The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

  His eyes are dead serious. “Let it the fuck go, man. He’s only trying to get to you.”

  From behind him, I hear a laugh. “Sucking on those titties…”

  My teeth gnash. But my guys are surrounding me.

  “Save it for the play,” Ryder says at my side. “We will fuck them up.”

  Someone gives me an encouraging slap to the helmet. I move back to the huddle, trying to concentrate. Finn gives me a quick look, but he’s calling the next play.

  Breathe. Focus. Get it together.

  I try. I really do. But I miss a beat, and when I snap the ball, a defensive end blows by me and sacks Finn.

  “Shit.”

  Norris is at my elbow again, snickering. “Fiona Mackenzie, eh? Sweet little honey, D. Looks like she’s a natural blonde—”

  I don’t see anything but a haze and the whites of Norris’s eyes as I grab hold of his helmet and rip it from his head. Mine is off too. Not sure how. Don’t care. My fist connects with his face, smashing into it so hard I feel it in my spine.

  Whistles blow. Yellow flags fly.

  Guys pile on top of us. Mine. His. Blows hit my head, back. I don’t feel them. I’m pounding Norris, who is stuck beneath me.

  And then I’m thrown on my back with a jarring thud. It clears my head enough for me to pop up. A ref struggles to step into my path. I duck around him as other guys scuffle.

  “Cool it,” shouts a ref.

  Finn is at my arm, pulling me back. “Easy, Dex.”

  But then Norris is coming at me, blood pouring down his nose and in his teeth. “That’s why your girl took the money, cuz you’re a fucking pussy!”

  I’m two steps into coming at him again, when his words hit me and I go ice cold.

  Took the money?

  Guys are getting into smaller fights again. Rolondo is now up in Norris’s face, calling him a punk-ass bitch—refs are plucking them apart.

  Someone is walking me backward, pushing me toward the sidelines as shouts continue. But I’m numb, my ears ringing and all available blood rushing to the pit of my stomach.

  Took the money?

  The ref ejects me and Norris from the game, and the stadium erupts into a chorus of boos.

  On the sidelines, my offensive coach is shouting at me that I fucked up while slapping my shoulder to say it’s okay I nearly tore Norris’s head off. My head coach is bellowing in my ear about being a dumbass. But I’m barely listening.

  I find an assistant coordinator. “You got a phone?”

  He glances around as if trying to find an escape.

  “Give me your fucking phone,” I snap. Blood trickles in my eye, and a medic is trying to press a cloth to the cut on my forehead. I wave him off, grab the phone that’s offered to me with a shaking hand.

  One glance around confirms that everyone’s been keeping something from me. I find out soon enough when the headlines pop up.

  Fiona Mackenzie claims her million dollars

  There’s a picture of Fi and me, fuzzy and taken from a distance. We’re laughing, my arm slung around her slim shoulders as we stroll through Jackson Square.

  And under that, the confirmation that Fi called Bloom this morning, demanding her prize.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Dex

  I don’t go home. I can’t.

  Rolondo takes me to his apartment. I head straight to his guest room and into the shower. I hadn’t bothered washing up at the stadium, just sat on a flimsy chair in front of my spot until the guys came back in and Rolondo hustled me out of there.

  Now I stand beneath cold water, letting it pummel me. Images flash through my mind: Fi’s smile. Fi crying. Norris’s ugly grin, blood running down his nose. Fi arching beneath me as I take her. Fi and me laughing in a grainy picture. Fi telling me she wants to go to London.

  She asked for the money.

  Black rage, thick, hot, and choking, surges up my throat. My shout shatters the air as my fist smashes into the tiles. Pain explodes in my hand, but it takes me a moment to stop.

  Slumping against the stall, I stare down at my split knuckles, the blood thin and pale as it mixes with the water beating down on it. Tentatively, I make a fist. The skin stings, but nothing else.

  Stupid. Fucking stupid to risk a busted hand. I ought to be horrified. I’m not. My mind’s on that picture of Fi, a once-beautiful private moment reduced to something ugly and cheap. Does she hate me for giving that chick the opportunity to steal my phone? Was that why?

  It makes no sense. Nothing does. I think of Fi and everything she told me last night. She wouldn’t do this. There has to be more.

  Chest tight, I run my uninjured hand over my wet face, and my fingers tangle in my beard. Again comes the rage, sticky and thick, as if it’s coated my insides like hot tar. Pushing away from the wall, I wrench off the shower.

  When I emerge, Rolondo has stepped out, probably thinking I need to be alone. He’s right.

  The pain in my busted knuckles keeps me focused. For so long, pain was the one real thing in my life. Taste the pain, ignore the rest.

  By the time I find what I’m looking for under his bathroom sink, the room is a mess. I don’t give a ripe fuck. My chest heaves as I stand and look in the mirror. For so long, I didn’t know who the fuck I was. Only with Fi did I feel right, at ease within my flesh. The world has tainted that too.

  To hell with it.

  Grimly, I lift the razor and press it to my skin.

  * * *

  Fi

  With an excess of nervous energy zinging through me, I decide to bake some biscuits. Ivy was right; I do know how to bake. I just tend to do it for emergency purposes only. Right now, baking is the only thing I can think of to calm my shaking hands and reaffirm that Ethan’s home is my home too.

  It’s been a weird day between demanding my money from Bloom and setting up an interview with the press to explain why I did it. Ivy helped me with that, choosing a sympathetic sports reporter—a woman so I would feel more comfortable.

  We held the interview through Skype. Ivy had joined from her home in San Francisco, acting as Dex’s agent and my moral support.

  I was so nervous I feared I might throw up just seconds before we went on air. But then a strange sort of cool calm came over me as I told the reporter of my plans for the money. I didn’t speak about the pictures or how it felt to be exposed, and Ivy shut down those questions every time they were asked. The truth is, none of that mattered.

  What matters is that Bloom’s dirty money will be put to good use. One million dollars to help stop childhood hunger and homelessness.

  I went as far as throwing down a gauntlet to Bloom, daring them to double their money and do good for once. I don’t expect them to, but it was satisfying to make them squirm.

  Ivy thought it was a most excellent fuck you to Bloom and all the haters. I’m just happy it’s over. I want to get back to my life, to focus on my furniture making, and most importantly, on Ethan.

  There hadn’t been time to tell him what I was doing and why. He was at his game, and I was too anxious to wait, afraid I’d chicken out.

  But it’s done now. I feel lighter, free. All that remains is to explain it to Ethan and tell him I’m staying right here where I belong.

  The joy I feel in knowing he’s mine, in being with him, is so strong it scares me. I want to guard it with my entire soul. I want to tuck big, strong, capable Ethan Dexter to my side and protect him from the world.

  It makes absolutely no sense; he doesn’t need my protection. But the desire is there just the same. I don’t want him to be unhappy or vulnerable to the vultures out there. I want—need—him to know how much he’s loved.

  I know he feels the same about me. It’s in his every touch, every word, look, and smile he gives me. With him, here in this home he’s made, I feel that safety.

  Only now I’m afraid I might have fucked up by not warning him. Highlights from the game show him being ejected for starting a brawl. I’ve watched the
footage over and over, my mouth gaping. Ethan never fights, never really loses his temper at all.

  God, but he looked so angry, blood and sweat running down his face as he pummeled the shit out of a player on the other team.

  At first I thought maybe he was fighting because of a disparaging remark the guy made about me. But now I’m not so sure. Because the game is long over, and Ethan still isn’t home.

  When I tried to call him, I found his phone sitting on his dresser, forgotten in his haste to be on time today.

  Short of roaming the city for him, I can only stay here and bake and wait.

  I’m pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven when I hear him come in. “Ethan?”

  The sound of his car keys falling into the bowl on the front console fills the silence. Then he speaks, his voice deep. “Yep.”

  One word. I shouldn’t read anything into it, but he sounds off.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” I say in a bright voice, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m making biscuits and was thinking about getting some gumbo from down the street.”

  Footsteps thud across the floorboards, and Ethan appears.

  A biscuit drops from my fingers to the floor as I behold the man standing at the threshold of the kitchen. He’s tall, broad, and muscular, his eyes jewel bright. The line of his jaw is a clean sweep, his smooth chin stubborn, firm, and unfamiliar to me. This man doesn’t have a beard. Or much hair. All that glorious, sun-streaked brown hair has been shorn off close to his skull.

  And he stands there—hands shoved in his pockets, a gray cotton button-down shirt straining at his shoulders—looking so different I hardly recognize him. Younger, more vulnerable. Exposed.

  “Why?” I warble, my heartbeat thudding in my throat.

  He shrugs, his gaze sliding away. “Felt the need for a change.”

  In a daze, I walk to him. He keeps his head down, the squared-off hinge of his jaw bunching as if he’s grinding his teeth.

  “Ethan.” My hand touches his smooth cheek. God. His beard. His thick, lustrous beard is gone. A deep pang of mourning rips through me. “Why?”

  He shakes his head. Once, as if to say, don’t ask me. Don’t make me say it.

  But I know. With a cry, I fling myself on him. And he gathers me up, holds me against him as I press my face into the warm hollow of his throat. He smells the same. Exactly the same. Like birthdays, Christmas morning, and pancakes at midnight.

  I’ve needed to feel his solid strength and hear his steady breath, more than I realized. Tears well hot and heavy in my eyes as my fingers find the back of his shorn head.

  I must be choking him, my arms are wrapped around his neck so tightly. But I can’t stop. I want to be closer, under his skin, or maybe tuck him under mine where I can keep him as safe as I can. Sobs burst out of me, rapid fire.

  Ethan’s arm wraps more snuggly around my waist, his big, warm hand on the back of my head. “You’re crying over the loss of my beard.” He doesn’t sound upset but as if he’s confirming a long-suspected belief.

  And it breaks my heart. Somehow I manage to let him go enough to look up at his face. His eyes are solemn, sad, as if he hates seeing me cry but doesn’t know what to do about it.

  His thumb brushes my wet cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets me look at his now-smooth face.

  I cup one of his cheeks, press my palm against skin that’s warm and tight. “I’m crying because you thought this outer shell meant more to me than what’s inside of you.”

  His big body jerks in surprise, but I cling, not letting him go. As if he’s too tired to keep his head up, he bends down and buries his face in the crook of my neck.

  Gently, I stroke his head, his close-cropped hair bristly yet soft. “You think I kissed you that first time—that I wanted you—because of a beard? You couldn’t be more wrong. It was because you were a sexy-as-fuck, sly-as-all-hell charmer who grabbed my attention and held it.”

  A muffled grunt blows into my hair.

  “I mean, look at you,” I say, even though we’re still clutching each other and I can’t see anything. But my memory is just fine. I think of his solemn eyes and that mouth of his, that soft, wide, pouty mouth. “I’m in serious danger of having a young Marlon Brando Street-Car-Named-Desire moment here. I kind of want you to tear at your shirt and shout ‘Stella!’ Or I guess it should be ‘Fiona!””

  Ethan snorts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Still, tension vibrates along his strong body, and I know he remains upset.

  When he finally answers, his voice is raw. “Rather hear you shout my name, Cherry.”

  “So make me.”

  He doesn’t move, only grows stiffer.

  “Ethan, I loved your beard, but I love you more.”

  He blinks down at me, then he swallows hard as if trying to clear his throat. “I love you too, Cherry.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Feels like I’ve loved you forever. I thought you knew that.”

  There’s an accusation in his voice—soft but there all the same.

  “I do, Ethan. You’ve been so good to me.”

  His grip flexes on my hips. “Then why did you do it? Why did you take the money?”

  Surprise freezes me to the spot. He stares down at me, no longer soft but completely hard, stark devastation and cold anger in his eyes.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Fiona

  Ethan has never looked at me in anger. It’s a horrible thing to see it now. “I can explain,” I say.

  He scoffs. “Just the words a guy wants to hear after he’s been metaphorically kicked in the teeth by his woman.”

  My breath pushes out in an anxious rush. “I’m not going to London.”

  Not the best opener. Based on the sidelong look he gives me, Ethan clearly thinks so too.

  “Okay. And that has to do with taking Bloom’s fuck-money how?”

  Wincing, I try to touch his chest, but he backs away, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he goes. The fact that he no longer wants to touch me, that he’s putting physical distance between us, has my insides tumbling.

  “I realized that going to London was just me running away—”

  “No shit,” he cuts in, his voice flat, his gaze blazing with tamped anger. But it’s slowly starting to simmer. He looks so different without his beard, his head shaved close to his skull. His features are stern and unforgiving.

  I clutch my skirt with cold fingers. “Right, so…thing is, I didn’t want to run any more. I demanded the money from Bloom because I knew that would end it.”

  Another ugly snort leaves him, and he shakes his head. “Well, it certainly does end things—”

  “No, Ethan,” I say, stepping forward. “Not like that. I’m giving the money to your charity. All one million. Ivy and I had a press conference. I said I was donating it on your behalf, because Bloom getting sleazy PR by exploiting your personal life should come to some good.”

  He stills, his eyes narrowing. “You gave it to charity?”

  “Of course. Did you really think I’d claim that disgusting prize for myself?” I swallow hard, trying not to be offended at the idea. I ought to have warned him.

  Ethan’s shoulders bunch with tension. “No. But I didn’t know what to think, Fiona. I had some fucking linebacker laughing in my face, telling me my girl went for the money.”

  “Baby…I’m so sorry.” I take a step forward.

  But he backs away, his face closed off. Regret punches through me.

  “Do you have any idea what it did to me,” he grinds out. “To hear it from someone else? Because, let me tell you, not a single fucking person on that field knew about you giving the money to charity. They looked at me like I was a massive dupe, a fucking joke.”

  Shit. I didn’t consider the lag time between asking for the money and my interview, which should be airing right about now.

  “I’m so sorry, Ethan. You’re right. I should have warned you. I wasn’t thinking. I just… I wanted to set us free.
I needed to take the wind from their sails. Taking that money and giving it to your charity? What can anyone say about us now?”

  He expels a breath. “Okay, fine. But we should have done it together.”

  I give a jerky nod, misery spreading. “I’m sorry.”

  Ethan laughs without humor, tilting his head back to blink up at the ceiling. “God. You cut me off at the knees out there, Fi. I walked into that blind.”

  “Ethan—”

  “I know,” he says with a terse snarl. “You’re sorry. You didn’t mean it.” He glances at me, and there’s no joy in the look. “Believe me, I’m trying to get over it. But you were my safe harbor, Fi. The one person I’ve never had to worry about…”

  He spits out a curse and turns away, as if he can’t look at me.

  “You’re my safe harbor too,” I say, holding back a sob. “I messed up. I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t think—”

  “No,” he shouts, “you didn’t.”

  Emotion punches into my chest, and I snap. “Damn it, Ethan. I’ve been hurting here too! It wasn’t your naked picture spread all over the Internet. You’re not the one being called a whore or having fucking creepers comment on your body!”

  “You think I don’t know that?” He takes a step toward me as a deep flush works its way up his neck. “You think it doesn’t fucking gut me that I caused it? You know it does.”

  “Then don’t rip into me for finally taking control of the situation! Because your whole ‘no comment’ stance wasn’t doing the fucking job.”

  He freezes and frowns at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Shit, did you do it this way because you were pissed at me?”

  All the air leaves my lungs. I practically choke as I stumble back. “Did you just say that? Did you just fucking accuse me? Fuck you, Ethan!”

  His face twists. “Don’t get all righteous on me. I’m allowed to question this.”

  “Then don’t you go getting all righteous on me,” I snap back, stabbing my finger in the air. “I get that I fucked up. I get that you’re mad. But you have no right to—”