by Kat T. Masen
Every limb, bone, part of my body is in deep pain. I can barely walk to the elevator, even pressing the button’s a struggle. I don’t ever remember training so hard and mentally killing myself on the field. I’m drenched in dirt and sweat but opt to shower at home peacefully rather than in the locker room with the boys so I head home.
As I open the apartment door, I plan on taking a shower but having only an hour to spare before heading out to the studio to join a panel to discuss this week’s highlights.
The smell of Alessandra’s strong coffee graces the apartment, along with a familiar laugh.
“Look who’s here.” Ash is sitting on the coffee table, facing the sofa, and I don’t notice anyone until Emerson sits up and gazes straight at me.
My chest broadens, my muscles stiffening harder than I thought possible, as I’m shocked to see her sitting inside my apartment. The first thing I notice is her hair has changed again, it’s a silver tone with light brown roots. She’s dressed in a pale pink knitted sweater with dark blue jeans and knee-high boots.
Why does she have to look like that?
Casually sexy.
The worst type of sexy.
The sexy that reminds you why you’re drawn to her.
Her smart mouth and alluring eyes make you want to fall to your knees and worship her like no other man has.
Fucking hell! Grow some balls. You’re still angry at her.
The back of her hair is a mess from lying down, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“Hey.” She waves, watching me cautiously with her deep blue stare.
I force a smile, scared to give any other reaction away other than my state of shock.
Alessandra has joined us, handing Emerson a cup of coffee.
“You’re here?”
“She’s filming for the next three days,” Ash tells me animatedly. “We should go out to the pub or something.”
“I’m on a tight schedule,” she announces, moving her eyes away from where I’m standing.
“Then don’t let us stop you.” I carry my bag, walking straight past them. Inside my room, I throw my bag down, while leaning back on the door with my eyes closed.
She’s here.
She’s real.
She’s no longer a figment of my imagination.
Opening my eyes, I try to get the image of the way she stared at me out of my head. Her blue eyes always do that to me. It’s like putting me in some kind of trance that stops me from thinking straight or with some sort of reason.
Stripping down to nothing, I step inside my bathroom and take a long, hot shower, relaxing my tense muscles. The only muscle I can’t relax is the one down below which is raging hard with no happy ending to cure the sadness it’s currently facing.
I could rub one out, but choose not to—a way to avoid the torture of reliving our moment in the hotel. Something I’ve done on too many occasions that only makes everything worse.
I get dressed in my navy suit, white collared shirt, and matching navy tie. Splashing on some cologne, I finish with placing my watch on my wrist and then make my way to the living room to be greeted by only Ash.
Fixing my cuffs, I pretend to be uninterested asking, “Where she’s gone.”
“I think back to her hotel.”
“Where’s she staying?”
“Somewhere in London,” he responds without giving me many details.
I hide my disappointment, wishing I hadn’t acted like a dick because I’m pissed off she’s still with Wesley, even though I have no reason to be since we both agreed to have fun without getting involved. Probably the most-stupidest idea I have ever had.
“I’m meeting her tonight for drinks if you want to tag along.”
“We have a game tomorrow,” I remind him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just one drink. How often do I get to see my sister, huh?”
“Get changed, we only have ten minutes before the car arrives.”
Ten minutes later he emerges fully dressed and looking presentable.
“It’s like you’re fucking Clark Kent,” I joke, always amazed at his ability to get ready within the smallest amount of time.
“It’s called… a wife... and an ironing board.”
“You’d be caught dead saying that in front of her,” I point out.
“Probably. She likes to suck my dick so I could save myself that way.”
We both laugh, closing the door behind us as make our way down to the hire car and toward the studios.
***
The panel took four hours for a one-hour segment. I’ve done several of these and being in front of the camera’s no biggie. On panels, like today, we engage in a healthy debate over club corruption and how it affects the players and coaches. The discussion lasted for most of the segment, and by the time we finished I needed a drink.
The car service drives us to the pub where Emmy and her crew are hanging out tonight. I dread seeing Wesley, knowing I have to restrain myself from punching him in the fucking face.
Then there’s that part of me that wants to play dirty.
A challenge if you will, to make her squirm while under his watch.
The pub’s located in the West End—small, quaint, with the usual drunken crowd that frequent these types of joints on a Friday night. When Ash and I moved here a few years ago, we hit all the pubs each weekend until it no longer became fun and the women were all the same.
Outside the pub, there’s a hoard of paparazzi standing by with cameras in hand. A few attempt to take photographs through the glass, but appear disappointed when they look at their cameras.
Two of them spot us and ask for a picture, and whether we’re ready for the game tomorrow. Ash talks their ears off, and I start to pull him along desperate to get inside.
Two bodyguards stand out front—tall, built like fucking tanks who watch anyone who enters.
“Oi…” the bearded one holds Ash back, “… what business you want in there?”
Ash bravely removes the man’s hand from his chest. “My fucking sister, Emerson.”
He lets us go while his facial expression remaining impassive.
Once inside we find they’re sitting on stools in the corner—four of them to be exact. I recognize Harley, Poppy, and Kelly from the show. Emerson’s sitting with them and there’s no Wesley attached to her hip, for once.
Ash makes his way through the tight crowd, and I follow until we’re standing behind them. The first thing I notice is the gray turtleneck skin-tight dress she’s wearing that sits short and rides up as she crosses her legs. With the same knee-high boots she wore earlier, she’s looking incredibly sexy. Her hair’s messy and to the side with giant silver hooped earrings to accessorize her plain-colored dress. She looks fucking amazing. I quickly realize the redhead with the English accent is introducing herself while I’ve been staring at Emerson.
“Name’s Poppy.” She overly grins. “You must be Logan ‘cause you sure don’t look like Em’s twin brother.”
I smile confidently. “That’s this guy over here. I’m definitely not her twin brother.”
Ash takes over the introductions, throwing in some jokes and making everyone laugh because that’s what he always does. We order a pint, and it isn’t long before Wesley, Farrah Beaumont, and another guy turn up.
As soon as Wesley sees me his demeanor changes, barely saying hello he settles himself next to Emerson where he purposely places his arm around her as if he fucking owns her. I force myself not to stare by trying to avoid any eye contact with either of them, or hell will break loose and my fists will be out and his blood all over the floor.
“Big game tomorrow, boys?” Harley, one of her co-stars mentions.
“Sure is. Playing to get into the quarter-finals.”
“What do you do to prep for a big game?” the other girl, Kelly, asks.
“We trained earlier today and should be in bed sleeping right now.”
They all laugh, everyone but Emerson and Wesl
ey.
“Is it true you can’t have sex before a game?” Farrah teases, rubbing her hand along my suit jacket and trying to entice me with her fake tits and equally phony pout.
In the corner of my eye I notice Emmy’s adopted a sullen look. Staring directly at the both of us, she’s watching every move. If I didn’t know better I’d swear she looks jealous.
Could it be?
Emerson Chase jealous because another woman has touched my fucking arm and asked me about my sex life.
“Ask Ash,” I respond, smirking. “He’s the married one. I’m single, so unless someone offers to jump in my bed tonight I wouldn’t be able to tell you.” I continue to keep my gaze fixed on my glass that sits in front of me, though I am desperate to see Emmy’s reaction. Unlike her—falsely tied to Wesley for the purpose of the show—I am as single as you can get. I could fuck anyone I please and no one will say a goddamn thing.
Wesley raises his glass to his lips, keeping his persistent stare fixed on mine. “Just make sure the woman you take isn’t spoken for,” he warns with menace. “Or man… never actually seen you with a woman.”
“Oh…” I mouth with confidence, “… the best type of pussy is the one that belongs to someone else.”
Ash rests his hand on my shoulder, his laughter barreling through the conversation. “I don’t think it’s a big deal but Logan won’t. Any chance of losing and he’ll minimize that. He likes his testosterone wild and pumped.”
Great. When did we switch to talking about my testosterone?
Yeah, it’s fucking pumped all right and desperate to ravage the girl sitting across from me, the one with the jealous stare.
We’re interrupted by a group of girls who recognize all of us and scream so loudly demanding a picture. We all huddle together and pose for her selfie which encourages other patrons to come forward and request the same photograph. After what feels like forever, the bodyguard steps in and tells everyone to back off.
“I’m over this,” Wesley snaps, drinking his beer and checking his watch. “Let’s get out of here. I’m bored. Wanna hit up a club, babe?”
Babe.
I wonder what broken glass might feel like against his pretty-boy face?
“I’m tired, and jetlagged. You go.”
“I’m in,” Farrah pipes up. “C’mon Wes, let’s get out of here.”
Wesley removes his arm from Emerson, who appears annoyed and frustrated. It’s clear by her demeanor that the thought of him clubbing with Farrah Beaumont is not something she agrees with and that reaction alone leaves me bitter. When he leaves, I’m quick to direct my passive aggression toward her. “How sad, your fiancé left you alone.”
She smiles, but it’s not a smile that’s sweet and endearing. “Don’t you have some nurse to fuck?” she bites back with wild eyes.
Bitch.
Why the fuck is she be angry about that?
I can’t understand women and the way they think. Their minds are like puzzles which are impossible to figure out.
“Maybe. She was boring the first time so not sure why I’d go back for seconds.”
She’s unable to look at me, shaking her head and staring at the table with her glass in front of her.
Ash talks over us, yet I don’t pay attention as I watch her type on her cell. Within seconds, my pocket vibrates.
Emerson: You’re a fucking asshole. Go ahead, fuck nurses and see if I care. I shouldn’t, right? Since I fuck my fiancé every night.
I can’t even look at her. The heat rising underneath my jacket is red hot as the anger and hurt consume me. Is she for fucking real? I can’t even deal with what she’s admitting if it’s true. Again, what fucking moron comes up with the brilliant idea to sleep with other people?
Me: You’re a fucking bitch. The nurse gave good head. I think I will go back for seconds.
I watch her mouth open in shock. She’s distracted for a moment as a bartender serves her a wine which she proceeds to down in one go, demanding another almost immediately. He lingers to talk to her, flirting with his young smile. I quickly type and hit send, catching her eye and she half looks down at the screen.
Me: Why don’t you go fuck the bartender too?
“Bro, we need to head back. We seriously need rest,” Ash yells over the noise.
As much as I want to stay and argue with Emerson, it’s an hour drive home and it’s already close to 9:00 p.m. We always go to bed well before midnight for a training session which starts at 4:00 a.m. If our A-game isn’t on, we could potentially lose a crucial game.
“You gonna be okay, Em?” Ash asks, throwing some bills on the table.
She slides them back to him, ignoring me while slipping her cell into her purse. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. And take your money... let the producers pick up the tab. Or, I can continue flirting with the bartender. Maybe even take him home.”
What a fucking low blow.
We both stand when a man, short, maybe five-foot-six blocks our way. He’s easily in his late forties, balding and wearing a brown jacket with some weird logo on it.
“Emerson Chase,” he beams.
But something’s not right. His forehead is dripping in sweat, and I don’t like the way he licks his lips when he called her name.
She smiles politely, saying, “Hello.”
“I love you. I mean… I honestly love you,” he pants.
I look over at Ash, wondering if this guy’s for real.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Again, her smile is fixed as she doesn’t indulge his behavior.
“I have you on my wallpaper.” He extends his hand, the wallpaper on his cell an image of her in a bikini drenched in water. Then, he continues to flick through his photos and every single one is of her.
What a fucking nutcase!
“I’m in love with you. I’ve been waiting for so long. Will you come back to my apartment for dinner?” He steps forward.
Without even thinking I place my hand on his chest restraining him from going any further. “I don’t think so. Leave her alone,” I grit.
The man seems shocked that Emerson’s not stopping me.
Ash quickly interjects, “You need to go now. And I don’t want you near my sister ever again.”
“But you don’t understand…” he laughs nervously, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, “… I’m in love with her. I’ve been following her since she landed. I even followed her to your apartment. We’re soulmates. We’re meant to be together.”
Emerson begins to look panicked. I grab her hand, pulling her to me. My grip is tight, but I refuse to let her go and be with some maniac.
“Let’s go,” I whisper into her ear. “You’re not staying here.”
“But my friends?”
“Let’s go, Emmy. I ain’t leaving you here with this lunatic,” Ash yells at her, the same time the man tries to push past Ash with a sense of desperation. He tries to swing a punch, but Ash’s reflexes have always been on point, blocking him and urging him to the floor.
The bodyguards rush over to where we’re standing, pinning him to the floor and yelling for backup.
The paparazzi have caught wind of the situation, snapping heavily and disregarding the instructions from the pub owner to get the fuck out of the venue.
Ash grabs her arm, forcing me to let go as we make our way out of the pub and onto the street. It’s no better outside, our sight blinded by the sea of flashes trying to catch every move. With a sense of urgency we hop into the car, instructing the driver to take off at full speed.
Ash sits in the back with Emerson, attempting to calm her down. “Have you seen that guy before?”
She shakes her head, dazed. “No. But I don’t come here, and he said he’s from here. Back home, about a year ago, I had to file a restraining order against a man who tried to break in.”
“You never told me that,” Ash scolds her. “Did Mom and Dad know?”
“Yeah, they did. I didn’t want to stress you out,
” she says softly.
We drive out of the city and onto a quieter road. My adrenaline is still pumping from the heated exchange, thinking what may have happened if we’d left her. I never realized how famous she is. I mean, I know the show’s popular and that she has millions of fans, I just didn’t expect it to be at this level of crazy. Every time we’ve been together, people usually leave her alone.
I’m starting to see what she was trying to explain to me.
“Why don’t you have bodyguards all the time?” I question her, keeping my tone controlled.
“It depends on what we’re doing or where we’re going. We do a lot of the time, but mostly we can fend for ourselves.”
“You’re a woman,” I seethe. “How do you expect to fend for yourself from a man that’s been stalking you for God only knows how long?”
“I don’t always need a man to protect me,” she begins then stalls. “I’m doing fine on my own.”
My eyes move to the rearview mirror where I can see Ash’s expression of confusion. It’s not long before he asks the question that Emerson has been dreading since the moment she found out about the dickhead screwing those hookers.
“But you’re not on your own. You have Wesley. Though, I’ll tell you again, Emmy… the guy’s a dick.”
“Ash…” she says, then goes on more confidently, “… we’re not together. Something happened not long ago and I broke it off with him.”
“But on TV—”
“It’s all fake. We’re contracted to finish filming and we have another six weeks to go. Don’t always believe what you see.”
That last comment’s obviously directed at me. For that’s what I’d done, assumed everything I saw was the truth. And even when she admitted they weren’t together, it shouldn’t have mattered because we both agreed to see other people.
I didn’t want anyone touching her, looking at her, or damn well stalking her.
Fuck. Stop these thoughts.
She’s here, and safe.