Love To Love You (Love/Hate #3)

by Isabelle Richards

  Ari sits next to me, then takes my hand and offers me a supportive smile. “Let’s say all the guys on the team back up Chase’s donation story. Do you think that’ll be enough to settle this? No check, no payoff. No payoff, no scandal?”

  Carmen taps her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “I don’t think this is going to go away that easily. Eckert met with Tate in New York early this morning, and he’s flying here this afternoon with a team of investigators. The league is taking this accusation very seriously.”

  Ari slaps the sofa. “How can they take this jackass seriously? He can’t even get a job with an arena league team because everyone knows what a deplorable human being he is, so he’s trying to change the story. Shift the focus to someone else. The whole thing is so damn transparent! I can’t believe they’re wasting time doing interviews, let alone flying a whole team of people here. This is preposterous!”

  Her face is red with anger. I think she’s taking this harder than I am. She’s confident everything will work out in my favor, a million times more confident than I am, but she’s angry. Angry doesn’t cover it—she’s out for blood. I put my arm around her and gently squeeze her shoulder. She lays her head on my shoulder and leans into my embrace.

  “I agree with you, but the problem is less about Tate and more about the current state of the NFL,” Carmen explains. “Between the bounty-gate blunder a few years ago, the deflate-gate debacle, and all the suspension recalls lately, the world is eagerly waiting to see if the league can get their shit together. Last year, Eckert made seventy-four million dollars. He’s slated to make eighty-three mil this year, but only if he can demonstrate he’s not just a bumbling idiot in a suit. Otherwise, they’ll give him the axe. The NFL will probably put a hardass in his place, and the players’ union doesn’t want that. They like having a pushover behind the helm. There’re a lot of politics at play, and an exorbitant amount of money on the line. This investigation won’t be about the truth. It’ll be about saving face and restoring confidence in the league. They’re looking for a patsy, a scapegoat. An evil villain whom they can blame all the NFL’s troubles on.”

  Frustrated, Ari throws her hands in the air. “Pinning this on Chase just makes the NFL look worse. Painting a two-time Super Bowl winner who is currently leading the only undefeated team in the league as a cheater? It will undermine the integrity of the entire sport. If they’re really worried about changing the public perception of football, they should bend over backward to protect him.”

  Carmen crosses her legs. “I said they were looking for a scapegoat. I didn’t say they’d be smart about it. Bumbling moron in a suit, remember.”

  Ari squeezes my hand. “You will not go down for this farce because it’s politically advantageous for the league.” She looks at Carmen. “What time is his interview?”

  “Three thirty.

  Ari kisses me. “I’m going to pack. Your dad is coming in a few hours to help me move our stuff over to Daddy’s. You two had better get to work. You need to be ready for everything they try to throw at you.”

  ******

  Heisman sleeps in my lap while Carmen and I run through potential questions. In the meantime, her staff back at her office is looking for anything they might try to use against me. They’re going through every email sent to or from Tate. My accountant has sent them copies of my cell phone bills for the last three years, and some poor intern has to go through them line by line, looking for any calls or texts to or from Tate.

  By the time Carmen and I arrive at Levi for my three-thirty interview, they’ve scoured everything. Not one call. Not one text. Not one email exchanged between us.

  There’s nothing. The league will have absolutely nothing to go off. Ari’s right—by tomorrow, this will be long over. I walk into the interview feeling confident.

  Six hours later, I walk out feeling as if I’ve been through a wood chipper. One of Eckert’s investigators is former JAG Corp, and she went after me as though I was accused of treason. She rapid-fired questions at me, constantly trying to trip me up. It was a verbal three-card monte. I did my best to keep track of the truth, but she flipped and switched it up so many times, my head was spinning.

  Unlike a legal proceeding, Carmen couldn’t object. There wasn’t even an arbitrator present to keep things kosher. My players’ union rep was supposed to try to keep her in check, but nothing my rep said made a difference. The investigator made it clear the conversation was completely voluntary and I was free to leave at any time if I didn’t like the questions. What she didn’t say was that leaving early would be taken as being uncooperative and more or less an admission of guilt. I just wanted this over with, so I answered every question she hit me with. My brain was so fried by the end, I could barely remember my name.

  I watch the landscape go by as the driver takes me home, and the gravity of the situation finally hits me. I’ve wanted to play in the NFL since I was eight years old. I worked my ass off to get here, and now I’m living the dream. I give my team everything I have. I played through excruciating pain with cracked ribs and a fucking herniated disc because it was the only way the Lombardi trophy was coming back to San Francisco. I did so without batting an eye because I love my team. I play with integrity, and I demand it from my teammates because of my deep-rooted respect for the sport and everyone who’s ever played it.

  None of that matters. The second some fuckwad with a grievance spun a yarn about a cheating scandal, everything I’ve demonstrated in my six years in the league has been forgotten. Poof. Like it never happened.

  They treated me like a criminal. There was no benefit of the doubt. No innocent until proven guilty. Their minds were already made up. I went into this meeting expecting parity, a baseline of mutual respect. But it wasn’t a meeting—it was an inquisition.

  If they think they’ve found their patsy, they’ve got another fucking thing coming to them.

  As the driver pulls into Aiden’s driveway, I’m reminded of just how out of whack my life is right now. My job’s threatened. My reputation’s been pissed all over. I’ve been driven out of my own home by the press. The only thing in my life I can count on right now is sitting on the front steps.

  I tip the driver then let myself out of the car. As he pulls away, I stagger up the front path, walking slowly so I can soak her in. She’s so fucking beautiful, sitting there in a tight sweater and skirt that shows off her killer legs.

  Standing to greet me, she smiles sweetly. “I was beginning to wonder if they’d taken you prisoner.”

  I loosen my tie and unbutton the top button. “If they could have, I think they would have.”

  She puts her arms around my neck then gives me a tender kiss. “You okay? I mean as okay as you can be?”

  Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pull her close. “It’s so much worse than we were expecting. I don’t know how I’m going to get out from under this. I feel as though I’ve stepped into a fucking alternate reality or something. Nothing makes sense.”

  She lays her head on my chest. “We’ll figure it out. There is no way a bunch of lies are going to take you down.”

  As she hugs me tight, I inhale her sweet scent. She must have just gotten out of the shower because she still smells like that crazy-expensive shampoo she uses. Vanilla and amber oil or some shit. Whatever it is, it’s Ari, and I need her now more than I’ve ever needed anything. I feel as though the world is spinning off its axis. Right now, having her in my arms, is the only time all day I haven’t felt as if everything is completely out of control.

  She places a soft kiss on my chest then looks up at me. “Let’s go inside. You need dinner and a stiff drink. Maybe not in that order.” Taking my hand, she turns on her heel then walks into the house. She kicks the door closed behind us. “Your mom dropped off some barbeque brisket and homemade mac and cheese for you. She wanted you to have comfort food. I’ll fix you a plate, then we can talk.”

  I grab her wrist as she turns to walk toward the kitchen. “Don’t go.” T
ugging her back toward me, I put my hand on her cheek “All I’ve done all day is talk. I can’t talk anymore. I can’t think anymore. I just want to turn it all off.”

  My hand slides to the back of her neck, then I crush my lips to hers. I kiss her as though I’m suffocating and her lips are oxygen. My world is crumbling, and she’s the only thing that can keep me from falling apart. She’s the only thing in the world I can count on. The only person I can trust. From the fervor she kisses me back with, I know she understands. This isn’t about fucking or coming or gratification. I desperately need to feel a connection to something real, something honest. My life outside of her has been poisoned, and I need all of that to feel less real than her touch.

  Guiding her backward toward the stairs, I kiss her neck. “I need you,” I whisper in her ear before sucking on her lobe. My teeth graze her neck as I kiss and nip. “I need to be buried so deep inside you, everything else will cease to exist.”

  The backs of her calves hit the stairs, and she falls backward. I catch her just before her back and head hit the stairs.

  Leaning back on her elbows, she lets her legs fall open, exposing the tiny scrap of a red lace thong. She looks up at me, understanding burning in her eyes. “If you need me, then take me.”

  My mouth goes to her neck while my hand slides up her thigh. That scrap of lace is drenched, absolutely saturated with her arousal. Nudging it aside, I slide a finger inside her. Her eyes roll back as she moans and grinds against my hand.

  Unable to wait another fucking second, I rip her thong off of her. She flashes me the naughtiest grin as she tugs at my belt buckle and zipper. Putting my hand on the step above her for balance, I slam into her.

  She’s so fucking tight, I almost come the second I’m inside her. But I’m not ready. I need more. She angles her hips, allowing me to get even deeper.

  I’m not gentle. I don’t think she wants me to be. From the way screams my name and meets me thrust for thrust, I’d say she’s enjoying this as much as I am.

  With my free hand, I reach between us and rub her clit. Her screams get louder, her nails dig into me, she begs me to go faster. As hard as it is, I hold out until she comes. The moment her body relaxes, I let go. All the anger, frustration, and stress disappears as I release into her.

  Exhausted and breathless, I collapse beside her on the stairs. But she grabs my hand and sits up.

  “Come on,” she says, tugging my arm.

  After pulling up my pants, I follow her to our room. She quietly unbuttons my shirt then pushes it off my shoulders before unfastening my pants. I kick them off as she pulls her sweater over her head. She unzips her skirt and lets it fall to the floor.

  She pulls me down next to her on the bed, envelops me with her arms and legs, and I lay my head on her chest.

  She runs her fingers through my hair. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chase

  Six days and not one damn word from the NFL offices. “The investigation is on-going,” is all they tell the press. Of course that’s like dropping chum in the shark tank. The press is in a frenzy. Everyone wants to know who’s in on it. Who else was targeted? How much money was exchanged? How long has it been going on? Conspiracy theories multiply by the hour. Each time the Google alert dings, I can practically feel the public’s hatred for me grow.

  The public outcry in San Francisco has been brutal. I’m a local boy from a family heavily invested in the Bay area. I’m one of their own. And now they feel betrayed. Each day this nonsense goes on, the wound gets deeper and more infected. I want to grab the nearest camera and tell them all the truth that’s staring them in the face underneath this layer of bullshit, but until the league office reaches their decision, I need to keep my mouth shut.

  My agent’s working triple-time to help my career weather this storm. Armani pulled all the Code ads. Ford’s stopped running the commercials. The list goes on and on. Everyone’s putting as much distance between them and me as possible. Ari keeps telling me not to worry. They haven’t dropped me yet, so she thinks there’s still hope. But with each day this crap continues, I feel whatever hope I have left slipping through my fingers.

  Thankfully the team is behind me. The front office issued a Chinese wall with the media. No one from the team is allowed to comment on anything related to the investigation. They claim it will help keep the media contained. They’re taking a starve the beast and it’ll die approach, but it’s backfiring.

  The lack of actual facts doesn’t seem to slow the press. They fill in the gaps with speculation and conjecture and dress it up as the truth. If my teammates could speak for me, they’d confirm my innocence, but their hands are tied. So the only voice the public is hearing is Tate’s. He keeps adding fuel to the fire, and I’m not allowed to do anything to try to stop it.

  The only positive thing to come out of all of this calamity is that it’s given my team a renewed sense of purpose. They feel Tate’s not just coming after me. He’s taking a shot at all of us, throwing major shade by insinuating that we only won because Marshall was taken out of the game. That we needed to cheat to win. Everyone feels as though they have something to prove. All year we’ve been playing to win. Now we’re playing to blow everyone out of the water. I’ve never seen the team this focused, this determined, and it couldn’t come at a better time. Focusing on the game is the only thing keeping me sane.

  I take that back—Ari’s the only thing keeping me sane. I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything if it weren’t for her. She’s canceled everything so she can be by my side this week. When she woke up in the middle of the night and found me reading article after article about how I’m the embodiment of all that is wrong with America, she shut off the data plan on my cell, set up parental controls blocking any news or sports channel on the TV, and changed the password to the WiFi at the house. She’s even password-protected her laptop with a password I can’t crack. It’s a good thing too, because I’d be the moron who gets into a Twitter war at two in the morning when my publicist isn’t awake to tell me I’m being stupid. She knows how to save me from myself, and I love her for it.

  “Carmen will give us news when there’s news,” she says. “Let your people do their jobs, and you focus on doing yours.”

  In the meantime, she’s doing everything she can to keep me focused on anything but the scandal. When I’m home, we’re either working out, watching film, or having sex. She doesn’t allow me any downtime for my mind to wander. I took too long of a shower the other morning, and she came in and gave me a blow job to stop me from thinking too much. I may have stayed extra-long in the shower every day since then. This morning I think she caught on to me, but she didn’t seem to mind when I returned the favor.

  Sleep, sex, and football. Those are the only things I’ve done for the past six days.

  “There’s nothing you can do right now. Stressing about it will only make you do something stupid and impulsive. Keep your head down and do your job,” she must say ten times a day.

  With all the rumors and bad press and outrage in San Francisco, we all expected the commissioner would issue some sort of statement before today’s game. But he’s been silent. So we prepare for the game knowing the world will be rooting against us.

  The stadium reverberates from the low Boo coming from the crowd as I walk to the center of the field for the coin flip. I’ve never been booed. Especially by my home crowd.

  The ref looks at me. “We’re playing a clean game tonight, son. We’ll be watching.”

  He turns on his mic, then gives the coin flip spiel. New York wins and opts to receive.

  As I turn to walk back to the sidelines, Denzel Brown, the QB for New York, taps my arm. “Hey, man, I just want you to know, I don’t buy into any of the shit they’re saying about you. There’re a lot of guys in the game who pull that kind of shit. You’re not one of them.”

  Until this gets cleared up, being seen with me is a risky move. Dez could have just
kept on walking, but he didn’t. With boos still coming from the crowd, his small gesture means a lot. He and I have known each other going back to the US Army Combine in high school. It’s good to know at least one person hasn’t forgotten the kind of man I am.

  “I really appreciate that, Dez.”

  He steps closer. “Listen for a sec— there’re a bunch of guys on my team who don’t feel the same way. They’re gonna be gunning for you. Keep your eyes open and watch yourself.”

  I’d known that was a possibility. We creamed them last year and prevented them from going to the playoffs. I’m sure now they think the only reason we won is because we cheated. The only thing better than beating us would be taking me down in the process. “Thanks, Dez.”

  He gives me a nod, then walks to his sideline.

  As special teams line up on the field, I call the offense over for a huddle. “Get ready for a blood bath, boys. This is going to get dirty.”

  Dirty doesn’t even begin to cover it. They come after me, play after play after play. My line does their best, but I get hit almost every play. The majority of the time, the hit comes long after I got rid of the ball, but the refs never seem to notice. New York gets away with everything. Holding. Face masks. Off sides. I think they even got away with having too many men on the field. Not one damn penalty. It’s the most egregious example of poor refereeing I’ve ever seen. With each hit I take, I can almost hear the refs saying, “Fuck you, cheater.”

  Brock spends the whole game trying to convince the coaches to pull me, claiming it’s me everyone’s pissed at. If they pull me, New York’ll stop coming at us like a herd of angry elephants, and maybe the refs will decide to do their jobs. His claim isn’t without merit, but I don’t want to come out. At half time we’re up fourteen-ten, but we’ve worked harder for those two touchdowns than I’ve ever had to work in my life. I want to get back out there and ram the ball down their throats, but I won’t be the selfish prick who puts my pride in front of the team. If they want me out, I step aside.