by Crowe, Liz
“Yeah, she knows how to take care of herself.”
Kayla shot James a “shut up or get out” glare. He glanced away while J.D. covered her face with kisses, stopping when his hand found the knot at the back of her head. He seemed to freeze when she winced at his touch, his entire body tensed into one coiled muscle.
“I am going to kill him. Right fucking now.” He rose and stormed toward the curtain. James stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Move out of my way if you know what’s good for you,” J.D. said.
James grabbed J.D.’s biceps. The two men glared at each other, and for a count of three Kayla was afraid they’d brawl right in the middle of the ER. “I feel you, man,” James declared. “But right now, the thing you want to do to Don Harris that I would totally back you up on won’t help anything.” He glanced over at Kayla. “She needs you.”
J.D.’s shoulders slumped and he turned to face her again. “You … you escaped him.”
“Brother, she knee-capped the sorry SOB and busted his nose.”
J.D. sucked in a breath. “And Ted?”
“He’s in surgery,” she said. “Don had already stabbed him before they got to the door. I thought he was dead the whole time, but he got up and fell over again which gave me just enough distraction.” She sucked in a ragged breath, put her hands her face, and let the waterworks take over again. “They … they said he did s-s-s-something to jam the building’s cell service or wi-fi, or … or…” To her horror, she burst into tears yet again.
J.D. had her in his arms in a half second, rocking her, soothing her, kissing her hair.
When she thought she could talk again, she pulled away and blew her nose.
James was still hanging by the curtain, watching them.
J.D. touched her forehead, then drew his finger around her jaw to her lips. “My hero,” he said in a whisper.
“Something like that,” she said. “I had to be, since your sorry ass wasn’t around to do it.”
He chuckled, but his face stayed pale, his pupils dilated.
She put her hand to his chest, the familiar musculature of his body going a long way toward calming her further. “Your heart is racing,” she said.
“Of course it is,” he said. “God damn, you scared me.”
“Ms. Franklin?” The curtain opened, revealing a doctor in scrubs. “We have an update on Theodore Hamilton.”
J.D. stood up at her side, keeping a warm hand on her arm.
“He’s out of surgery. We were able to remove the bullet, but he lost a lot of blood.”
“Is he…?” She bit her lip, unable to contemplate the end of that question.
“He’s in the ICU. The next twenty-four hours will be touch-and-go. But he weathered the surgery fine and is stable for now.”
“Go see him,” she said, pushing J.D. toward the curtain. “Check on him. Then you should call his mother. I couldn’t remember her name when they brought me in here.”
He turned back to her. “You’ll be all right here?”
“I think I will, yes. I mean, I did save my own ass from a crazy guy, remember?”
J.D. smiled at her, which reminded her that she was one lucky lady.
“Oh, if you can find out when they’re going to let me go, I’d really like to get out of here.”
“I’ll check,” the doctor said. “This way, Mr. Baxter.”
It didn’t escape her notice that J.D. hadn’t introduced himself to the man. She flopped back onto the thin pillow with a sigh. James handed her the water bottle and she drank half of it in one long swallow, which revived her a bit more. When she set the bottle on the table in front of her, he touched the real diamond in her fake engagement ring.
“So, you’re about to get a fairy tale ending, eh, sister?”
She shook her head and swiped at the water that had leaked out of the sides of her mouth. “I guess.”
“You don’t sound too convinced. What up with that?” He leaned back in a chair near the bed, hands behind his head. He kept his voice neutral, but she heard the nosiness in it anyway.
“Not your business is what it is.”
He frowned and handed her a tissue so she could blow her nose. “Maybe. But I’m wondering how far a man like him will go to make sure you stick around.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” The flutters in her chest—the ones she’d gotten a lot lately when she contemplated the reality of living with a man as famous and as famously sexy as Jon David Baxter—made her want to smack James, or maybe cry. Or maybe rip off the stupid fake ring—with the obnoxiously expensive rock—and flee.
“You’ll do whatever you want. You always have. I only want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.” He held up a hand to keep her from protesting. “I am sure he loves … your spunk and your fire and your hot ass and all but you know, he’s a guy who can and has gotten tail anytime and anywhere he wants it for a damn long time. What makes you think he’ll change his ways, just because he laid that blood diamond on you?”
She shook her head to clear it of the voices firing up, agreeing with James. “You are such a hypocrite. You can’t find a woman to suit you, and I’m pretty sure you’ve had a steady parade of friends with benefits. Don’t be dissing me just because I’ve found my soulmate.” She tried not to cringe when the words left her lips.
He snorted and propped his feet up on her bed.
“Soulmates. Girl, please. That’s embarrassing to hear you say.”
“Also, if I recall correctly, J.D. Baxter was once at the top of your favorite quarterbacks list. You respected the hell out of him when he was playing for Denver. What’s changed now?”
“He wasn’t plying my baby sister with jewelry, condos, and whatever else when he was at Denver, that’s what. He was likely sticking his dick into anything with tits right about then. And I am certain he wasn’t lacking for options, either.”
“You’re terrible,” she said. But the voices and the disquiet she couldn’t shake were roaring through her now. “I’m tired. Go make yourself useful and ask somebody when I can go home.”
He stood and gathered her close. “I’m not dissing you, Makayla. But I will be damned if I let someone like J.D. take advantage of you.”
She disentangled herself. “Please, just get me out of here so I can think straight.”
He nodded and headed out into the busy ER, calling for someone to release his sister. She held up her hand and studied the fake engagement ring a long time. She loved him. He loved her. This was fine. It was good—no it was great. She had everything she wanted, but for that placement on the team. James could take his J.D.-doubting BS right on out of here.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two nights after she’d been installed back on J.D.’s couch with painkillers and admonishments to “take it easy”, Kayla swore she could feel every nerve in her stretched tight, ready to snap. She’d promised to stay off her feet, let herself heal, but she’d been a high-level athlete for too many years. She knew when she’d had enough rest.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” J.D. asked when he found her in the bathroom, applying a final coat of mascara. He tugged off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and put his shoes in the closet. His neat and tidiness made her want to scream all of a sudden. She kept quiet, biting back the sarcasm. She wasn’t in the mood to argue, but she knew she had to get the hell out of here before she started one.
Once he’d shed himself of the suit and had on a pair of shorts, he stood behind her, arms crossed. She turned and faced him. “I got invited to go out by the girls on the team. So I’m going.” She pushed past him. “I won’t be late.”
“At the risk of being a nag, I’ll only ask once—are you feeling all right?”
“Yes,” she said, keeping it short and sweet. They’d made room for her growing wardrobe on one side of his closet. Her new shoe collection was organized by color and style on shelves next to his. She stared at them, annoyed but unable to place exactly why, until she found the pair she
wanted—red, strappy sandals with wedge heels—and slid her feet into them.
“Okay then. Have fun.” He wandered to the kitchen and opened the fridge.
She followed him out, unnerved by his lack of fussing over her all of a sudden.
God damn it, Kayla. Figure out what it is you want from him already.
“I will, thanks.” She watched him a few seconds as he assembled himself a salad and stuck leftover chicken in the microwave. “Aren’t you going to ask?”
He glanced at her, smiled, then put the chicken on the plate next to his pile of greens. She waited, her pulse racing, her chest aching at the sight of him—her man, her perfect life, her precarious, other-shoe-about-to-drop, life. “Ask me what girls, you know, from what team?”
“Oh, right.” He splashed some balsamic on the salad, squirted mustard on the plate next to the chicken and licked one of his fingers. She tried not to faint and fought the urge to throw herself into his arms and beg him to take her to bed, the one place she knew they connected. “What girls? Which team?”
She sighed. “The main team. You know, the one I’m still waiting to hear that I made.”
“Oh, cool. That’s nice of them. Do you want Frank to—?”
“I can arrange my own transportation, thanks.” She bit her lip at her own bitchiness. J.D. was an incredible man but at times, he tended toward over-planning, going too far with his helpfulness. It chafed her. He should’ve known that by now.
He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and sat. “Gotcha. Like I said, have fun.”
She chewed her lip a few seconds while watching him eat. When her phone dinged, indicating that her Lyft had arrived, she tucked the device—a new one, only the best—into her purse. He looked up at her after a few seconds, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and got up. “Makayla, I know you’re antsy and worried about this team thing. I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me whether you make it or not.” He kept his distance even though she could sense herself yearning for him to come closer, to hold her, comfort her out of this funk.
No. Not his job. Yours, remember? Cut the guy some slack.
“But the contract…” Her voice sounded weak and needy, and she hated it.
He waved a hand. “You’re overthinking it.” He was in her space in an eye blink, had her gathered up, his lips near hers. “Stop overthinking everything. This is good.” He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. “This is all very, very good. Just let it be that, can’t you?”
She nodded and pressed her face into his Broncos t-shirt, sucking in huge breaths of him, reassuring herself that she was okay. That this was, indeed, good and not some kind of a fucked up dream that she’d wake from any minute now, only to find herself back in her shitty apartment with nothing but tips to keep her afloat. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”
“I know. It’s fine.” He held her at arm’s length, his palms warm on her bare biceps. “You look great. Go out and have fun with your future teammates.”
“You are too perfect,” she said, unsure why but saying it anyway. “Are you sure you’ve got the right girl, ‘cause I’m all kinds of, you know, the opposite of perfect.” She sniffled. He let go of her and handed her a tissue. Ever her hero, she supposed, using it to blot her cheeks.
He sat back down and propped his iPad in front of him. “I know,” he said, taking another bite of his dinner.
She smiled at him, relieved, and about half-ready to blow it off and stay here with him.
“Don’t pick up any strange men. You know how I get about that.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. He blew her a kiss. The Lyft ride out to Royal Oak, a hipster suburb of the city, settled her nerves. This was good. She’d been invited out specifically by the woman who’d been captain of the team last year. It was “bonding time,” the woman had claimed. And they wanted Makayla to join them.
But the official roster still hadn’t been announced. And that one missing thing sat at the core of her anxiety, glowing like a hot coal. J.D. might claim he didn’t care if she made the team or not, that the whole contractual agreement for their new relationship was just a gimmick he’d used to get her to admit she loved him, but she took it seriously, at least in her head. If she didn’t make this team now, she never would and she knew it. This was her last shot. While donning her fancy, designer suits and heels to work for LeeAnn was fun and all, it was not what she wanted. Not now. Not when she honestly believed she could go back to that place in her life where she’d been happiest.
Another possibility had been in the back of her mind while she’d been training. That she might even be able to finagle a special audition for the women’s national team—at least their practice group. She’d be willing to parlay her newfound celebrity status for that. But if she couldn’t make the roster for the Detroit pro team, that dream would die a horrible death.
She chewed on her lip until she could hear Marlo, reminding her that she was eating off her lipstick again. Her friend had hung around the condo with her a few days after the attack, keeping her company, until Kayla had run her off, acting like a whiny bitch in her stew of stress, worry, and self-doubt. She typed out a quick text.
Kayla: I’m sorry for being such a baby. I didn’t mean it.
She didn’t get an answer until she was climbing out of the ride in front of the club where she’d been told to meet everyone.
Marlo: It’s fine. I know you’re stressed. Talk tomorrow? I’ve got a date.
Smiling, satisfied she’d covered all her bases, she gave the driver a tip on the phone app for being so quiet and efficient, then smiled at the bouncer at the head of a long line of fancy-looking party people. He checked his tablet, then motioned for her to jump the line, which she did, ignoring all the grumbling and a few of the “Hey, Makayla, can we take a selfie?” requests behind her.
“Thanks,” she said to the guy as he opened the door, releasing a loud rush of sensory overload onto the waiting crowd. The chest-thumping bass beat made her grin. She was ready for this night, rostered or not.
She found her group where they’d told her they’d be, upstairs at a couple of private booths. She took a shot of ice-cold vodka then ordered a glass of Chardonnay. The women—okay, mostly girls, all younger than her—smiled and made a spot for her amongst them. She drank, chatted, answered questions about the documentary and a few about J.D. Her fake engagement ring was admired. She’d never worn it during any practices so it was new to everyone, after all, so she didn’t mind—too much.
She danced and flirted and drank and began to feel like herself again—her old self—the one who’d been the life of every team party, the player everyone loved, even if they hated her for being so good, so much better than they were. By the time she realized she should slow her roll on the booze and go with water, she felt a part of something again. Something she’d missed so much she’d not even allowed herself to admit it. She was on a team once more, she just knew it. This was good. This could even be, as J.D. had said earlier, very, very good.
“Whew, gotta pee,” she said. She got up and wobbled her way to the upstairs ladies’ room after posting a few Insta pics, per her instructions, using the hashtags #ladyballs, #teamwork, and all of the above. The bathroom was big but crowded so she leaned back against the wall to take some pressure off her feet while she waited her turn.
Her phone buzzed. She saw a text from J.D. but had to blink a few times to focus and read it.
J.D. Looks like you’re having fun! I’m hitting the sack. Feel free to wake me up any way you like when you get home.
Home.
Her home. With him.
She clutched the phone to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to work harder to be the woman this man deserved. And she would, by God. She straightened up and almost turned her ankle over on her way into the stall once one was vacated.
J.D. was going to be her man, forever. This wasn’t a fairytale. This was her reality. She’d best stop worry-warting over when it would
end and enjoy it.
As she was tugging her panties up, she heard a familiar voice. “Hey, Ronnie, you in here?”
“Yeah. I needed a break.” Veronica, the last year’s captain spoke from somewhere to her right. “God, that bitch is insufferable.”
She froze, her liquor-addled brain somehow getting the message to the rest of her that she shouldn’t say anything to give away her presence.
“Yeah. But you know, she’s the Chosen One now. So we’re gonna be stuck with her.”
“I know.”
She waited, her phone gripped in one hand.
“What I don’t get it how she managed it. I mean, J.D. is biggest man whore around. What about her is so fucking special? It sure as hell isn’t her hair. God.”
“Right?” Ronnie, whose hair was always sleek, thanks to chemicals and plenty of time spent at the salon said, “Who does she think she is? Angela fucking Davis?”
“Who’s that?” the disembodied voice asked.
“Never mind. I’ll tell you later.”
Her face got hot, so hot she might as well be glowing.
“You know he’s gonna buy her way onto the team, right? I mean, she’s not bad, but she’s not nearly as good as Taylor.”
Kayla squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself sober. Taylor was the woman—girl—whose position she’d be taking at left back when—if—she made the team. Angry tears made her eyes burn, but she refused to give these bitches the satisfaction of her emotions.
“I know. Like I said, we’re stuck with her.”
“If she sticks that stupid ring in my face on more time, so help me … and you know she’s old, right? She’s gotta be thirty if she’s a day.”
Kayla swallowed hard. Her inner competitor rose and forced her to act. But she clamped down on it, unsure how best to do this and trying to act like an adult in the face of this middle-school level bitchery.
“Doesn’t matter. She’s got J.D. Baxter’s dick in her purse for now. She’s a big famous TV star. She’s got that stupid hair. And she’s not that bad a player, I guess. She’ll make the roster, play a few minutes, then maybe he’ll knock her up and she’ll be gone.”