Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Trent stood on the sidelines, watching practice with his sling and an ice pack on his shoulder.
Friday practice on the bye week came with pads and contact.
It was day five of his recovery and, in spite of her promise, Charlie had forbidden him from participating today though his recovery was on pace.
He listened to the sportscaster complain about how the team had been doing well, on the precipice of clinching the playoffs, but that the injury to the star quarterback derailed everything.
Then the too-slick young man turned Trent’s way and his camera crew followed.
Charline clutched his arm as if she expected conflict, as if to protect him.
The surge of something disturbingly pleasant made him smile as he wrapped his arm around her.
The warmth behind his smile disappeared.
He shouldn’t read too much into her tension.
“Trent, tell us about your injury. How’s the shoulder?”
“I’m a rare specimen as always, Hank. Can’t you tell?
I’ll be joining the team with the pads on next week.
” Cheeky smile in place, it was tough to pretend the sling and ice pack were invisible, but Trent relied on his usual cavalier persona.
It masked the swirl of emotions caught up around his high hopes for the treatment, the fear of giving away their secret, and Charline’s vibrating tension at his side.
It wasn’t the reporter who turned Charline’s anxiety switch on, it was the team doctor a couple of steps behind him.
Dr. Briscoe wore a smug look and Ralph, keeping pace at his side, looked worried.
Interrupting Trent’s impromptu interview with the reporter wasn’t an option with the TV camera pointed at them.
“According to Dr. Briscoe, your shoulder needs testing and Dr. Morneau has been less than cooperative, is that so?”
Briscoe got himself positioned into the camera angle and spoke.
“I’ll field that question. You’ve mischaracterized my statement. Trent’s shoulder is progressing as planned. Dr. Morneau is Trent’s fiancée, not his doctor.” He turned to her, “After all, she’s a pediatrician, isn’t that right, Dr. Morneau?”
Fear of discovery froze her insides. She felt Trent hold her closer, felt his protective warmth bolster.
Not enough to chase the vision of her boss Dr. Hogarth’s reaction if he ever saw this news clip.
She nodded. It was best not to explain now that she only volunteered as a pediatrician in a clinic.
Ralph surprised her when he spoke up and the camera panned over to him.
“Dr. Morneau is an excellent doctor.”
The reporter ignored Ralph and aimed his microphone at Briscoe. “My sources say that Dr. Charline Morneau is involved in medical research—”
“Hank,” Trent interrupted, his arm like steel around her now, “if you don’t have any more questions about football, I have other things—”
“I’d like to know who’s treating your injury—”
“I am,” Briscoe said. “He’s doing well.”
“I’ll be ready for Monday Night Football. Watch out for prime time.” Trent flashed his brilliant smile for the camera. Charline thought he looked equal parts charming and deadly.
Then he ushered her away from the camera with Ralph following closely behind.
After a meaningful look from Trent, Briscoe followed.
She wanted to throttle the team physician for giving mixed signals at best, and bad press at worst, trying to discredit her on camera.
Opening her up to scrutiny. Had he been behind the reporter’s question about her work in medical research?
She couldn’t imagine what Trent would do to Briscoe if it turned out he was the reporter’s source about her working in medical research. And she suspected he was.
Coach Parker caught up with them as they came to the tunnel exit to the parking lot at the juncture of the passageway to the team offices.
“What the hell was that all about, Briscoe?” Coach put a hand on the physician’s shoulder, stopping him. In that moment, Charline decided she liked Parker. Up until then she’d been on the fence. Now it was clear he was in Trent’s corner. And that was the same as her corner.
“Don’t ask me, ask Dr. Morneau.” He spat her name as if she were a suspect in . . . something. Or maybe it was her imagination because she felt like a suspect. She was guilty of so much subterfuge at this point.
“I’m asking you, damn it. Why did you bring Charline into the conversation? You had no business mentioning her. And with her standing right there.”
“It’s all right, Coach,” she heard herself say.
“No, Coach is right, Charlie.” Trent joined Parker against Briscoe.
“You should have let me handle the interview, Briscoe. You’re not a team spokesperson, let alone my spokesperson.
” He paused a beat to let his stare and his words sink in.
“Don’t let it happen again.” Trent spoke in his deadly-soft game voice, the kind she’d only seen on film clips when she’d done her research on him, the kind that gave her chills as if he were threatening bodily harm as the consequence. Maybe he was.
Parker nodded in clear approval and agreement with Trent.
Briscoe compressed his mouth to a white line and furrowed his brows so deep his eyes were almost hidden.
Charlie watched his face redden and the physician’s side of her brain went into alert, watching for signs of red-zone blood pressure and stroke.
Without saying anything, he darted one more glare at her then turned and walked down the corridor toward the offices.
Letting out her breath, she did not throw her arms around Parker, but she wanted to. Instead she touched his arm and said thank you.
“You don’t deserve that shit.” Parker looked up at Trent. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch, Lockheed. Always have been. Don’t blow this.” With that, Coach Parker went down the same long, dark hall, presumably to his own office.
“I wonder what he meant by that,” Ralph said.
Trent shrugged. “Don’t get paranoid, Ralph. He doesn’t know anything. He’s telling me to hang onto Charlie.”
“He’s telling you to hang onto your shoulder and win the game,” she said.
Trent grunted and pushed the door open. They filed out into the evening.
“I’ll be glad to get home tonight,” she said as she looked at their two cars parked side by side.
His slick and new and fast and expensive, hers safe and dull and serviceable.
Maybe their cars summed up the differences between them.
She didn’t feel like she was cut out for his glittery life in front of the cameras with fame and money giving the illusion of privilege.
She knew firsthand there was no such thing, that taking things for granted was delusional behavior. But Trent wasn’t guilty of that, knew all too well the cost of living, that flesh and blood was what everyone was made of and it all had an expiration date.
“Why?”
She hadn’t expected the simple genuine question, but he deserved a genuine answer.
“I’m tired, Trent.”
“Something tells me you’re not talking about the kind of tired that’s cured by a nap.”
“Astute as always.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts. They flew around her head, driven by emotions. Gathering her emotional turmoil, calming it down, was impossible. At least it seemed so while she was in his presence. Pathetic.
“You’re right. I need a break.” She waved a hand through the air. “From all this, the pretense, the lies, the fear, the tension. Sleep too.”
He nodded. “It’s not all pretense, you know.”
Her heart stuttered and this was her opportunity to be honest, more honest with herself and him, than she’d been.
“I do know. That’s what I need a break from most of all.”
He nodded, looked a little sad, a little disappointed, and a lot fully cognizant of what she meant. He didn’t question her further. She didn’t explain any more. It was as emotionally brave as she could be right now. It was as much emotional torture as she could take or administer.
The pain that she couldn’t face a real emotional connection, a real relationship with him, felt like a singe to her soul. The fact that she wanted one, that the buds were there ready for nurturing, gave her painful hope. And the pain of crushing those buds nearly made her nauseated.
Because she saw all the pain mirrored in him. And that twisted her gut most of all. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was hurt Trent. The fear of any harm, physical, emotional, or even career, coming to Trent was a growing thing, something she couldn’t stop.
And it was the biggest clue that what she felt for him was not pretend. It was far too real.
“Fine,” he said in a voice that meant the opposite. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
She frowned.
He leaned in as if he were going to give her a parting kiss and whispered, “Charlie, we’re going to dinner with Jamie and Violet tomorrow night. Don’t try and get out of it. No matter how much you despise the pretense, the game is still on and we’re committed.”
“I . . . forgot.” She wanted to tell him she didn’t despise him, she wanted to say all kinds of things to ease his obvious hurt, but she didn’t. It would only make things worse. Their relationship—whatever it was—was doomed no matter what. It had always been meant to be temporary.
“I’ll be up to it.” She lifted her chin, but didn’t smile.
His face hovered close to hers. She could feel the heat of his breath.
The closeness of his mouth tortured her.
She wanted him to kiss her, knew there was no reason for it, no one around to impress, knew if he did it would be for personal reasons, not even for lust—but for the kind of romantic reasons they weren’t supposed to have between them.
After several hurried beats of her heart, staring into his telling eyes, watching them harden against her, he pulled away.