Chapter Thirty-Eight
Anna
I don’t see the trouble at first. All I see is Drew. The only thing that occupies my time is the way we instantly click together when I move in. We get along so well, it’s like having an endless sleepover with my favorite person in the world. So of course I miss the signs.
It isn’t until another week passes and his friends start showing up that I notice something’s wrong. For one thing, Drew doesn’t want to see them. These are his teammates. These guys practically live in each other’s pockets. And now? Now Drew is hunched on the far recliner, staring off at nothing, while his boys hang out on his couch, watching an NFL game. They’re a boisterous lot, shouting and laughing and trading good-natured insults. I like them.
They also eat. A lot. I’m bustling back to the kitchen for more chips when Drew snags my arm.
“You don’t have to feed them, babe.”
I run a hand over his hair. “I’m half Irish, half Italian, and all southern, Drew. It’s physically impossible for me not to offer food and drink to company.” Honestly, I think I’d die of shame if I didn’t.
His brows snap together as he glances over at them. “Then I’ll tell them to leave. Problem solved.”
Laughing, I kiss his forehead, and his arm instantly wraps about my waist. I lean into him, because he seems to need it.
“But I like that they’re here. They’re your friends. Which means they’re mine too.”
He grumbles something under his breath, but I ignore it, hoping that his mood will elevate now that he knows I’m not put out by company.
It doesn’t. It gets worse. He sinks into a silence that somehow shouts loud and clear that he’s displeased.
“Yo, Drew,” his friend Rolondo calls over to him. “Man, you need to settle down over there. I swear, you talk any more and you gonna bust a gut.” He grins as he says this and chucks a cheese puff at Drew’s head.
Drew swats it away. “Pretty sure you do enough talking for all of us, ’Londo.”
There’s no humor in his tone. I haven’t had much interaction with the star wide receiver, but I know Drew and Rolondo are close. Rolondo’s glaze flicks to mine, and I see the worry there, and it feeds my own.
It gets worse when halftime comes on, and one of the guys changes over to ESPN. As luck would have it, they’re talking about Drew and his chances of still being a top draft pick. Apparently, most experts had slated him to be the number one pick. Now, with his injury, it’s all up in the air. Everyone stiffens, Drew most of all, but no one seems capable of changing the channel.
The light of the screen flickers off Drew’s stony expression as he watches some oversized guy in a slick suit speculate about his leg. And my heart aches for him. Until they mention their visit to campus. Instantly, my gut plummets. Shit. I’ve been the one who’s gone out for food—or sustenance as Drew’s taken to calling it—and I hadn’t exactly been left alone.
I edge closer to the remote. “Maybe we should watch—”
“Here’s what Anna Jones, Drew Baylor’s girlfriend, had to say,” announces the reporter.
My face shows up on the screen, microphones being shoved under my nose as I try to escape from the parking lot at the Piggly Wiggly. I feel my cheeks heat. God, does my face really look that round?
Instantly, everyone perks up, shooting glances as me, then back at the TV. I can’t even meet Drew’s eyes. I want to cry. I stare at the TV instead. The footage splices to my face, the very moment I’d broken, tired of hearing the doubt in the reporters’ voices, of seeing them turn against their hero. I’d wanted to punch each and every one of them.
“You named him Battle for a reason,” my voice snaps through the speakers. I look angry. I remember that anger. It had fueled me, made my words come out hard. “Because he never quits. You’re going to have to trust that he won’t give up on this either.”
I pushed past them then and escaped in Drew’s car.
My face is positively on fire now. Every eye is on me, but I only care about one set, and he isn’t looking my way. And then I notice that the rest of the guys are grinning.
“You tell ’em, Scarlett,” says Marshall, which for some reason earns him a bap on the head by Dex.
“Ain’t nobody messing with our boy,” Rolondo insists. “Not with our girl kicking ass.”
Gray catches my eyes, and a small, bemused smile plays about his mouth. I blush harder.
And then they’re all laughing and talking as if nothing happened.
I stare at Drew until he finally lifts his head. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and that scares me. I move close to him, afraid to touch him. I shouldn’t have talked. Never talk to the press. Even I know that.
Still not quite meeting my gaze, Drew collects my hand. His is cold and dry as he links his fingers with mine and brings them up for a kiss. “You defended me.” It’s a quiet murmur.
“Of course I did. I’ll always defend you, Drew.”
He presses his lips against my fingers. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“I’m not. I’m only sorry that they had to ask. Of course you’re coming back.”
He looks away. Not long after, he hobbles into our room, claiming that he’s tired. He doesn’t come back out. And from then on, he doesn’t ask the guys over. Avoids them all with a skill that would be impressive if it didn’t worry me so much.
“I only want you,” he whispers against my neck in the dark cocoon of our bed. “Only you.”
It should please me. But it doesn’t.
As long as I don’t think about football, I’m all right. But the world doesn’t want me to stop thinking about football. I’m beginning to resent the claim the game and its fans have on me. I’ve given it my all. I’m tired now.
Coach expects me to come to practice, there’s only one game left, and it’s the National Championship. I need to be there, show my support. The coward in me wants to hide. I don’t want the pitying looks. But my team deserves better from me. So I’ll go. But Coach also wants me to go to physical therapy. I need to stay in form as my leg heals.
I promise to go to PT, but I don’t. I don’t do anything. And it becomes a weight on my chest. But I can’t seem to snap out of it. I know Anna notices. She hasn’t said anything, but it’s coming. She wouldn’t be Anna if she kept her opinions to herself.
Worse? The nightmares. They hit me like a sack. I wake shaking and sweating. It takes me too long to realize that I’m not on the field, my mask buried in mud, turf in my mouth, and my leg bone snapped in half.
But I’m okay. As long as I don’t think about football, I’ll be okay.
Hard not thinking about something you love.
Anna has gone out with Iris. She was antsy as she left, fidgeting with the car keys and kissing me almost absently as she bustled out of the door.
I sit on a stool at my kitchen counter and spin a bottle cap. Is she disappointed in me? Does she want me to go out more? I rub my fingers against the stubble on my jaw. Hell, I haven’t gone anywhere in weeks, not wanting to see people. The last time I ventured out for a checkup, the sheer number of pity pats, get well soons, and you were the best we’d ever had—one incident accompanied by a grown man literally crying on my shoulder, God help me—was an absolute nightmare. I’d broken out into a sweat and almost threw up before Anna had reached the house.
She hadn’t said much then, just that people were fucking weird. When we were safe at home, she’d taken me to bed and kept me occupied for the night. It isn’t right, the way I’m leaning on her. It’s yet another thing I can’t seem to stop.
A knock on the door jerks me out of my funk. I literally flinch, my back tightening and my heart beating too hard. With a snarl of irritation at myself, I push back from the counter and get the door.
Coach stands on the threshold, his weathered face shadowed by a baseball cap. He’s going casual, which, for him, means slacks and a polo shirt. It also makes me suspicious. Coach is probably not aware, but he has tells. A suit means he’s going to kick your ass in a hurry. Casual means he’ll come at you as a friend, hoping to sneak past your resistance before you realize you’ve been played.
“Hey, Coach.” I step back to let him in.
“Drew.” He heads for the kitchen. He’s been here enough to know where it is. Coach helped me pick the place. Helped me pick my ass off the floor when my parents died. And I don’t want him here. The smell of his expensive cologne makes my throat close up.
He turns and looks me over. “How you doing?”
“Good.” I limp to the counter. A half-empty beer bottle rests on it. I want to drink it down, and at the same time, shove it away, hide it from Coach.
I settle for resting my hands on the cold marble. “You want a beer or something?” God, I just want him out of my house. His presence is choking me.
He gives me a level look. “You drink often?”
I can’t help but snort. “I’d like to think I’m not so prosaic as to become a drunk. Or a druggie,” I add because I know his next question will be about my painkillers.
Annoyingly, he smiles in that way of his, like I’ve made him proud. Which makes me want to smash things. But the smile falls. “You’ve missed another PT session.”
What can I say? Nothing. The weight on my chest grows. I feel him watching me.
“Want to tell me why you missed? And practice too? You might not be able to play, but you are still a member of this team. It reflects poorly on you and the team when you don’t show.”
Never have I heard such subdued disappointment from my coach. I clear my throat.
I can’t tell him the truth. How can I tell this man that I don’t want to return?
The giant clock my mom salvaged from a downtown building in Chicago ticks away in the dining room. And then Coach takes a step toward me.
“If you could see yourself the way I do.” He shakes his head. “I just don’t want all that potential to go to waste, Drew.”
“Yeah, well neither do I.” Unfortunately, some things aren’t under my control. I shift my weight further onto my good leg, and say what I need to say to get him out of here. “Look, I won’t miss another PT.”
The choking sensation grows, clogging my throat, filling my lungs.
“The break is clean,” he says. “You’re young and strong. You’ll heal and be back to top form in no time.”
I make the mistake of meeting his eyes. I know he sees everything. That he gets what’s going on in my head, that I’m spooked. That the instant I heard my leg snap, something within me did as well, and I’d realized everything I’d ever relied on was as solid as smoke.
Maybe he too is thinking of my dad, whose pro career was snatched away by a college injury. My dad wasn’t a bitter man, but the loss haunted him. I’d seen it in his eyes, in the way he’d grow distant sometimes when we talked about me going to the NFL. My dad was the best man I’ve ever known. But I don’t want to become him, not that way.
Coach had to understand this. He’d been friendly with my dad. The silence between us stretches tight, and I want so badly to look away that I grind my teeth.
“Drew.” Coach pauses, and I know it’s going to get worse. “Maybe it’d be good if you saw a counselor—”
“No,” I shout despite my desire to keep calm. “I’m not fuckin—” I take a sharp breath and hold up a hand. “I’m not going to a counselor, all right? So just get that off the table now.”
“There’s no shame in talking to someone.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I hobble over to the kitchen island with enough force to make my leg ache. “I was there enough when my parents died. I’m fine.” I glare at him. “Fine.”
Coach sighs. “Just think about it, son.”
“I’m not your son.” Great, I sound petulant now. I grip my hair to keep from shouting again.
“I know that,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t care about you and what you’re going through.” His gaze pins me. “And I promised your parents that I’d look out for you. I don’t go back on my promises. Neither do you.”
A low blow. Because, when I’d agreed to play under Coach’s program after he’d vowed to do right by me, I’d promised my parents that I’d respect the man’s rules. Now there’s nothing I can say that won’t come across as defensive. I pinch the bridge of my nose, pushing against my aching eyes. I just want to sleep.
Coach’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Just think about it, okay?”
Duly, I nod, but it’s an empty promise and we both know it.
It might have helped if Anna came home. She can distract me better than anyone. In truth, she’s the only one I want around me these days. Something I know should worry me.
The only distraction I can find is doing some upper bodywork on the weight bench. When I hear the phone ring, I set the weights down with a clang. Unfortunately, it isn’t Anna but Gray.
“Hey, man. I’m coming over and making lasagna tonight. And before you say no, Anna says you’re free. Shocking, isn’t it?”
I frown down at my cast. “You talked to Anna first?”
“Uh, yeah. How else am I going to get an invite anymore?” The annoyance in his voice is thick, and it irks me.
“Then why bother telling me? Why not just show up?”
“Because I’m not a dick?”
“You sure about that?”
The silence on the other end of the line is total.
Okay, that was shitty. But I can’t help it. The little fucker is plotting behind my back. With Anna. My chest clenches tight. Fuck it, did they know Coach was coming over too? Heat crawls up my neck. I’m pretty fuck-all sure they did.
When Gray finally speaks, his voice is sharp with anger. “What’s your problem, Drew?”
I have a long list right now. “Forget it.”
“Right,” Gray snaps. “I’ll do that.”
Which means he’ll glare at me when he gets here and make me feel like shit. I rake my hand through my hair, pushing down on my scalp. My head is a steady throb of pain now. “You need a ride?”
Because it occurs to me, with a sinking feeling, that not only has the punk offered to cook for me again, he’s also lent me his truck, which has an automatic drive, so I’m not stuck in the house. Guilt sucks.
“Naw,” Gray says, lighter now. “Anna said she’d bring me.”
My teeth meet with a loud clack. Right. Because they’re communicating. My grip on the phone goes knuckle white. “Gotta go. See you later.”
There’s another awkward pause, then Gray speaks. “See you.” He hangs up.
The phone is a brick in my hand. I want to call Anna and ask her why she thinks it’s okay to sic my friend on me. Is this some sort of sympathy party? Or does she no longer like hanging out only with me? Is Gray here as a buffer?
“Shit.”
I hate being paranoid. Hate this feeling of dissatisfaction crawling through me at all hours. I need to get out of the house.
Taking Gray’s truck—which brings on a fresh wash of guilt—I head out. Anna likes wine, so I’m going to get her some for dinner.
Unfortunately, once at the store, it’s clear I have no idea what I’m doing. I know she’d like red with lasagna, or at least that’s what my parents always drank with it. But there’s like five hundred bottles of red. What type would she prefer? Merlot? Cabernet? Pinot Noir? What’s the difference?
“Hell.”
“Can I help you... Drew?”
I turn to find Jenny staring up at me. Double hell.
I’ve managed to avoid seeing her for over a year. Which was fine by me. It’s strange seeing her now. Every inch of her is both familiar yet strange.
Jenny has that flawless type of beauty. Perfect bone structure, brilliant blue eyes, glossy dark hair, and a model’s body. These were the things that drew me to her in the first place.
I saw myself as a demigod back then, and thus needed to have the proper window dressing to go with my elevated status. Goes to show you what being an arrogant dick will get you.
“Do you work here?” It’s all I can think to say.
She blushes, ducking her head, and her hair falls over her shoulder in a wave of shining brown. “No. I...well, I saw you standing here frowning at the wine...”
She gives me a helpless shrug, pressing her arms close to her sides as she does it, which makes her breasts thrust out and her ass lift.
The ducking of her head, the shrug. I’ve seen these moves a thousand times. I used to wonder if she did them to highlight her looks. Now I’m almost sure.
“I thought I’d talk to you,” she says softly, coming a bit closer.
The scent of artificial strawberry fills my nose. I know it well. Strawberry body butter. After a shower, she’d stand naked in front of me and rub it all over herself in slow, meditative moments designed to entice. Only she was always coy about it, pretending that she was merely getting ready while not so subtly shaking her ass. One night Jenny jacked me off using a handful of the stuff. Ten minutes after I came, my dick turned bright red and fucking burned like fire. No matter how much I rinsed the poor bastard off, my skin remained irritated for a week.
My balls clench in remembered terror.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. Somehow, she’s now inches away from me. My back is to the wine rack. “About your injury. I know how much playing meant to you.”
She’s sorry about my injury? The second I’d heard the words “I’m sorry” coming out of her mouth, I’d assumed she was apologizing for showing the world our personal correspondence, or maybe for making people believe I was a whiny wimp after every game. That still pisses me off.
Then again, I shouldn’t be shocked at her focus on football. Jenny always wanted me to succeed. She wanted to hear my name chanted as much as I did, until it became clear that she would no longer be part of the show.
She wanted to be my wife. Wife. The second I’d heard that word come out of her mouth, I’d wanted to run as fast as I could in the other direction. I had cared for her, liked the way she took care of me, but I hadn’t been in love with her. And in that moment, I knew I never would be. I still don’t know if my rejection broke her heart or simply pissed her off. Jenny always kept her feelings close.
“It is what it is,” I mumble. The back of my neck feels hot again, the perfumed scent of strawberry making my nose twitch.
“You’ll be back.” Her blue eyes gaze up at me sweetly. “I know you will.”
Anna had said the same thing. Only she’d glared at me when she did, as if I’d better not defy her by arguing.
Tentatively, Jenny reaches out. Her fingers are cool, the tips of her manicured nails pressing into my skin. “I’ve missed you, Drew.”
One nail traces up my forearm. Her breasts are almost touching my chest, her lips parted in invitation. I could have her. I could follow her home and fuck her blind. Sex with Jenny was all about what she could do for me. Which sounds good in theory, but no matter how many times I asked, she’d never give me an opinion of her own. Knowing Jenny, she’d still let me do anything I want to her.
And I feel exactly nothing. Nothing except the ever-present creepy-crawly mix of anxiety and anger that has writhed under my skin since the hit.
She’s looking at me with a glimmer of victory in her eyes. As if she thinks she’s irresistible.
Maybe she is to some. She might appear flawless on the surface, but it’s what is underneath that I find lacking. And looking my fill of her has never given me the visceral punch of want that I get from just one glance of Anna.
Anna who, with her wild curls and generous curves, is more beautiful to me than Jenny ever will be. Anna who smells of exotic spices, warm skin, and home. Anna who brings me peace yet can wind me up hotter and tighter than a suspension coil.
Anna who is staring at me from across the wine rack.
My whole body seizes, going prickling hot then ice-cold.
Her syrup-rich voice comes out rough. “I just thought I’d get some wine for dinner.” With a shaking hand, she holds up a bag of wine bottles as I gape at her in mindless horror. “Looks like you were doing the same.”
Her green eyes flicker to Jenny before going back to me. “I’ll leave you to your...chat.”
And then she’s walking away, and the floor feels like it’s falling out from under me.