touches the temporary cast they put on me, then his fingers drift down to skim across my knuckles. “It hurts, I know.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Why is he in a suit? God, he looks good in a suit.
“Someone started watching the evening news when we landed.” Finn’s expression turns haunted. “They were covering your building.”
“Ah.” I don’t want to relive that picture.
His fingers tighten on my shoulders. “Scared the shit out of me, Chess. I didn’t know if you were in there . . .” He trails
off and gives me another hug. Fiercer this time. “Your neighbor, some guy named Fred, was still outside. He told me where
to find you.”
I guess I have something to thank Fred for.
Finn peers down at me when I give a small huff of laughter. His mouth tightens. “You should have called me.”