“Come on board for what?” he asks suspiciously.
On the couch, Travarius looks both curious and delighted. He rubs his hands together eagerly. “We’re running an op, aren’t we?”
“An op?” Remy pipes up, brow furrowed.
“Yeah, some Mission: Impossible shit, right, QB?” Travarius eyes me expectantly. “We’re gonna win back your girl, right?”
I grin. “Yup.”
His response is immediate. “Count me in, but only if there’s ninja stars and zip-lining involved.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I reply, rolling my eyes. I glance at Remy. “Borland, you in?”
The other guy is quick to nod. “Absolutely. Got to protect my oatmeal raisin cookie supply, don’t I?”
Samson, he of the potbelly, surprises us all by saying, “I’d do it even if she didn’t bake like a wet fucking dream.”
“Wet dreams can bake?” Ty says dryly.
“You know what I mean,” Samson protests. “Who cares what kind of treats she brings us—Bryant is a bomb-ass woman. She’s part of this team and if she’s feeling down, then I want to cheer her up.” He glances at me. “You sure she’s into you and that this isn’t some desperate shit on your part?”
“She’s into me,” I say confidently, because I know it’s true.
Samson shrugs. “All right. Then what’s the plan?”
Coach Johnson and his family live in a huge house on the north end of town. It reminds me a little of the swanky hotel where my dad stayed, only on a smaller scale. It’s got a four-car garage and a lawn that looks so perfect it might be cut by hand. After Samson stops the van at the curb, the five of us turn toward the house. Lights spill out of the dining room window, and the curtains are open so we have a perfect of view of Coach, Coach’s wife, and Bryant at the table. It doesn’t look like they’ve started eating yet. Good.
“You sure about this?” Ty asks from beside me. The van we rented has a driver’s and passenger’s seat, where Samson and Remy sit. The back is fully open, offering a small bench that barely holds me, Ty, and Travarius.
My gaze strays back to the window. Bryant’s blonde hair gleams under the light fixture, and her lips are curved in a gentle smile as she says something to her mom. “Never been surer of anything in my life,” I answer.
On my other side, Travarius shoves his ski mask down over his face and cracks his knuckles. “We got this, bros. Let’s go.”
Ty and I exchange grins before donning our own ski masks. I lean toward the front and tap Samson’s shoulder. “Be ready to gun it when we get in.”
“Yessir.”
Ty slides open the van door. Our shit-kickers land on the curb at the same time Remy hops out of the passenger side. His eyes are shining happily behind the holes in his ski mask. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he tells us.
I snort. “Yeah? Gooning it up was on your bucket list?”
“Hell yeah.”
I sincerely hope that none of Coach’s neighbors choose this moment to look out their windows, because the chances of them calling the cops would be pretty high. The four of us look like street thugs, with our masks, all-black clothing—and the rope in Ty’s hand. Someone’ll be dialing 911, all right.
“Let’s make this snappy,” I announce.
We march to the front door, which I open without knocking. I’m not worried about breaking some Southern code of etiquette, because Coach is expecting us. Like I’d ever swarm his home commando-style without asking first. I don’t have a death wish.
“Let me do the talking.” Travarius throws this curveball at me two seconds before we enter the front hall. I barely have time to sputter a protest as he flies into the dining room without a backward glance.
“Fucking hell,” I growl when I hear two high-pitched female shrieks of alarm.
“Give me all the silverware!”
Give me all the silverware? That’s his big line?
Fighting back laughter, I fly in after him. I feel only a tiny bit bad when I see Bryant’s wide eyes. If anything, I feel worse at her mother’s horrified expression. I guess Coach didn’t brief his wife about this plan. Shit.
Coach, meanwhile, is sitting at the head of the table, unfolding his napkin and placing it into his lap. His gaze moves toward us for one brief moment before he begins serving himself a healthy helping of meatloaf.
“What is going on here!” Bryant screams. Her wild eyes travel over the four masked men in her dining room. “Daddy!”
“Yes, Cub?”
“We’re being robbed!”
“No,” I correct, swiftly moving toward her chair. “You’re being kidnapped.”
She falters as she recognizes my voice. “JR? Is that you?” The pitch of her voice rises. “Ty? Travarius—I see your dreadlocks! I know it’s you!”
Laughter continues to bubble in my throat. I ignore her confusion and glance at my cohorts. “Rope,” I tell Masters.
“Rope?!” Bryant shrieks.
On the field, my teammates and I move like a well-honed military unit. Here, we do the exact same. I’m whipping Bryant out of her chair and over my shoulder in the blink of an eye, while Travarius and Remy grab her arms and legs to stop her from struggling—which she’s trying to do, hardcore. But Ty has the rope looped around her wrists and ankles before she can even register what’s happening. Her bound wrists smack my back as she yells at her father again.
“Daddy!”
“What is it, Cub?” Coach is calmly scooping potatoes onto his plate.
“Roby!” his wife protests, looking as if she’s about to faint. “What is happening?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Marlene. It’s been a long time coming.”
Gotta give the Coach’s wife credit. Despite her daughter’s wild struggling and outraged shouts, Mrs. Johnson simply reaches for her wine glass.
Bryant won’t quit batting at me. “Put me down, JR! Right this instant!” she screeches. “Daddy, they tied me up!”
Her dad smiles wanly. “So they have,” is all he says.
I love my coach. I finally manage to get a better hold on Bryant. It’s easier now that she’s all but hog-tied. Shifting her to my other shoulder, I flash a grin at Coach’s wife and say, “Enjoy your dinner, ma’am.”
She looks startled, but her perfect manners quickly kick in. “Thank you, sugar. You have a good evening now.”
“Momma!” Bryant wails in betrayal.
The guys and I are howling with laughter as we race out of the house with a red-faced, still shrieking Bryant.
In the back of the van, I gently set her down, but I don’t untie her. Her expression is murderous, and she makes sure to fix it on every single one of us. Ignoring the daggers, I smack the back of Samson’s seat and say, “Drive.”
“This is unacceptable,” Bryant shouts as the van speeds away from her house. “Take me home right now, you horrible delinquents!”
“No can do,” I answer cheerfully.
“Ace.” She takes a breath, staring at me. “I don’t know what the meaning of this is, but I am not pleased.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Ace!”
“Yeah, Bryant?”
“I-I—” She’s stuttering now. “I broke up with you! We’re over!”
“Cold, Bryant,” Travarius speaks up with visible disapproval. “Why you got to be like that?”
Her angry gaze swings to him. “Stay out of this, Travarius. My relationship with Ace doesn’t concern you. Any of you.” Her murderous eyes shift from one guy to the other.
“So you admit we’re in a relationship,” I say with a broad smile.
“No! We’re not! I told you last night—”
“Ty, where’s that gag?” I ask.
Ty passes me the rag I made sure to throw in the washing machine before we got here.
Bryant’s jaw drops to the floor of the van. Then, with another breath, she speaks in a voice low with warning. “JR Anderson, if you pu
t that thing over my mouth, I will—”
I gag her.
Sometimes you’ve got to do that to your girlfriend.
By the time we reach our destination, Bryant appears to have admitted defeat. Nobody had said a word for the rest of the drive. She’d stopped glaring at us, her shoulders had sagged, and she’d leaned against the wall of the van, looking small and vulnerable as she wrapped her arms around her knees. The sight of her bound wrists had been hard to take, but I kept reminding myself that one, Ty hadn’t used tight knots, and two, she’d forgive me for it later.
After Samson stops the van, I turn to Bryant.
“If I untie you and take the gag off, are you going to be a good girl and come inside with me? Or are you going to put up a fight?”
She just scowls at me. I decide to take that as a sign of cooperation, and gesture for Ty and Travarius to set her free. Bryant rubs her wrists the moment the rope is removed, making a big show of trying to regain her circulation.
Ty snickers. “Give it up, Bryant. Those knots were nothing. You could’ve easily slipped your hands out of them if you’d wanted to.”
Her hands drop to her sides. It makes me wonder if she’d known that escape had been within her reach but had chosen to stay put regardless. I think so, because I glimpse a flicker of guilt in her eyes.
At the curb, I slap hands with the guys and thank them for their part in the heist. My teammates take off, leaving me and Bryant standing in front of the Mansion. I had already dropped off my truck here before heading to Bryant’s, because I didn’t want us to have to ride back in the abduction van.
She’s surprisingly silent as I lead her into the Mansion. She opens her mouth only after we walk into the elevator and she sees me press the button for the banquet floor.
“What are we doing down here?” she whispers as the doors ding open.
Without answering, I guide her down the hall toward our destination. Bryant gasps when we step into the private dining room.
“Ace! What did you do?”
Despite her shock and confusion, I don’t miss the spark of joy in her brown eyes. I knew she’d appreciate this. The hotel staff created a romantic ambience for us, complete with a table laden with crisp linens and elegant candle sticks, a silver dessert tray laden with a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries atop it, mood lighting, and soft jazz music playing in the background.
“Ace,” she repeats, shaking her head. “How on earth did you do this?” She gasps again. “These private rooms are so expensive! I hope you didn’t empty out your savings account to—”
“Didn’t cost me a thing,” I assure her. When her eyebrows shoot up, I smirk. “The concierge is a Renegades fan, so I called in a favor. You’re not the only one with contacts.”
She harrumphs.
I take her arm and practically drag her toward one of the plush, upholstered chairs. I pull it out for her, but the stubborn woman refuses to sit.
“Come on, Bryant,” I cajole. “You’re already here. Why not sit down and have a bite to eat?”
“I was already having a bite to eat,” she grumbles, “before you so rudely burst into my dining room.”
“This dining room’s better,” I say smugly. I’m relieved when she finally capitulates and lowers herself onto the chair. Rather than position the chairs across from each other, I asked the staff to put them side by side, and I waste no time dropping into the seat beside her and leaning toward the dessert tray.
“Chocolate-covered strawberry?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes. “Suit yourself.” I pluck a strawberry from the bowl and pop it into my mouth. “Delicious.”
She sighs. “JR.”
“Yes?”
“I thought I was very clear last night about where I stand, but I see that I didn’t get through to you.”
Chewing slowly, I lift one eyebrow. “Sure you did.” I chew some more. “It was just sex and now it’s over. I heard you loud and clear.”
Suspicion darkens her eyes. “Then why are we here?” She waves a hand at the elaborate setup. In the candlelight, her brown eyes look like two shining pieces of amber. It’s beautiful.
“Because I disagree with your line of thinking.” I pick up the napkin and wipe the corners of my mouth.
“You don’t need to agree! It’s my decision.”
I offer a little shrug. “All right. So I guess you don’t want us to win the championship?”
Her jaw drops. “What does one have to do with the other?”
“Are you kidding me? You, out of anyone, should know the importance of rituals when it comes to football.”
Bryant blinks in confusion. “I…don’t understand.”
Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms across my chest. “Since the season started, I’ve done the same thing every night before a game—you.”
Understanding dawns. She gives an awkward laugh. “That’s ridiculous. We haven’t made love before every game.”
“No, but we’ve seen each other. And if we didn’t connect in person, then we spoke on the phone. Or you sent me one of those prim and proper pics—you know, the ones that show nothing but are still so fucking hot that I come the second I see them?”
Her cheeks flush. “Ace.”
“What? It’s true.” I shrug again. “I don’t know about you, Bryant, but I want to win this championship.”
Outrage colors her tone. “You know I want you to win!”
“Sure doesn’t seem like it,” I remark, putting on a hurt voice. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be hexing us.”
“I am not hexing—”
“You dumped me before the Championship,” I cut in, all the while fighting a huge grin. The distress on her face shouldn’t be hilarious to me, but it kind of is. I know Bryant’s family is incredibly superstitious when it comes to football rituals. Hell, I am, too. I’m not one hundred percent bullshitting her right now, because I am a tad afraid to mess with the mojo.
“If we lose, how can we know if it’s because we stunk it up out there, or if it’s because you messed with our rituals?” I shoot her a challenging look.
Her distress deepens. “I wasn’t the reason you were playing so well this season.”
“How do you know? Maybe you were.” My smile once again threatens to surface. “Either way, are you really willing to risk it?”
Bryant falls silent. It lasts for more than a minute, but I patiently wait for her to wrap her gorgeous head around this. Yes, I’m resorting to dirty tricks right now, but drastic times, drastic measures, et cetera et cetera. I want to be with this woman. And I know that deep down she wants to be with me, too. So if I have to play the superstition card right now, then I damn well will. It’ll buy me some time, during which, hopefully, I can convince her in other ways that we belong together.
“If I keep seeing you, it’ll only be until after the championship game.”
My lips twitch wildly. “Seems fair.”
Bryant scowls at me. “But we’re not making love again until you apologize for tying me up and kidnapping me.”
“I’m sorry I tied you up,” I say dutifully.
“And for kidnapping me.”
“Sorry, not apologizing for that part. It was the only way to get you to see me.” Another smirk pops up. “If anything, you should apologize to yourself for being so stubborn.”
With a soft sound of aggravation, Bryant jams her finger in the air. “We’re breaking up for real after the playoffs. You don’t need me anymore, JR. I told you that.”
And I’m choosing not to listen.
Rather than say that out loud, I flash her a wide smile and reach for the dessert tray again. “So how about that chocolate-covered strawberry?”
27
Bryant
Each Renegade win is more bittersweet than the last.
“You alright, Cub? You’re about as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Daddy observes. We’re standing in front of the window in his office that fa
ces the practice field, watching the team do a walk-through before we fly to Miami for the Championship game. Ace is easy to spot in his red jersey declaring him off-limits to any physical contact, not that there should be any today. He looks heart-achingly gorgeous—a standout even amongst these superb athletes.
“Just nervous.” I glance over the Bear Bryant biographies, wondering if ten in the morning is too early for a shot of whiskey. Momma would say yes, but Daddy? He might be okay with it. Sadly, I’m going to need the entire bottle to make me feel better.
He raises both eyebrows. “Since when do you get nervous? Besides, even if we lose this game, I’m proud of this team. They played their hearts out every week, and, more importantly, learned to come together as a team. Not that we’re losing. Your man, Ace, is going to lead us to the win, don’t you think?”
Daddy’s canny eyes see more than he lets on. “You’ve put together a terrific set of men.” I prevaricate.
He reaches out to cup the back of my head, making me feel fragile and young. “Do you remember when I was offered this job? I was working over in Seattle under Coach Brown.”
“I remember. It was rainy all year ’round.”
“I always thought it was bad for Ginny. Your momma said Ginny needed more sunshine and that the cloudy skies were affecting Ginny’s moods something fierce. I didn’t take this job just because it was a great program. I took it because I believed at the time that she’d benefit from the sunshine.”
“She loved it here.” My memories of Ginny are of her laughing as we watched a thousand YouTube videos on how to paint our fingernails and apply eyeliner to achieve the perfect cat eye. She’d spend hours brushing my hair and then hers. We’d swim—or rather, I’d swim—and Ginny would lie on the lounger under a tarp looking so glamorous my teeth would ache.
“She was about the same here as she was in Seattle. It wasn’t the sun or the rain that affected Ginny. Ginny…felt too deeply and had a hard time controlling those feelings. They bottled her up inside until she felt like there was only one way to escape all that noise and commotion in her head. We could’ve lived in Aruba, and we would’ve had the same result.”
Downed (Gridiron #3) Page 24