Personal Foul (Moving the Chains Book 6)

by Kata Čuić

  Hell, she’d probably insist on extra sessions with Mayview just to try to fix whatever the fuck’s broken inside him. If I’d admitted to her the truth the last time, she might have told me what I couldn’t bear to hear if she knew the whole story. I couldn’t lose twice. I already knew I’d lose once.

  I unlock the front door to my house, fully aware that I’m playing with fire. It’s only a matter of time until I get burned.

  “So, this is it.”

  She glances around with wide, black eyes. “It’s…lovely.”

  I laugh. “Liar.”

  “It’s big,” she tries again, and this time she’s honest.

  “That’s what she said,” I chuckle.

  “You have lived here for two years,” she murmurs, ignoring the kind of innuendo I haven’t used in years. Probably because she damn well knows that about me.

  I nod. “I sleep here anyway. Interior design isn’t exactly part of my job description, and I’m hardly ever home. You’ll basically have the place to yourself. Feel free to do whatever you want with it.”

  “Alex.” Her warm hand lands on my arm. Goosebumps ignite from her touch. She squeezes. A different part of me sparks to life. “Thank you for your generosity, but I meant what I said before. I am not here to break your rules. I will not stay longer than necessary. Mr. Brooks gave me the contact information for a real estate agent. I plan to call her as soon as training camp is over.”

  Two hours ago, I wanted to strangle her for showing up here in Orlando. The thought of her leaving as soon as possible before I can fuck something else up in my life should be a relief. It isn’t.

  “Making the big bucks now, huh? I should warn you. Homeownership isn’t for the weak. Especially not in this market. This fucker cost me four mil, and I still had to replace the roof a year after buying it. With more of my own money.”

  She frowns as she wheels her suitcase into the foyer. “I do not make nearly as much as you do. The few searches I did for homes in the area are well out of my price range. I’m hoping the agent can find me something much smaller in the suburbs.”

  “Who’d he recommend?” Not that I know much about real estate in the area, but I know Tom Brooks, and he’s all about money. Everything else be damned. Which is why Amira needs to stay where she is until I can figure out a better play for protecting her from Mayview.

  Amira fishes a business card out of her purse then hands it over. “He said Rosie would take good care of me.”

  Yeah, she would. If she was going to make the kind of commission she’s used to. “Uh, I hate to break it to you, but this agent only deals with multi-million-dollar listings. When she sold me this place, she mentioned she didn’t particularly enjoy slumming it outside of the lakes.”

  What she actually mentioned was that she wouldn’t mind slumming it with me for the night. The wild part was that a few years before that day? That wouldn’t have insulted me in the slightest. I would have taken Rosie’s offer and run to the end zone with it. But that was before.

  Before the woman frowning at me shifted something inside me. Something inexplicable at the time, and something I still don’t want to name. All I know is that she changed me as much as she credits me with changing her.

  And nobody knows it but me.

  “I will find a rental, then,” she decides with a resolute nod. “It shouldn’t take me longer than a month. Two, at the most.”

  “Why pay a couple thousand dollars a month in rent and not even get any equity out of it when you’re done? That’s like setting fire to your salary. Besides, I have the best rent in town.”

  “Right. Of course.” Amira’s shoulders fall. “We should discuss how much I’ll pay you while I’m here.”

  How does this woman always know how to ruffle my feathers? It pisses me the fuck off that she thinks I’d expect anything from her.

  “Nothing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll pay me nothing while you’re here,” I clarify. “That’s how I know I have the best rent in town—it’s free.”

  She cocks her head to the side. An argument brews in her black eyes. I don’t have any better offers to entice her, so I do the only thing I can think of to convince her she’s already home.

  I let the cat out of the bag. Except it’s not a bag, it’s a box.

  Amira screeches as Pavlov bolts, then disappears around the corner into the kitchen. “Alex! No! What have you done?”

  “Uh, let the poor guy out? You said he’s been in there for hours.” The smell inside the crate proves it. I’m not sure a gallon of bleach will be enough to clean this thing.

  She rubs her forehead before fixing me with the scary eyes I remember so well from college. “I hope you have always wanted a cat because we will likely never find him again.”

  I’ve always wanted a pet, but I’d never have admitted that before either. Not about to admit it now. Pavlov is the only leverage I have. “He’ll come out when he gets hungry.”

  “He will remember the injustices he has suffered the past several days, and he will hide until he starves to death,” she insists.

  “Oh, so he is just like you?” I snicker.

  She’s not amused. “I do not even have litter for him yet.”

  I’m not amused either. “I’ll go to the store right now. Make me a list of everything you need.”

  Alex has been gone for hours despite extracting a very small list of essentials from me. In all fairness, I am still very new to this city. I do not know how far the store is from his home. Not that I can really call what I’m staring at a home. A house that he uses for an official address perhaps. Actually, it cannot be labeled as anything less than a mansion.

  I did not grow up in poverty, but this is wealth I have only ever read about or seen in movies. I cannot fathom why a single man lives here alone or why the place is still mostly devoid of furnishings.

  Since I’ve been left to my own devices with no sign of Pavlov anywhere, I’ve taken the liberty of exploring Alex’s place.

  In the living room with a gorgeous vaulted ceiling and exposed dark wood beams, a single leather sectional sofa sits against the wall opposite a big screen television. Those are expected male essentials. The marble mantlepiece is barren, as are all the walls and windows. I’m not sure he’s even lit the gas fireplace a single time. Everything is pristinely white and clean. Including the single large decorative piece—a dog statue that appears to be mounted on a pedestal with wheels.

  The kitchen does not have a table and chairs though the appliances match the ornate wood cabinetry. It does not look as if he’s ever used the triple ovens or the professional looking range. There are only two stools at the island. The stately formal dining room with crown molding and a lovely chandelier is empty as well. Room after room on the ground floor is the same. In every room of the house that faces the lakefront, gorgeous French doors open to another section of a patio that seems to run the length of the house. I only find a single chaise lounge that points toward the glittering surface of the lake. It sits alone beside a hot tub which is situated outside the doors that lead to a home gym. This, at least, is fully stocked with state-of-the-art equipment and another large screen TV.

  Upstairs are six bedrooms, each with its own attached bath. Every bathroom has a jacuzzi tub that is separate from the shower area. Only one bedroom has a bed. It is king-sized and unmade with dark gray sheets, a black comforter, and a veritable mountain of pillows. Nothing on the walls. Of the two walk-in closets, only one holds Alex’s clothing. A few suits, presumably for team functions. A single tuxedo, likely for charity events. The rest are a combination of jeans and regular shirts. He does not even have a high-end sneaker collection as one would expect from a professional athlete who also models shoes in addition to men’s underwear. I’m disappointed.

  In truth, I am jealous that he has far more money and glorious storage space to indulge a shoe fetish than I do. My shoes would easily fill these racks, and also probably the second
walk-in closet.

  A shuffling sound from beneath the bed catches my attention. I exit the closet and kneel, lifting the askew comforter to find a pair of glow-in-the-dark eyes peering back at me.

  I lean forward onto my elbows and reach for the ball of fluff. “Ah, Pavlov. Here you are. Do not get too comfortable. We will not stay long.”

  He meows in return but makes no move to flee the safety he’s found. There aren’t many places for him to hide in this nearly empty house.

  “I could get used to this,” a voice from behind me murmurs.

  I glance over my shoulder to find Alex leaning against the doorjamb, his head tilted to the side.

  “Are you checking out my rear?” I accuse.

  Of course, he is. This is Alex I’m talking about. The same man who refused to take my virginity in college would never pass up an opportunity to ogle the goods he refuses to touch.

  He nods. Never attempts to deny it. His finger swirls in the air in my direction. “You’re wearing yoga pants. It would be a crime against your ass if I didn’t check it out. I’m not the kind of guy who makes a woman feel bad about herself. What are you doing down there anyway? Searching for evidence? I hate to disappoint you, but I’m way more boring than most people realize.”

  This much, I have discovered for myself.

  “I found Pavlov hiding under your bed. I’ve been trying to coax him out,” I admit.

  Alex’s expression curdles. “He didn’t shit under there, did he?”

  I sniff. “No. I do not believe so.”

  He holds a single finger in the air, then disappears.

  I go back to cooing at Pavlov, but he continues to scoot further and further away.

  A different sort of rustling sound accompanies Alex’s footfalls on the plush carpet. He opens a bag of cat treats and places one just outside the shadow of the bed. Then, he makes a line of them leading to where he sits on the floor and leans against the wall near the bathroom doorway.

  Ah, bribery. It is a good plan.

  I follow Alex’s lead and sit beside him.

  We wait in silence. Before long, Pavlov’s white head pokes out from beneath the bed. He gobbles up one treat, then follows the trail to the next. It’s been hours since I fed him, so he likely is very hungry.

  “That’s right, you little shit,” Alex murmurs, shaking the bag that he clutches close to his chest. “Come to Daddy. You know you want it.”

  The gravelly tone of his voice and his word choices send shudders rolling through me. I snuff them out by imagining the likely result if I would ask Alex to clean the litter box.

  “If you insult him, you won’t get what you obviously want.” I’m surprised Alex is even trying to make nice with my cat. I always got the distinct impression he wasn’t a pet person, even though he suggested I adopt one.

  “I always get what I want,” he assures me as Pavlov sniffs at Alex’s toes. “Because I know how to use leverage.”

  It is true. He does. And he wins this round, too. Pavlov climbs along the long lines of Alex’s muscular legs until he reaches his lap. He rubs his body against Alex’s flat stomach and purrs.

  I shake my head. “Such a little slut for treats, aren’t you?”

  I empathize. Alex has made me purr before, too. Poor Pavlov does not understand the rules yet.

  Alex chuckles and holds out another morsel for Pavlov. He laps it from Alex’s fingers easily.

  The corner of Alex’s mouth kicks up, revealing that panty-dropping smile that used to make women beg for more at State. “Pussies love me.”

  I snort.

  Pavlov bolts for cover.

  Alex turns to me with a flat expression. “Nice.”

  He lines up a trail of treats that lead to him again. The man has the patience of a saint, apparently. I shouldn’t be so surprised. His behavior lines up with the necessary dedication to achieve the top level of his career. Which also explains why the home gym is the only furnished room in this mansion.

  While we wait, I indulge my curiosity. “Do you have a boat?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why do you have a dock then?”

  He shrugs. “It came with the house.”

  “Has your family never been to visit?” Surely, the guest bedrooms wouldn’t be empty if that was the case.

  “Nah.” He shakes the bag of treats again when Pavlov reappears at the end of the trail. “It’s too hard on Davey to make such a long trip, and Jimmy’s busy at college.”

  Alex has told me much about his family. Likely as a way to reciprocate all I’ve told him about my controlling parents. That’s another of his rules. He insists on keeping an equal balance of power in relationships, which is why I know all about his brothers. Jimmy is four years younger and Alex’s opposite in every way. Though he received a full scholarship to our alma mater—State—Jimmy would rather die than touch a football. He’s in the marching band. Alex’s youngest brother, Davey, is six years younger, on the autism spectrum, and severely impacted. He’s non-verbal and still wears diapers. His future is a constant source of anxiety for Alex.

  “Your parents have never made the trip?”

  Alex’s shoulders hitch up. “No.”

  This is something Alex has not revealed to me, except in breadcrumbs. While he adores his father, his relationship with his mother could only be described as strained. That’s putting it mildly. From what I’ve been able to gather, he hates the woman who gave birth to him and the brothers he loves so dearly—though I have no idea why.

  “I do not understand why you purchased such a large house that you do not enjoy,” I confess with a gentle tone of voice as Pavlov reappears. It is not my wish to spook either of them.

  “I paid for the privacy,” Alex admits. “It’s a gated property inside a gated community. The price tag was well worth not having to worry about paparazzi or jersey chasers showing up at my front door.”

  I had not considered that, embarrassing as it is. I’m officially a sports psychologist for an NFL team. I’m theoretically aware of what these men face on and off the field, especially the top performers like Alex. Pro football has become as much a media sport as a physical one. Gone are the days of superstar athletes only worrying about their performance during a game. With the internet and the celebrity worship culture of modern society, their lives are no longer their own for as long as they’re successful. It’s a double-edged sword.

  “You have not even hosted your teammates here?” I ask as we watch Pavlov follow the trail again.

  “No. I’m not a rookie anymore, but I’m only starting my third season. I’m not considered a vet either. The guys with the most seniority host the team get-togethers. Pecking order and all that,” Alex murmurs.

  I smile as Pavlov repeats the process of sniffing Alex before climbing aboard. He’ll fall for it again all right. “I still cannot believe you would not welcome all the jersey chasers you can handle. You’ve changed so much since college.”

  Alex leans against me and fixes me with a serious expression. “You know I have more than most.”

  I don’t deny it. I hoped against hope that one day he would give someone all he has to offer. I just wish it hadn’t resulted in such heartbreak for him. I fear he may never give himself another chance to lose. “You have not given me an update recently. How are your friends?”

  He straightens and smooths his large hand down Pavlov’s fur. “If someone hasn’t been giving updates lately, it’s you. I thought I was hallucinating earlier today when Mayview told me our new psych’s name. I honestly hoped he was wrong. Right up until I opened your office door, and there you were.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He raises an eyebrow at me.

  I roll my eyes. “I am not violating your rules by apologizing for taking you by surprise.”

  He chuckles. “You certainly did.”

  “I should have told you,” I go on. “I intended to, but I also did not anticipate orchestrating a cross-country move in only
a week.”

  He continues to pet Pavlov, who’s now curled up into a ball on his lap. “Where’s all your stuff? Did you sell it to make the move easier?”

  “No.” I sigh. “The moving company delivered it to a nearby storage facility. I have nowhere to put it until I find somewhere to live permanently.”

  “Burning more money,” Alex murmurs. “If you’d given me a heads-up, they could have just delivered it here.”

  “I cannot stay here forever.”

  “Why not?” He won’t meet my gaze. “You said it yourself. I have this giant house that’s empty. Maybe you’ll enjoy it more than I do. Maybe Pavlov wants to live here.”

  He is lonely, but he’ll never admit it. Show no weakness—another of Alex’s rules.

  “This is the leverage you are using to get what you want?” I bump shoulders with him. “I am not certain that your charming way with pussies is the best argument for me to stay.”

  He smiles, then stands with my pussy in his arms. “Who said that was my best argument?”

  “Where are you going?” I ask him as he exits the room.

  “To show Pavlov where the litterbox is, so he doesn’t shit all over my house,” Alex calls back.

  I’m choking. I blink my eyes open to a mass of black hair that’s trying to kill me in my sleep. Not so surprising, really. I’m pretty sure the owner of all this fucking hair has had fantasies about exactly that. Years ago, but still.

  I can’t remember the last time I woke up with a warm body curled up against mine. Actually, yes, I can. The last time this happened was with her. She’s the exception, not the rule. I never stay in bed with a woman ‘til the morning after a whole night spent together. It’s rare enough to be so satisfied that I pass out for an hour or two. Usually, because I’m drunk. Even that hasn’t happened in a small eternity.

  This slumber party didn’t involve sex, and my morning wood pressed against her ass is proof. It took a lot of convincing for her not to sleep on the couch last night. If she wakes up to find my dick burrowed into her ass crack, I’ll lose recently gained ground.