27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aston Martins, Ambushes + a Human Shield
Luca
I’ve only ever had one truly serious relationship.
It’s not that I’m jaded or a skeptic when it comes to love.
I simply never had the capacity to give a woman my all.
My father always insisted that you can’t claim to care for a woman if you can’t provide for her, and the women my mother envisioned for me required a great deal of “providing.” I stayed away from anything real until I could offer a life worth sharing.
Now, I can provide. And I’m certain that Aspen is the only woman I want to give it all to.
Given the texts flooding my phone all morning, it’s clear my mother isn’t quite so convinced. My parents raised me to lead, and even though they’ve never seen me this headstrong over a woman, let alone one they’ve never actually met, I have to do this my way.
Everyone in my life is used to me choosing the “right” path.
The one with the least resistance and the lowest risk.
They seem to forget that I’ve been trained to make split-second decisions while the weight of the world is pressing on my shoulders.
I know I’ve stumbled. I know I’ve made a mess of balancing my personal and professional lives, but it’s time everyone met a different version of me.
This is the version that says fuck it all the moment he realizes he’s about to lose the best thing that ever happened to him.
My mother’s dreams of me marrying Nigerian royalty need to be passed down to my younger brother. I’ve already found my forever. And she prefers red-bottom Jordans over red-bottom pumps.
My forever is also insanely stubborn, drives me absolutely insane, and I can’t stop getting hard around her.
The next morning, I can’t even look at her.
I avoid eye contact like a man with a guilty conscience, certain that if I hold her gaze for too long, she’ll see the replay of last night in my eyes.
She’ll figure out that I dreamed about her until the sun came up and that I had to masturbate in the shower again this morning just so I could stand in this kitchen without wanting to fuck her into the middle of next week.
Even after all that, I’m still a complete mess the second she walks into the room.
“Do you have all your medication packed for the day?” she asks, her voice crisp as she stirs the tea I prepared for her.
However, she's officially banned me from bringing her breakfast or anything else in bed. She said it was “too confusing.” I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t confused at all, but I forced myself to remember the goal. Slow. Meticulous.
Make her come to you.
Then make her come all night.
“I’m not taking any meds with me,” I say, leaning against the counter. “I’ll take my morning dose here, but I’m leaving the bottle at home.”
She stops stirring and just stares at me. “And why would you do something that stupid?”
“Because I don’t like operating under the influence of anything. It’s bad for my game.”
I leave out the part about not wanting to look weak in front of a pack of seven and eight year olds.
“You have no game, dumb-ass!” she snaps, waving a spoon at me. “You’re injured. And you’re going to stay that way if you don’t allow your body to heal the right way.”
Fuck, I hate it when she sasses me. I love it when she sasses me.
“I don't need drugs to heal, Aspen.”
She lets out a heavy, frustrated sigh. “No, it’s not strictly necessary, but it’s beneficial. You need the relaxants so your muscles can repair themselves without constant strain or pressure. You're being stubborn just for the sake of it.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. My tone is final.
She huffs, spinning around and heading toward the door. “Fine. Break your other damn leg for all I care. Don't expect me to be there to pick your ignorant ass up when you fall, either.”
I watch her go, shaking my head as a smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. She may not be Nigerian, and she certainly isn't “proper” by my family's standards, but God, she sounds exactly like my mother when she’s been crossed.
When we reach the parking garage, the morning air is thick with the kind of humidity that ruins expensive clothes. I instinctively pivot toward my Aston Martin. Aspen, however, keeps walking until she reaches her white medical van.
“I’m not riding in that,” I say, stopping dead in my tracks.
She doesn't even slow down. “You planning on driving yourself then?”
“We normally take the Aston,” I remind her, gesturing toward the masterpiece of British engineering she’s currently ignoring.
“Yes, Luca. We take your car when we go to your appointments. But I actually have a job to do today as well.”
I blink, my internal calendar short-circuiting. “Since when?”
“Since Tatum asked me to run a clinic at the same time!” she calls out over her shoulder.
“And you didn't bother mentioning this to me?”
She stops and spins around, her keys jingling in her hand. “Why? Am I supposed to ask for your permission or something?”
“It’s common courtesy, for Christ’s sake!” My voice rises, fueled by caffeine and the sheer nerves of showing facing these kids.
This is one of the biggest days of my comeback. My image is currently being held together by wood glue and prayers. I’m supposed to make a grand entrance, for crying out loud!
“You actually want me to arrive at a high-profile media event in a fucking van?”
“Do. You. Want. To. Walk. There?” she asks, punctuating every word with a look that suggests she’d enjoy watching me try.
The sass is becoming dangerous. She is testing every ounce of my restraint, and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can hold back. My brain suggests several options, most of which involve shutting that mouth of hers with mine, but I have to wait.
I need to be able to cup her cheek with one hand while the other is buried deep inside her, and right now, I can barely hold my own temper—let alone balance on these fucking crutches.
See what you do to me, wife? You have me standing in a parking garage picking a fight with a van because I’m so starved for your attention that I’ll take the venom if I can’t have the honey.
She ignores my simmering temper tantrum and climbs into the driver's seat. The engine turns over with a utilitarian rush. She doesn't look at me as she shifts into reverse.
Then, my beautiful, infuriating wife actually drives away.
Aspen
I went back for him. I nearly peed my pants at the look on his face in the rearview mirror when he actually thought I was leaving him stranded.
I just needed to show him that I don’t respond to force.
Not that kind, anyway. I don't care what the fine print of this marriage says, I won't be treated like anything less than an equal partner.
And this partner has a community to serve.
On the drive to the park, he apologized for being an idiot. I forgave him, but I made it clear that if he ever raised his voice at me like that again, I’d throw him out of my moving van.
He didn't miss a beat. He told me that if I raised my voice at him again, he’d stick two fingers inside my mouth and make me beg. I’m not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean, but my panties have been drenched for the entire twenty-five minute drive.
I can’t believe I actually masturbated while thinking about him.
I can’t believe how undeniably cute we were on that damn screen, or that he was actually willing to walk away from all of that.
I can’t believe he just walks around the house with his shirt off like it’s not a public health hazard.
And I really can’t believe that despite every instinct inside me screaming to run, I still want this man.
He pulls things out of me, challenges me, and reshapes me in ways I never thought possible. I hate him. I hate him so much that I never want to be anywhere but by his side.
He’s been on the phone with friends and teammates all morning, and I can’t believe how calm he is.
He’s exactly like he was in Vegas—unfazed, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s tied his life to mine.
Back then, just like me, he was only there for the adventure.
But it still feels like he’s treating this like one.
I, on the other hand, am a vibrating mess of nerves. I don’t do public spectacles. I loathe the idea of people passing judgment and drawing conclusions about a part of my life I never invited them into.
My phone has been ringing incessantly since last night.
My mother has officially threatened to disown me, calling so many times that I eventually just shut the device off to stop the ambush.
The girl voted “Most Likely to Succeed” in high school has officially become a reality television spectacle.
A woman with a husband she barely knows.
A husband she introduced herself to by burping.
Mother-dearest must be so proud.
But, I shake thoughts of side eyes and scrutiny out of my mind. Today is about the children. I told myself my mom could wait until I was done with my big day. Or, perhaps she’d finally have a heart attack she’s been threatening and I wouldn’t have to address her at all.
I glance over at Luca as we pull into a parking spot.
“Do you need help getting out of the van?” I ask, remembering how much he leaned on my shoulder just to climb in.
“I’m fine,” he says. He hops out and completely neglects to grab his crutches.
I shake my head. The man is determined to re-injure himself.
I grab my bag of medical supplies and head toward the auditorium of Chapman Park, the oldest park in Cinnamon Grove.
The town founder refused to tear it down because it was once the only place Black children were allowed to play before the neighborhood was gentrified.
The Rose family was actually responsible for refurbishing it and ensuring the grounds remained safe and clean for everyone.
It’s how Ms. Lilly got us the permission to use it.
I reach into the back of the van, my fingers fumbling with the strap of my medical bag.
My mind is still a chaotic loop of last night’s footage and the way my husband is able to unnerve me.
I take a breath, trying to center myself before I have to face a room full of energetic kids and the judgmental eyes of the town's elite.
When I pull the bag out and kick the door shut, the world suddenly explodes.
“Aspen! Mrs. Chidubem! Ms. Hunter, over here!”
“Is the marriage a PR stunt for the Strikers? For Luca, since he’s been causing so much trouble?”
“How does it feel to be the most hated woman in Cinnamon Grove for scooping up the most valuable player in the game?”
I freeze. The click of camera shutters sounds like rapid-fire drumming, and the flashbulbs turn the morning sun into a blinding white. I am surrounded in seconds. Microphones are shoved toward my face, and the air is sucked out of the space between me and a dozen strangers with press badges.
I’ve never been a story before.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and a cold prickle of panic rises in my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
“Please! Just let me go! I don’t have anything to say!”
I’ve always wondered how I’d handle a “fight or flight” situation and I’m ready to fight. It’s taking everything in me not to remind these people that Georgia is an open-carry state. I’ve got a piece on me at all times, but I’m fairly certain drawing it wouldn’t bode well for Luca’s image.
Then, the sea of reporters parts as if it’s been hit by a hurricane.
A massive, warm weight settles against my side. A heavy arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me flush against a chest that feels like solid granite.
“Back up,” a voice growls, and vibrates right through my spine.
I look up and see Luca. He’s hurting, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of moving without his crutches, but his eyes are like flint. He’s favoring his good leg so heavily he’s practically tilting, yet he stands between the reporters and me like a human shield.
“No comment, ladies and gents,” Luca says, his voice coolly dismissive as he shooes them away with a sharp flick of his free hand. “We have a schedule to keep. Give my wife some space and I’ll give you all an exclusive once I’m done here.”
He doesn't wait for them to respond. He pivots, tucking me under his arm and guiding me toward the auditorium doors.
I can feel the hitch in his step, the sharp, rhythmic catch of a man in agony.
Every stride he takes to get me away from the crowd is a gamble with his career, a literal tearing of the progress he's made.
The doors swing shut behind us; the silence of the hallway feels like a vacuum.
Luca finally lets go of me, reaching out to steady himself against the brick wall. His breathing is shallow, his face drained of color as he winces.
I look at him. For real. And in this moment, the wall I’ve been building develops a massive crack. He risked a permanent setback just to keep me from being scrutinized under those lights.
“I remembered how much you said you hated people in your business like that,” he pants.
“You are such a bloody idiot,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I reach out to catch his arm before his leg gives way.
He looks down at me, a ghost of that arrogant, Vegas smile touching his lips. “Maybe. But are you alright? Did anyone hurt you? Sports journalists can be aggressive.”
I wave him off, shaking my head. “I’m fine. How are you? How’s your leg?”
It’s his turn to wave me off. “I’m fine, mummy,” he jokes. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”
He begins to walk towards the doors and I almost forget.
“Luca?”
He pauses. Then turns. “Yes, Ms. Mysterious?”
I can’t help the smile. “Thank you.”
He shrugs. “What are fake husbands for?” Then he walks out the set of doors.
I check my watch, the glass catching the harsh overhead lights of the auditorium.
Parents and children have already begun filing in, their chatter filling the room.
Thankfully, due to the strict nature of medical exams and patient privacy, the security team steps in, firmly barring any cameras from following anyone inside.
The heavy doors shut with a definitive thud, finally cutting off the vultures and their flashes.
Outside, the morning sun catches the hard lines of Luca’s back as he makes his way toward the field. He’s walking slowly. Without his crutches, every single step looks like a brutal battle against gravity.
I turn back to my medical supplies, a knot of cold anxiety tightening in my stomach. I just hope, for his sake, that Croix is equipped (and willing) to catch him when he inevitably falls.