Pass Interference (Connecticut Kings Book 6)

by Christina C Jones

  Once she was gone, I let out a deep breath, suddenly drained.

  From that horrible practice with Terrence, to the shock of her walking in on us, to her emotional appeal, and then on to the memory of damn near the same thing with me and Garrett… I was wiped.

  A knock sounded at my door again, even though it was still open. I looked up to find Nate standing there, his eyes looking nearly as tired as I felt.

  “Your place or mine?” he asked – a simple question full of more comfort and warmth than I could describe.

  A quiet, contented sigh pressed through my lips, and I smiled.

  “Yours is closer.”

  Fourteen

  “Get back to the kitchen, bitch!”

  “Nice tits!”

  “You belong on a field, nigger! Welcome back!”

  I heard it all, but tuned it all out.

  Even the positive affirmations that were more plentiful than the others, but never rang quite as loud. Ignoring all of it was vital, if I wanted to keep my head in the game.

  We’d just returned from halftime, and the crowd was antsy because of the tied score. Tensions were high – this was an away game for us, and of course the other team’s fans didn’t want to lose.

  But obviously… neither did we.

  And we weren’t going to.

  The strategy moving forward had already been discussed. It was our ball, and we had every intention of dominating the next plays with an aggressive offense. Coach Lou was sharing his last few words at the sideline before we headed to the field when I saw it.

  Jordan Johnson winced, hard, as one of his teammates brushed past, accidentally bumping his shoulder, even through all that padding. He was quick to fix his face though, his eyes darting around to see if anyone else had noticed. These guys played through pain all the time, and mostly considered it no big deal. But knowing what I did about his previous injury – one that had required a surgery to fix – there was no way I was just letting this go.

  Especially after that conversation with Cole.

  Using my headset, I connected privately to Underwood, who was already up in the press box for a better view of the field as we resumed play.

  “We need to pull Jordan,” I spoke into my earpiece, using my hand to cover the movements of my lips from any nosy cameras. “Something is up with his shoulder.”

  “He complaining?” Underwood asked – a question I’d already known was coming.

  “No. But—”

  “We need him in this half, to put this pressure on. Didn’t the doctor say he was fine?”

  I huffed. “Underwood, I know what I’m seeing, and he should not be out there.”

  “We have to trust the professionals on this, you know that,” Underwood replied, not unkindly, but still. “If he’s not complaining, I can’t just go with your eyes. Let’s get through this next quarter, then re-evaluate. Best I can offer.”

  Shit.

  “Fine,” I told him, then disconnected. I rushed over to where players who were headed to the field were breaking from their huddle, stopping Jordan to ask, as low as I could, “Are you good?”

  Instantly, he hit me with that dazzling smile of his, full dimples and all, even though that same confidence didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good Coach B. Watch me run this ball.”

  “Jordan,” I insisted, helplessly, as he jogged away from me, onto to the field. I stepped back, watching him like a hawk, with a sick feeling.

  Relax, Sloane.

  The most likely worst thing to happen was he simply didn’t catch the ball – there was no need to imagine the less likely, but worse, alternatives.

  Apparently, the other team had gotten a little pep talk too, because they came out of the gate strong with the defense. For one reason or another, we couldn’t get any real movement with the ball, and before I knew it, we were on a third down with five yards to go.

  Obviously, my eyes were on Jordan as the play began – for him, a slant route, that he’d done a billion times, and had perfected. He was good – hands up, ready for the ball, perfect, precise foot placement, nicely angled, and so fast that he easily shook his defender off.

  The problem was, the other defenders got after Bailey, the quarterback, so fast that he had to launch the ball at a less than perfect angle, sending it soaring high.

  Jordan was a pro at this though, and he adjusted quickly.

  Those basketball drills I’d had them doing came in handy as he sprung upward, leaping for the ball and catching it securely in his hands. My heart jumped into my throat as he clutched it firmly against his chest, ready to take off toward the end zone as soon as his feet hit the ground again.

  Only…that didn’t happen.

  “No!” I screamed, as a safety came out of nowhere, taking Jordan out at the legs. My eyes opened wide, horrified, as he hit the ground, hard, taking the brunt of it with his elbow and shoulder.

  “No. No, no, no,” I whispered to myself when he didn’t immediately get up. He was quickly surrounded by his teammates, and my heart dropped from my throat all the way down to my feet when the nearest ref started signaling and calling for a medic.

  The crowd was… quiet.

  Of course not completely silent, but competition or not, no one liked seeing players get hurt. A knot of tension twisted in my stomach as I waited for the crowd to part, waited to see Jordan’s teammates help him off the field.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Then, finally, I gave up trying to not just be one more body in the way on the field, and headed out there myself with Coach Underwood at my heels, having rushed down from the press box. We were almost there when the crowd broke, and instead of seeing Jordan on his feet, he was strapped to the injury cart, wearing a precautionary neck brace and a pained expression.

  Still, he lifted a hand to the crowd, a sign that was supposed to show that he was okay. I caught Coach Lou’s eyes long enough for him to give me the slightest shake of his head, refuting the insinuation of that hand signal.

  He was not okay.

  My hands were shaking as the cart rushed past, into the tunnel, and both Lou and Underwood converged on me.

  “Brooks – we have to make a decision. We’re keeping Reyes in the slot position, but we need another receiver out there. Who you got?”

  Oh now you want my opinion?

  I bit my tongue rather than saying what was really on my mind, and instead glanced back at my players. The obvious choice was Grant, who had the most experience, but then my eyes fell on Amare, who between the two of them, was more consistent.

  “Amare!” I called, not bothering to consult with Underwood first. “You’re in.” I turned to my superiors, giving them a nod. “He’s your guy. He can do this. Now… can I go check on my other receiver?”

  Lou nodded. “Go. Keep us updated.”

  By the time I made it to the back, they’d already stripped off his pads to do the mobile imaging on his shoulder. It took everything in me not to wring our team doctor’s neck, knowing how insistent he’d been that there was nothing wrong when there obviously had been.

  But I had to hold it together in front of company.

  “Coach B!” Jordan called, good-natured even when he was in obvious pain. I went to his side, shaking my head as I looked down at him.

  “I could really go upside your head right now,” I told him in a low voice, looking frantically at the monitor they’d connected the cart to now. There were too many people in here, which I mentioned, loud enough that one of the coaching assistants immediately went to work, clearing everybody out except the essential staff.

  “I can’t help getting tackled,” He defended himself. “I mean, I can, but… you know what I mean. That was a pretty ass catch though, wasn’t it?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Boy ain’t nobody worried about that damn catch. You swore there was nothing wrong with your shoulder.”

  “There wasn’t… until I fell on it. Tell her
, doc!”

  “You shut the fuck up!” I shot immediately at our team doctor, holding a finger up at him. I turned to the stadium doctor, who was peering at the image he’d managed to pull up on the screen. “I want to hear it from you.”

  He glanced awkwardly at our doctor, then back to me. “Well, he needs an MRI to be sure of anything – we only have x-ray capability here, which won’t show me any soft tissue. There aren’t any bone injuries though, which is good news.”

  “So what is the problem?” I asked, prompting him to shake his head.

  “Without the MRI, I c—”

  “In your opinion,” I insisted, just as Cole came rushing through the door.

  He pushed out a sigh. “In my opinion, based on his history, the pain level he’s in, very low range of motion… I think the rotator cuff is torn again. Probably full separation.”

  My mouth fell open. “Full tear? That’s…”

  “A season ender,” Jordan finished, with none of the bravado from before. “In fucking September.”

  “Because you just couldn’t listen to me,” Cole said, speaking up for the first time. “I begged you to—”

  “Not right now,” I whispered to her, with a hand at her elbow. “Not in front of these people, and not before you know exactly what’s wrong. Wait for privacy. Then get in his ass about it.”

  She let out a harsh sigh, but held her tongue as the medical team prepared Jordan for his trip to the hospital, and possible emergency surgery.

  Knowing there was nothing I could do back here, I headed for the door to update Underwood and Lou, only to get stopped by Cole before I could leave.

  “Hey,” she started, wearing the unmistakable stress of Jordan’s injury in her eyes. “I saw you try to stop him before he went on the field before that play. It was about his shoulder, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded. “I didn’t want him out there. Underwood wouldn’t listen.”

  “Thank you anyway,” she said, squeezing my hand. “For trying.”

  Squeezing back, I gave her another nod. “Woman of my word.”

  After that, I left, taking the long trip down the tunnel back to the sideline, carrying the weight of news that had the potential to derail our entire season.

  The plane ride back home was going to be a quiet one.

  I took the stairs down two at a time, rushing to get to the door. Today was the day I was supposed to start running again, after a long five months of slowly rebuilding stamina with walking, then jogging.

  I was ready for it.

  And glad that Nate would be with me.

  I didn’t even bother checking the peephole before I pulled the door open, a big smile already on my face.

  The scowl on Garrett’s face quickly wiped mine away though.

  “Well, hello to you too,” I said, frowning when he brushed past me, stepping uninvited into the house. I closed the door, turning to him with crossed arms. “Uh, how can I help your bold ass today?”

  For a minute, he simply stared, then pushed out a stream of air through his nose before he spoke. “Nate Richardson? Seriously?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t you dare act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!” he growled, getting right in my face. “Why the fuck do I have to overhear my daughter talking about telling him how her classes are going to find out you’ve had some nigga around her, huh?! Are you fucking this little boy?!”

  I ran my tongue over my lips, mentally urging myself to calm down before I responded.

  “Garrett… honestly, you have every right to be upset that I had another man around her, without you being part of the decision. It wasn’t cool – I acknowledge that, and I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t fucking accept it,” he barked, towering over me, but I held my ground, looking him right in the eyes.

  “Which is your right. You don’t have to. So where do we go from here?”

  I had two reasons to force myself to keep my cool – for one, the stress wasn’t good for me, and for two… I didn’t blame him for being pissed. I should have told him, period.

  But I hadn’t.

  Now what?

  “Where we go from here, is that I don’t want that motherfucker around her. I bought this house, and I say he isn’t fucking welcome anymore. That’s where we go.”

  I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “This is my home, in accordance with our divorce decree. You don’t pay alimony, and you don’t pay child support since we split custody, so there is zero ambiguity about whose paychecks cover the bills around here. But since you seem confused, here’s a clue – it ain’t yours. So you don’t – and won’t – tell me who the hell is welcome in my house.”

  “Sloane, I said what I said,” he warned.

  “Motherfucker so did I! Do you realize how ridiculous you sound right now? Nate helped my daughter with some school paperwork, you keep that nigga from around her. I’m dating a man who has no issue offering his time and support to our daughter, and you’re… mad?”

  “I’m mad because you and that little motherfucker lied to me,” he bellowed. “Talking about he was here to discuss a player, leaving your house early in the fucking morning. That was a booty call. And I knew something was up when he was looking at you like he wanted to put his nose up your ass at that goddamn wedding!”

  I laughed, right in his fucking face. “Congratu-fucking-lations, you were right! Pick your prize, baby – Get the fuck outta my house, or get the fuck outta my house! You decide.”

  “I ain’t going nowhere until we talk about how your ass lied to my face, woman!”

  “Oh you’re mad that I lied?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “Is that really where you want to go, Mr. sorry I can’t celebrate your birthday because I have to meet a client but what I really mean is that I’d rather fuck somebody else?!”

  His mouth dropped, and he shook his head. “You are always bringing up the past to try to justify when your ass is wrong! That shit is old news!”

  “And so is this,” I argued. “I’ve been fucking Nate Richardson for four years and his young ass has been hitting and licking it better than your lying, philandering behind ever did. Now clock that,” I snapped, nostrils flaring as he stepped even closer, his face set in a deep scowl.

  “One of these days, that smart ass mouth is going to get you in trouble,” he snarled, eyes narrowed on mine.

  “And exactly what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Yeah… that’s what I’m trying to figure out too.” The sound of Nate’s voice drew both of our gazes to the door, where he was standing, fists clenched. “You,” he raised a hand, pointing a finger in Garrett’s direction. “Need to back the fuck up.”

  My eyes shot back to Garrett, whose shoulders had tensed immediately over Nate’s presence. “Or what?” he asked, not moving. “What, you think I was about to put my hands on her?!”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you were going to do,” Nate told him, approaching us. “But what you’re about to do, is back the fuck up off her.”

  Garrett did move away from me, but it wasn’t to follow Nate’s directive. It was to get in his face, which I quickly deflected by moving between them.

  “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to boy?” Garrett barked over my shoulder to Nate, who frowned.

  “I damn sure wasn’t talking to her, so who the fuck do you think?”

  “Guys!” I insisted, holding up my hands. “Stop, before this goes too far!”

  Garrett grunted. “Nah, it’s already too far, when you’ve got this bold motherfucker in the house I bought, thinking he’s about to take over shit with my wife and daughter!”

  “Ex-wife,” I corrected. “And nobody is trying to take your place with your daughter!”

  “But you don’t deny the rest?” he asked, in a disgusted tone. “Four years, Sloane? Really? You were that desperate that you resorted to fucking a kid?!”

  “Nigga didn’t I already tell you to lower your voice
and watch your fucking tone with her?” Nate asked, before I could respond. “Don’t be mad because I stepped up to handle what you obviously couldn’t.”

  “What the fuck did you just say to me?” Garrett growled, stepping even closer, so much that I was wedged between them, instead of the chest-thumping dick-measuring they so obviously wanted to do.

  “You need your ears checked or something old man?” Nate shot back. “You had her first, but I had her better, do you need me to break it down any further than that?”

  That jab was barely off Nate’s lips before Garrett yanked me out of the way, easily removing me from between them. It happened so fast that I tripped over my feet, and was on the ground before I could catch myself, with a sick smack against the hardwood floor.

  “Fuck,” I hissed, grabbing the wrist I’d unwisely used to attempt to break my fall.

  “Sloane, shit. Are you okay?” Garrett asked, snapping out of his anger as Nate bent to scoop me up from the floor.

  “Man just get the fuck outta here and be glad I’m not kicking your ass over this,” Nate barked, depositing me on the couch.

  Garrett didn’t even blink over Nate’s threat, even once Nate straightened to full height again, his expression practically daring Garrett to do… anything except what he’d said.

  After a few moments, Garrett let out a dry laugh, and shook his head, looking between me and Nate. “This conversation? It’s not over. Believe that.”

  Nate didn’t even give him the courtesy of keeping his eyes on him as he left. He waved Garrett off and turned back to me, kneeling to look at my wrist, which was already swelling.

  “You okay?” he asked, as Garrett slammed my front door, so loud it seemed like he was trying to tear it off the hinges. “I walked up to the door, and heard raised voices. That’s why I didn’t knock, I just came to see what the fuck was going on.”

  Shaking my head, I pushed out a deep breath. “I’m fine. My wrist might not be, but… I’m good. I didn’t really need rescuing though.”