Breaking Cage

by A. J. Pryor

  “Sign him. I hear he’s still a free agent.”

  “I didn’t want him. I wanted you.”

  “What’s your point, Coach?”

  “Drop your hot-shot attitude. It’s not welcome on my field.”

  “Coxy isn’t covering me.”

  “And you’re releasing too late.”

  I drop my head, pissed off, defeated, and determined to make this right.

  “You need to remember, Cage, when you’re on my field, you’re not Tom Cage’s son. You don’t get special treatment on my team for your fancy last name.”

  Tom Cage’s son. What a joke.

  I’d do anything not to own that title. I’d sell my right arm and never play football again to not have the Cage name attached to mine. I walk up to him, ready to address him face to face. “Treat me differently from the other players and I’ll quit.”

  He fights a smile. “I get it, Derek. Must be hard coming back home, all the shit you went through before you left town. The rumor mill’s been rampant. I’ll talk to Coxy, but leave your personal crap off the field.”

  Changing teams had resulted in rapid-fire gossip. Whispers that I’d moved back home to be closer to my dad, talk I’d left San Francisco for a woman, a mistress I’d planned on marrying this year. What a joke. A wife, a white picket fence, golden retriever . . . children. That life will never happen for me.

  I could never ask a woman to endure my lifestyle—her every move recorded for someone else’s pleasure. My mother hated living in the public eye, and yet my father had pushed her further and further until she broke. They say her car slid off a bridge in a blizzard, but my mom was smarter than that. She was on that bridge with a purpose . . . and she succeeded.

  I nod and walk past him, ready to get the fuck out of here. “But, Derek, you step one foot out of line, and I’ll cut your ass. I don’t give a shit whose blood runs through your veins.”

  That makes two of us.

  I enter the tunnel and run directly into Reggie. “Dude, calm down.” He has his hands out, halting me, his face a mask of concern.

  “Where’d you come from?” I ask. Reggie comes to my games because he likes to, shows up at practice to hang out after, and if needed, covers my tracks when I fuck up. I trust him to take care of my public persona, to let the world wonder about my rage, to let them be afraid of me but curious at the same time. But I wasn’t expecting him tonight, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture or even a friend.

  “Dixon called me.”

  “Colt? Why the fuck would he do that?”

  “Said you were going all Rambo on Coxy. Thought I’d talk some sense into you.”

  My insides heat to furor. I curl my fingers into a fist and resist the desire to take my anger out on Reggie. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

  I walk away. The echo of his footsteps follows. “You don’t need another ‘Johnson’ incident either, Derek.”

  Ice replaces the blood in my veins. “Are you shitting me?” I spin on my heels. “You think I’m going to beat the shit out of one of my teammates? Fuck you, Reggie.”

  He hangs his head low and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, D. What is up with you tonight?”

  I stare at him, the one person who knows my entire history. He and I have been through a lot over the years. Actually, I’ve been through a lot. Reggie sat on the sidelines and watched, sometimes judging, occasionally preaching, but always using his people skills to work magic with the press, keeping the public at a distance. I’ve been on edge since he walked Hannah out of this locker room two nights ago. She was assigned to write a story on me. It’s not the first time that’s happened, but it’s the first time I’ve almost allowed it.

  She touched me. Touched. Me.

  And I enjoyed it.

  Maybe I want to sit in a room with Hannah for a few hours, see what happens, or maybe I finally feel the need to tell someone about my life, share the burden of my past with another human. Whatever the reason, I know spending time with Hannah isn’t possible, and that’s weighed heavily on me the past few days. If she wasn’t a reporter, then maybe . . . Who am I kidding? There are no maybes, only realities, and mine is fucked up.

  Hannah has confidence that’s sexy, a naïveté that’s sweet and kind, and she’s fucking beautiful. She needs my help, and fuck if I wish I could deliver. But Reggie’s mention of Johnson is why I need to stay away from her. The past that follows me everywhere, the demons that haunt me. I would treat her like a fucking queen if she were mine, worship the ground she walks on, but she’ll never be mine.

  My attempt at a normal life died eleven years ago, when the anger that runs deep in my veins reared its ugly head. That rage is a blessing on the football field, but off it, it’s a damn menace to the rest of society and me.

  Reggie’s waiting for my response, his arms folded across his chest. His legs parted, his lips pinched tight. He’s not taking any of my bullshit, and because I know his secrets too, I allow him to push me around from time to time.

  “Just adjusting to a new team, Reg. I’m all good.”

  “You sure?” He relaxes his footing, his face softening.

  “Yeah, just feeling the heat.”

  “You want me to call that reporter? Maybe she can work off some of your tension. She had a sweet rack and a nice ass.”

  My muscles constrict in painful restraint. It’s taking every ounce of self-discipline not to knock him out cold. I step toward him, my jaw clenched, my fists curled, and a snarl ready to leap from my throat. He watches me approach, sees the anger seething from my body. “Don’t go fucking near her.”

  Reggie smirks. He’s as talented as I am when it comes to fleshing out weakness. But when you know the secrets that haunt someone, you know where to hit, and he’s hit an open wound.

  Derek “The Rage” Cage was ejected from the field during practice for instigating an altercation with George Cox. Coach Matthews is tight-lipped about the supposed interaction, but we all know how quickly The Rage’s temper can flare.

  George Cox is denying reports Derek Cage sucker-punched him on the field at tonight’s offensive line practice..

  Will Derek Cage be able to control his temper this season and come back from a downward-spiraling career path? Tom Cage had no comment.

  “What superhero do you most relate to?”

  Derek’s blank face causes me to smile. “Seriously? What the hell kind of question is that?”

  I shrug. “An interesting one. Which one is it?”

  We are in the crowded locker room. At first, Derek was a no-show, and I had to bullshit my way through some of his teammates, asking questions I didn’t care to hear the answers to. I’ve gotten better at understanding the game, knowing the plays, and fleshing out why a quarterback would choose to hand the ball to the running back as opposed to retreating and setting up a pass. I was giving it five more minutes before sneaking into the back offices where I found him last time. But then he walked through the archway, hair wet, track pants low on his hips, and a white Henley hugging his defined arms. The vision alone was worth the wait.

  He places his hands on his hips and inhales like he’s annoyed. But I’ve seen his level of annoyance and anger, both on the field and in Johnny’s Bar and Billiard’s Room. This is not annoyance that riddles his body, but confusion. I don’t think he’s ever met anyone like me, someone who has no interest in kissing his ass but wants to peel back his skin and find what makes him tick.

  His head tilts to the side, and he moves his tongue around inside his mouth. That must be a natural reaction when he’s thinking.

  “Hulk.”

  It’s one word, but there’s a lot of information packed in that name. A superhero with anger issues, rage, and a terrible family history, most notably an abusive, alcoholic father. Not that Tom Cage has those traits, but the similarities are impossible to ignore.

  I nod in return.

  “What about you, Hannah? Who would you be?”

  “Catwoman.” />
  He chuckles and my heart flutters at the sight of his adorable grin. “You have a thing for cats I should be concerned about?”

  “Amusing, Cage.” He’s still smiling and I mentally high-five myself. “She’s sly, can get in and out of almost anywhere. And come on, that outfit. I’m sure you can appreciate it.”

  His mischievous grin makes my heart beat faster. Bit by bit I’m infiltrating his caged fort. Whether he knows it or not, he’s opening up.

  “What about dogs?” I ask.

  “They’re man’s best friend.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “No. Do you?”

  I shake my head and move on. The other reporters are getting antsy. I can feel their glares, can sense their ears leaning in our direction. Travis has been especially nasty tonight. As Derek entered the locker room, McCoy had stepped in front of me, blocking my advances. To my relief, Derek brushed him aside and motioned for me to approach. McCoy’s anger at the brush-off had been palpable.

  “Favorite food?”

  “Nachos. Yours?”

  “Pizza.”

  “No kidding?” He grins like a little boy. It’s cute. I’m beginning to see another side to the man everyone calls The Rage. A gentler side, a side I want more of.

  “Yeah. Who doesn’t like bread and melted cheese with a crap ton of calories. It’s the best.”

  He touches my shoulder in a gentle show of affection. I glance at his hand, surprised he’s let his guard down in front of all these people. “Tell me why you’re reporting on a sport you know nothing about, Hannah.”

  “I know plenty.”

  “Does your boss know?”

  “That I’m in an NFL locker room interviewing Chicago’s most notorious twenty-eight-year-old? Yeah, he knows.”

  Sighing, Derek looks at me annoyed. “Does he know you have to surf Google before you walk in here?”

  “Are you angling to interview me?” I joke.

  “I want to understand you.”

  “I’m not writing about the sport, Cage I’m writing about you. People want to know about Derek Cage.”

  “There’s no story to tell. What you see is what you get.”

  I study his features. He’s America’s favorite cliché: tall, dark, and handsome. And he’s hiding a shit ton of family secrets that he presumably plans to take to his grave. Unless I find a way to break him.

  “Why do you hate your father?”

  If I hadn’t been staring at him, I would have missed the quick tick at his temple, the clench of his jaw before he swallowed whatever emotion was circling through him. But I was watching. I saw.

  His hand falls from my shoulder, his Adam’s apple steadily bobs, a deep breath stolen before he attempts a response. “My father is the only family I have. Hate is not a word I would ever use to describe our relationship.” His stoic face changes to concern as he scans the room behind me. “You need to check your sources, Ms. Black.” His eyes meet mine. “Allegations like that could get you hurt in this town.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Hurt?”

  “I am Tom Cage’s son. Some would call me untouchable.”

  “What’s wrong, Sunshine? You looked flustered when you ran in here.”

  I peer at my doorway to an impeccably dressed Chandler Woods. He’s become somewhat of an office friend over the past few weeks, and I welcome the intrusion into my thoughts.

  “I think I may have pushed him too far.”

  “The Rage?” he asks, stepping into my office and taking a seat.

  “Yeah. I asked him why he hated his father.”

  Chandler’s eyes widen. “That was abrupt. Did he answer?”

  “Of course not. And I didn’t expect him to. His body responded instead. Now I need to find out why.”

  “I’m sure it has to do with his mom. And possibly that girl.”

  “You know about the girl?” I ask, surprised.

  “Bits and pieces.”

  “Can you expand?” I ask, frustrated.

  He stands and gives me an evil smile. “Sunshine, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “That’s not funny. What do you know?”

  “I know that Derek Cage has a tragic past. I know he has a reputation that frightens most people, and I know I won’t tell you all the answers.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re supposed to help me.”

  “Sunshine, the last journalist to look into Derek Cage’s past ended up spending ninety days in rehab. I’m not risking this temple for your story, but I’ll keep you on track. Find out about the girl and keep pushing.”

  Rehab? “What’s so important in Cage’s past, Chandler? Does it only involve Derek or does the senator fit in there, as well?” Rehab?

  He winks and then vanishes.

  Fantastic. What are the odds that I work with a gay man who doesn’t like to gossip?

  The roar of my Ducati echoes through the underground garage of my new condo complex.

  What a shitty night.

  When I left the Golden State behind, my one reservation had been how I was going to live in the same town where I grew up, the same town that had turned its back on me eleven years ago. Would my nightmares come back to haunt me? Would it hurt my game if they did? I’m not the best quarterback the NFL has ever seen, but I am the most determined.

  So far, I’ve been welcomed, the fans forgetting I was once their villain. But Hannah Black is a threat that could change everything.

  Whether it’s her dark curls, her ivory skin, or her off-the-wall questions, for some asinine reason, I can’t stay away from her.

  She was unprepared the first time I met her. She doesn’t know the first thing about football and has no business being in the locker room.

  She could ruin me. Reporters dig for things. They rip through other people’s lives, leaving nothing but shattered pieces in their wake.

  Effortlessly, carelessly, heartlessly, they destroy everything.

  I step into the elevator and head up to the penthouse, my mind on Hannah. Her questions are innocent, until they’re not. She knows what she’s doing. Breaking through my walls, charming her way inside, and I’m allowing it. Why? I have no fucking clue. Except that I like her. Her questions make me laugh, and her innocent vibe softens a glacier that’s been freezing inside my soul for the past eleven years. I’m making an exception for Hannah Black, an exception I hope I don’t regret.

  I step off the elevator and open my front door. There isn’t an item out of place. The black and gray furniture was chosen by a decorator, the photos hanging on the wall are meaningless and impersonal. It’s cold and lifeless. I wanted a reminder not to get too comfortable. Life can change in an instant. If you can’t adjust, if you can’t pick up and start fresh, you’re fucked.

  A sharp rap on my door startles me.

  I swing the door open and come face to face with my father.

  “Derek, it’s good to see you.”

  I glance behind him, expecting to see building security with an explanation as to why they allowed him up without permission, but the hallway’s empty.

  He’s Tom Cage. He doesn’t need permission.

  “How can I help you, Dad?”

  Most sons would invite their fathers inside, offer them a beer, maybe a pretzel or two. I’m not most sons. My father and I don’t speak unless we have to, and we rarely see one another unless the press is going to be present. Our conversations are business-like in manner, formal and stiff.

  When my mother’s car slid off a bridge, I was too young to ask any questions. It wasn’t until I was much older that I understood she never intended to come home that night. She left me to be raised by a man who had no idea what he was doing.

  My father didn’t push her car off the bridge, but he was the one who made her life miserable, added unnecessary stress to her days. I often wonder if he feels responsible for her death, if it weighs on his conscience as it does mine. Tom Cage can’t be tried for killing my mother, but he
’s far from innocent.

  He stands in my doorway, wearing a crisp Armani suit, and doesn’t ask to come in. “My people are telling me there is a woman.”

  His people. A woman. I am twenty-eight years old. Is he shitting me right now?

  “Dad, I don’t have a woman in my life.”

  Cold, hard eyes bore into me. The same icy-blue eyes I saw in high school when I’d been dicking around with the local hooligans. The same eyes I saw the night Lily Harold died: eyes filled with accusations and doubt.

  “I’m told she’s a journalist.”

  Oh, that woman.

  “I’m an NFL starting quarterback. It’s mandatory to give interviews. You know this.”

  “This is different, and you know it.”

  “It’s none of your business.” Reflexively, I take one step closer, my face level with his, our similar heights keeping us at eye level.

  Raised eyebrows tell me I’m wrong. Everything is and always will be his business.

  “I’ve hidden your past, Derek. Done a good job of it, too. Lose the reporter. She’s up to no good.”

  Final parting words from a loving father. “Thanks, Dad,” I say after he retreats. “I’m glad we had this chat.”

  Hannah was right. I do hate my father, but she has no clue why. She never will.

  “What about Lily Harold?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she off limits?”

  “Are you shitting me? Don’t mention that name around Derek Cage.”

  “Was she murdered?”

  “In cold blood.”

  “And Cage did it?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question.”

  “Mr. Cage!”

  His arms are folded across his chest, his muscles flexing, defining his biceps, his forearms, and his pecs. Anger lines his face, a defensive posture as he searches the crowd of reporters shouting his name. His hair is perfectly messy, like he’d just been fucked.

  No human should advertise sex the way Derek Cage does.

  “Mr. Cage,” I yell again. My voice is drowned out by the crowd trying to get their questions answered by this mystifying man.