28
Kennedy
I woke up late. Surprisingly late considering I’d been up well before seven every day for the last few months. But now it was after ten.
Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, I realized I’d forgotten to charge it. I plugged it in and unlocked the screen. There were several voicemails and text messages from the night before.
The first voicemail from Nash had come in just after eleven here, so after two in the morning in New York. I pressed Play.
The background was quiet, so I guessed he was at home.
Nash himself, though, was anything but quiet.
He was quite wound up about something, slurring as he rambled about how much he missed me .
. . something about love, alcohol, and distance.
At one point, the sound cut off, only to pick up a few seconds later with him confessing he loved me.
That he’d always loved me. Then a chuckle, followed by a broken little sob as he admitted he was drunk.
The message ended with him whispering that he missed me. And that he was sorry.
Sorry about what?
My stomach twisted as I moved on to his texts.
There were several. A few incoherent words, and then a few pictures.
The first was . . . of his shoe on the hardwood floor.
I could make out the dark sheets on his bed in the background.
I realized that he must in fact have been a lot more drunk than I’d thought.
He’d probably meant to send me a picture of something else.
I couldn’t help but giggle even though everything about his messages made me nervous.
There was another picture. This one of his bare chest and the lower half of his face. He needed a shave, but the stubble only made him look more masculine. More rugged. More . . . sexy.
The last picture was blurry, but there was no mistaking it: Nash’s chest, his incredible abs, the faint trail of dark hair leading from his belly button into the waistband of his boxers—boxers that left nothing to the imagination. A very prominent erection strained against the fabric.
The text under it just said, “I miss you.”
Tears stung my eyes, and I bit down hard on my bottom lip to keep from crying.
I forced myself to open the last message. It wasn’t from Nash but from Josh Sampson, and there were no words, just a few pictures.
A beautiful woman with a blond ponytail whom I recognized as Amy stood next to Nash while he sat on a barstool, his elbow resting casually on the counter. Her hand was on his shoulder, her eyes locked on his. He looked tired but still attentive, like she was asking him something.
The next picture was worse. Taken from the side, it showed just how low-cut her top was, and how Nash’s eyes were staring straight down her cleavage. That stung, but what really got me was the confident little smirk on her face, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
He’d said he was sorry. Sorry for what, exactly?
My chest tightened as I lowered the phone.
What the hell had he done?
My stomach rolled over, and I bolted out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before everything I had left inside me came up.
Hours later, I sat at my desk, half buried in yet another report, when Nash’s name lit up my phone. My heart raced as I closed the laptop, shoved it aside, and answered.
“Babe . . .” Nash’s voice was low and rough.
“Nash,” I breathed, the word coming out more like a sigh. I knew we needed to talk. But I had no idea what to expect, and that made me really nervous.
“I’m sorry, baby. I was drunk last night . . . I don’t even know what I said.” He paused, swallowing hard enough that I heard it. “But please—please believe me. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t cheat. I promise.”
I closed my eyes, biting back a groan. These were the type of conversations we had now, trading promises over the phone, both of us trying to convince the other. Him swearing he hadn’t cheated, me swearing I hadn’t done anything with Trevor.
And it was true—I hadn’t done anything with Trevor, or anyone else for that matter.
But Nash? I wanted to believe him, but it was getting increasingly difficult. His reputation and his player background didn’t exactly help my confidence.
“Nash, you know you shouldn’t be drinking during the season,” I lectured, because it was safer than letting my fear show.
He groaned, and I could picture him dragging a hand down his face the way he always did when he was frustrated. “I know, baby. I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . I needed to blow off steam, I guess. It’s been a shitty couple of weeks. My game sucks, the coaches are threatening to bench me, and”—his voice cracked—“I just really fucking miss you.”
I leaned back against the chair and closed my eyes. “You can’t mess with your career like this. You can’t drink like that in season, Nash. You know that.”
He sighed heavily, the sound thick with disappointment, maybe at me but more likely at himself.
“I got some other photos,” I admitted quietly.
“What? Photos? Of what? From who?” he asked urgently.
That annoyed me, because if he hadn’t done anything wrong, why did it matter what photos I had?
“Why did Amy have her hands all over you?” I asked instead of answering.
“Fuck!” he groaned through the phone, and my pulse spiked. “It’s not what you think.”
I wanted to scream, How the hell do you know what I’m thinking? But of course he knew. He always knew. Instead, I forced out, “Nash?” urging him to explain.
“I went out with Mitch and Bryce. Had a few too many—”
I cut him off. I didn’t care about that. “Did you sleep with her?”
“No. I already told you, I didn’t cheat.”
“Yeah, you told me,” I said, my voice breaking.
“But you also told me you were going straight home after the game, and clearly that didn’t happen.
The pictures, Nash . . . the pictures make it look like that’s exactly what you did.
You look fucking horny.” My chest squeezed tight, and a sob tore free before I could stop it.
I knew that look on his face, knew it well.
It was the look he wore when he wanted me, when he was aroused, and I hated seeing it on his face with someone else.
“No, Kennedy. Baby, please, listen to me.” His words tumbled out.
“I didn’t. I swear. Yeah, I was shit-faced and I shouldn’t have been, but I didn’t sleep with anyone, and I didn’t make out with anyone.
All I did was drink myself senseless, but I went home, baby.
By myself. Well, technically Mitchell took me home because I was that gone.
He crashed in the spare room. Call him if you don’t believe me. ”
“This sucks, Nash,” I sobbed, tears sliding down my cheeks. “I hate this.”
“Me too. Me too. I’m so damn sorry.” His voice cracked, then he went quiet. I heard the rush of his breath on the line before he whispered, “Come home, Kennedy. Please.”