Chapter 9
Gabe
The way Joss holds my hand between hers and leans against me as we walk back down the corridor, not a thought — or at least not a word — of protest to returning to the crowd, is everything. And the decision I made back at the house when I decided that rubbing one out wasn’t going to get the job done? Absolutely the right call, even if I’ve spent the night chafed and missed out on an opportunity for a hand job.
It was for the best. I would have made a mess of her pretty dress and not been able to return to the gala. Probably pissed Cora off, too. I know she’s already planning to make a different dress for her show, but I imagine she’ll want this back in one not-cummed-on piece.
Two pieces.
Everything seems to have settled back down to the typical din of polite conversation when we return to the ballroom, but key people are missing, including Merrick and Selene. Emily Hess is attempting to fire up her laser eyes at me, and I’m wondering if we should be making our own exit before the gossips get to speculate too much about why we were absent for so long. I pull out my phone, place another bid on Joss’s quilt to take it over $12,000, and look back up to see Blaise barreling toward me, his date in tow and gesturing like we should gonow.
I don’t get why, though, so I stand my ground, not comprehending why Blaise has his right hand low at his hip, fisted and cocked back slightly, until it’s too late.
He punches me right in the dick hard enough that I hear a cracking sound I’m not sure is knuckle or plastic.
Blaise yelps and backs up, hopping up and down and shaking his fist out.
I buckle over, the protection I went with to keep from tenting my tuxedo pants pinching one of my balls enough to knock the wind out of me.
We already have half the room staring at us. It’s not even the hushed whispers and attempts to ignore scandal from Merrick’s distraction. This is full record scratch, everyone freezing and staring at us, with no idea of what happened. Hell, I don’t know what happened.
“Are you wearing a cup?” Blaise shrieks, his pitch too high, as though he was the one who just clipped his manhood.
“Why did you punch me in the dick?” I fire back, anchoring my hands on my thighs and crouching slightly, which has the dual effect of helping me catch my breath while also comforting me and preparing my body to take another hit because seriously, who knows what Blaise is about to do. But bent knees? Crouched down? This is a position my body knows well. This is safe.
“Whyyyyyyare you wearing a cup?” Blaise screams again. Now the entire room is turned to us. They heard that. I’m gonna have to explain that.
“You . . . punched me . . . in the dick,” I grind out.
Joss rubs my back. Hopefully her attention is more on the punch than the cup.
“You left me out of chaos,” Blaise whines. He actually whines. Like a toddler. “And you’re wearing a cup! You’re in a tux, and you’re wearing a cup. Who does that?”
I finally get the momentum to straighten myself back up, and fair credit to Blaise, he looks more upset than angry. I might have hurt his feelings. That doesn’t excuse this. I don’t know if anything does. And the idiot is still shaking his right hand out, which has to be scaring any onlooker who doesn’t realize he’s a lefty.
I grab hold of the front of his shirt, yanking him up to me, forcing him on his tiptoes with the extra four inches I have over him. “You need to cool the fuck off,” I snarl at him before shoving him back, making him stumble. I’m not stupid enough to do anything that would hurt him — it’s literally my job to protect his stupid ass — but he needs to remember that Icanhurt him far more easily than he can hurt me. Linemen don’t lose entire seasons because of hits from quarterbacks, but that’s something he has to fear with every single play.
The motion is enough to galvanize the nearby teammates. Reuben Janns, defensive line, is the closest to me, and he’s a fair fight. He’s not a fighter, though, not off the field. Neither of us is. So when he puts one hand on my chest, flat against me, not even pushing, and nods once at me, I lift my hands and nod back. On my other side, Kai Bodley takes hold of Joss’s arm and starts to pull her away from me.
It’s a smart move. He’s doing the right thing. If things blow up, it’s better if Joss is out of the danger zone.
But I don’t like it. She doesn’t need protection from me. I protect her. Not Kai. “Gabriel,” Reuben says with an air of warning and a firmer hand when my attention snaps to Kai. I have to swallow the knot in my throat.
Meanwhile, Blaise is still running his mouth. “It was a joke! What’s a nut shot between friends? You’re the asshole for wearing a cup!”
He’s as yet unrestrained. Protect the quarterback. Take down anyone trying to hurt him. He takes one foolish, arrogant step toward me, putting himself in range for me to dart my hand out before anyone can stop me and grab his shirt to pull him in. “Get fucked, Sinclair,” I yell in his face, and he’s lucky I don’t headbutt his stupid face for good measure.
Reuben manages to grab me by the elbows and pin them behind me, restraining me, and Blaise sees it as an opportunity to clock me. He brings his already-bloody right hand back and swings.
Just as Lin Huang attempts to pull him back.
And gets punched right in the face.
“Oh, you little shit!” Lin hisses and then, despite being the smallest and usually most timid guy on the team, launches himself at Blaise, knocking him to the ground.
Reuben and Kai forget about me as everyone dives in, attempting to separate the two, but both are slippery as eels, on and off the field. I take the opportunity to grab Joss and hustle her out of the venue. We’re halfway to the exit when I hear Blaise bellow, “Barbecue Express, bitches!”
This is a disaster.
Outside, I keep a close hold on Joss while we wait for the valet to bring the car around. A lot of people are standing out here with us. They’re all glaring at me, like they know I was the one who set off the chain of events that ruined the fundraiser.
“Fuck, the fundraiser,” I mutter and dig out my phone.
“It’s okay, everyone can still bid whether they’re here or not,” Joss says. “I’m sure everyone already decided what they want and are tracking.”
“Right, I’m tracking.” I’m already pissed that Blaise had to go so extreme and make it a point to embarrass me in the process. If I lose the quilt, I’ll be livid.
“Oh? What are you tracking?”
I start to tell her what her quilt is going for when I notice the Allores nearby. Good people. Their little one started walking a few weeks ago so they never hang out at the Jug House where several of us single guys live, but I’m Uncle Gabe to baby Shelby. Hell, I’m babysitter #3 after his parents and the Moraleses.
I’ve nearly forgotten the way they seemed to give me the cold shoulder inside. I’m sure I misread it. Keira talks constantly about hooking me up with one of the cheerleaders she manages. I always laugh it off because I don’t want them to be disappointed that it’s not one of the younger, more attractive guys. I’m sure she’s happy I brought a legitimate date.
But her scowl says otherwise. The look on Evan’s face after she whispers something to him and then pushes him toward me confirms it.
He looks between us as he approaches, scratches the back of his burgundy mohawk, laughs awkwardly. Evan’s not a nervous guy by nature. If I’m being honest, he’s usually too dumb to know when he should be worried. But there’s a wobble in his voice when he says, “Hey, big guy. Mind a quick bro-to-bro chat?”
My side cools as Joss shrinks away from it.
I don’t care that what we know about each other is casual anecdotes shared over pizza and wings or that to everyone else, it looks like I’m desperate and clinging to the first pretty girl who would give me the time of day. She’s made me happy today, and it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve been this excited to find out where things might go.
I reach out to pull Joss right back to my side. “You wanna say something, say it.”
Evan’s a big guy for his position, but he’s not as big as me. It’s not mass so much as momentum that he relies on. This close, there’s no contest.
But he looks back at Keira, and she gives him this bitchy little mean girl pout that just about sets me off, and it’s enough for him to brave it. “Listen, Shaunessy, I get that you’re new to Wilmington, and I’m sure you’re a real nice lady, Miss Edgars, but—”
“It’s Page now, Joss Page,” she says so softly that I doubt Allore can even hear her.
And I don’t like that. She’s so intimidated that she’s not even comfortable correcting her name? Fuck that.
Evan scowls, his thick eyebrows dropping low, but I know that face enough to know he’s not mad, he’s trapped. “With all due respect, ma’am—”
I cut him off right there because I know exactly where a phrase like that goes. I step in and take hold of his shirt so he can’t back away. My left eye is momentarily blinded by a cellphone flash. “You will treat her with all due respect. What happened in the past is in the past. I don’t fucking care—”
“I don’t want you to be hurt!”
There are several cameras turned our way now. We’re gonna be lucky if this doesn’t make it to SportsCenter. Evan is the second-highest-paid safety in the league. This is definitely going to be in the gossip rags’ sports sections within the hour.
“Then you either apologize to Joss for whatever you were thinking about saying or you go the fuck away.”
He swallows and looks to Joss, has the audacity to lead with, “I’m sorry, Miss . . . Miss Page, but my wife’s best friend was one of your husband’s victims.”
Victims.
Goddammit.
I do not want to know.
“I’ll go,” she blurts out, and I hear the warble in her voice. I hear the unshed tears.
I shove Evan back so hard he stumbles into someone holding up their phone, knocking him on his ass, but we’re saved by valet.
“We’re leaving,” I tell Joss as I help her into my truck. “Together.”