3. ROME
Chapter three
ROME
My phone vibrates continuously with incoming messages from the team’s group chat. I pause last night’s game on my laptop and drop it to the cushion beside me. Flicking through the messages, I come to the video that sparked the heated conversation.
I had a meeting with my manager this morning, so this video is no surprise.
Yolanda Isabella—head of the Professional Game Match Official—appears to make a statement.
“It has been brought to my attention, through an anonymous source, that Brian Long—a twelve-year official in the European Football League—has shown bias. During last night’s game, Mr Long appeared to target number eight, Rome Aston. ”
I shake my head, the rage from that bullshit call resurfacing.
“Communications, including deleted emails and text messages between Mr Long and Rome Aston’s former coach—Jayce Scott—were presented to me early this morning.
It confirmed Mr Long had accepted a cash payment for specifically targeting number eight, Rome Aston.
Mr Long has been denied his request for review and terminated, effective immediately—”
I exit the video, not bothering to listen to the rest. I knew Brian was favouring our opposing teams, so I asked my coach to put in a review a week ago. Despite Brian’s best efforts, we’ve gone undefeated the last five games.
My phone vibrates again.
Connor: Tonight?
Me: I’ll be there in an hour.
An hour later, I draw my grey hood and keep my head bowed, hastily crossing the apartment lobby to tap the black key card and open the elevator. The thrashing nausea settles when I find it empty, and I step in to tap the card again, pressing the sixth-floor button.
I’ll feel like shit once this is over; I always do. I should stop coming here, let him down easy, keep the separation as civil as possible.
Closing my eyes, I draw a deep breath and shakily blow it out when the doors open.
My shoes squeak on the white tile as I turn right and reach the end of the two-apartment floor.
Steadying my nervous hand, I tap the card to the pad and open the heavy door, greeting unusual darkness.
Moonlight spills through the balcony window, the living room furniture forming shadows on the wooden floor.
“Connor?” I call out, closing the door and reaching for the light switch. My stomach flips when a hand grips my wrist to stop me. “What are you doing?” I laugh.
He caresses my arm slowly, trailing up to my shoulder. I swallow back the unease and let my lids fall shut, relaxing back into him. His shoulders aren’t meeting mine. Why does his body feel vastly larger than last week?
A cold chill shudders my spine as harsh leather glides up my neck, leaving a damp trail as it continues to my jaw. My eyes spring open when I’m hit by a metallic smell.
Blood?
“C-Connor?” There’s a stutter in my chest when cold, hard plastic grazes my left ear, calm muffled breaths straining behind what I assume is a mask.
“Try again,” an American voice taunts in a deep chuckle. “Don’t worry, baby. He’s not dead…yet.”
“Wh-who are you?”
“Yours.”
His fingers caress to wrap around my throat and I jerk left, stumbling on unsteady legs toward the kitchen. The taunting slap of his boots launches my heart to my throat as I retreat from his drawn hood and white mask. My shoe catches, a startled noise ripping from my lips when I tumble backward.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and I gasp, wobbling on the uneven surface.
The masked figure cocks his head as I scramble off Connor and tap his body frantically, searching for his head.
Locating his neck, I hold two trembling fingers to his pulse and set my other hand on his chest. A rhythmic pulse beats beneath my fingers, his chest rising and falling steadily.
“Novice move,” the figure taunts. “You just left your DNA everywhere, Rome.”
“Help!” I let out a strangled plea, swiping my hands over Connor’s body to find the source of blood.
“Tsk. Apartment’s soundproof, baby.”
His words about DNA finally sink into my panicked mind, and I retreat, holding my hands beside my head. If Connor is to report someone in his home hurting him, it’s my DNA everywhere. The door handle. His body.
“What do you want?” I hear myself whisper. The man steps to the other side of Connor’s unconscious body, staring down at me on my knees.
I was aware achieving this level of fame would come with challenges, but this—this is insane. Who breaks into someone’s apartment, makes them bleed, knocks them out, then… “The text.” My conclusion grates through my dry throat. “You sent that text.”
“You’re quick.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
What am I supposed to do? I have always been someone who avoided trouble and did my best to be kind to everyone.
I focused on football, caused no PR drama, never started a fight.
What the hell did I do to deserve this? When did I catch this maniac’s attention?
How did he know I was seeing Connor? To the rest of the world, I’m straight.
Connor is the only person who is aware of our arrangement. How?
“Stand,” he commands. I force my hands down, the mountain of adrenaline dissipating as I gather my legs beneath me to stand. “I want you to understand this piece of shit isn’t good enough for you, Rome,” he spits, stepping over Connor.
“Who are you?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Yours.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’d love to see what else that mouth can do.” My stomach rolls as his head tilts. “Sit at the table, Rome.”
Leather grazes my hand, and the unexpected contact make me jerk backward into a cabinet.
He tightens his grip, pulling my rigid body forward to crash into him.
I’m tall, six-foot, but he has a larger frame and is at least three inches taller.
Being the athlete I am, I need to be strong but lean. Do I have any chance of fighting him?
His woodsy cologne fills my nose as he snakes an arm past my racketing spine.
“Mmm. You smell so fucking good.” I flick my eyes over the eyeholes, but it’s too goddamn dark to see anything. His head tilts again, as if studying my face. “Will you be a good boy and sit down for me?”
I nod shakily. He seems to have caught my agreement, because his hold loosens and I’m tugged through the kitchen toward the dining table. I pull at my hand, but his grip only tightens, the leather groaning and my fingers screaming when they crush together.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Rome.” The dining chair scrapes against the wooden floor.
“Don’t make me force you.” He yanks me down into the chair, finally releasing my hand to grip my shoulder.
“If you’re good, I won’t tie you up,” the muffled breathing whispers against my ear. “So, will you be good?”
I lift my chin, drawing a ragged breath, fingertips digging harder into the wooden armrests, sending throbbing pain up my hands. “Ye-yes.”
“Mmm,” he hums, gripping my throat again, his blood-covered thumb caressing my quivering lips.
If I make any move to retrieve my phone from my pocket, it’s likely he’ll take it.
“God, you’re even more exquisite up close.
” He pauses for a moment, and I pinch my eyes shut at the wet sound of him licking his lips.
“Will you see him again?” I frantically shake my head. “Give me your word.”
“You-you have my word.”
“Who do you belong to, Rome?”
“You,” I rush out, hoping if I say what he wants the bastard might just leave me alone.
“Say it,” he demands.
“You… I-I belong to you.”
“If you go near him or anyone with sexual intent again, I will kill them. You have my word.” His hand glides down my heaving chest into my front pocket to retrieve the access card.
“You won’t need this anymore. Now leave, Rome.
” I choke on the painful heart beating in my throat and push out of the chair to back away from him.
“I’ll see you soon, baby,” he taunts as I run for the door.
That is who I am—a fucking coward who just left Connor behind with that maniac.
I force the key into the lock of my garage door and swing it open, then slam it shut and dive my hand into my pocket for my phone.
The device almost slips from my hand while I locate Connor’s number and dial, holding my churning stomach while pacing between the kitchen and dining room, waiting for it to connect. “Hey,” Connor groans.
My feet pause. “H-hey. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think I drank too much and passed out. Were we supposed to meet tonight?”
“No. No. Are—Are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”
“Bleeding…” he trails off. “I just went for a shower. I’m not bleeding.”
I scrape the dried blood off my neck. It wasn’t him? Was that not his blood?
Relief throws me against the side of the kitchen island and kicks out my knees. My ass hits the floor, and I jump when my phone vibrates.
Unknown: No contact at all. Don’t make me go back there.
Tears burn my eyes as I put the shaking device back to my ear. “I, um—I just called to say I can’t do this anymore.”
“What? Why?” Connor’s disappointed tone rips through my chest.
“I just can’t. I need to focus on my career… I’m sorry.”
“I know I’ve been pushy about wanting an actual date with you, not just one where we watch movies and shit, but I understand that—”
“I just can’t.” I squeeze my eyes shut and throw my head back. “I’m sorry.” I pull the phone away and end the call before he can reply.