by Teagan Kade
“You seem pretty close with David. He was in the Army too, right?”
His eyes lift, broad shoulders relaxing. “Like I said, a brother. It’s nice to know he’s got my back on the field, too.”
A brief moment of quiet follows. I let it pass.
Chance is the one to break it. “If you are in trouble, Sam, we can help.”
I gulp again, looking away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Morgan, David, me—We don’t want to see you hurt and I know you’re running from something. Tell me. Let me help.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know I want to make you happy. Isn’t that enough? Let me in.”
He’s pleading, but his eyes speak loudest.
Do I let him? Is this a trap? An emotional ploy to get into my pants? I don’t think so. Even a renowned womanizer like Chance Adams wouldn’t stoop that low.
“Please,” he says, and my mind is made.
I’m going to roll the dice. I’m going to tell him everything.
*
Chance parks his bike. By ‘park’ I mean next to his Mustang inside his actual house, both cars looking out floor-to-ceiling windows, Los Angeles in all its blanketed, twinkling glory laid out below us.
I take off my helmet and step into the house itself, the entire place open plan, glass running down one entire side. I had expected a lot of bachelor clutter, action-movie posters, beer pyramids and what-not, but it’s surprisingly refined. “Your place is incredible.”
Chance removes his jacket, slinging it over a sofa and coming beside me at the window, the two of us locked opaque in the glass. “I got it off Liam for a steal.”
“Liam?”
“Hemsworth.”
“Oh.” How it must be to count celebrities amongst your closest friends. “It’s quite the view.”
I’m conscious of his eyes on my ass. “It is. Drink?”
“Sure.” I’m not about to tell him the beer we had at the food truck the other day was the first alcohol I’ve had since college. Whoop. Whoop. Wild alert.
I watch him in the window disappear to the kitchen and return with two wine glasses.
He hands one over. “It’s a great cabernet sauvignon from the Napa Valley. Impressive legs.”
Impressive legs? Who is this guy and what has he done with Chance Adams from the papers? “I don’t know much about wine,” I confess.
“I’ll take great pleasure teaching you all you need to know.” He slides the door open. “Come outside. It’s beautiful.”
We head out onto a large balcony overlooking the city. The temperature has dropped to something a little milder, but still the hairs on my skin prick to attention.
I lean against the railing, take a sip of my wine.
Chance leans in beside me. “How is it?”
“It tastes like… wine.”
He laughs. “Impressive analysis. In reality, I was simply hoping to get you drunk enough for those inhibitions of yours to slip away.”
You might not need to get me drunk for that. “You wanted to know about Vegas?”
He nods, solemn now.
I take a deep breath, cherry notes from the wine coming through. “As I told you, the massage parlor wasn’t what I thought it was. It turns out it is, in fact, owned by the Vegas Mob.”
Chance raises an eyebrow, swirling his wine around. “The Mob? As in the Godfather, guys in stripy suits?”
“I suppose so. I left after that first client asked me to… you know. Problem is, the place was raided by the cops the very next day, which is fine. I mean, I was glad I got out when I did.”
Chance listens attentively. “Sounds like you got lucky.”
“Not quite. One of the other girls called me the night after, told me the owners thought I was the person who tipped off the cops given the way I left. She said they don’t mess around, that she overheard one of them saying they put a hit on me to make a point. So, I skipped town, packed up right then and left. I didn’t get to say goodbye to my friends.”
“Your family?”
“I don’t have any, thank god. Mom and Dad passed away when I was younger, and I’m an only child. It’s just as well. I’d hate to think I’m inadvertently putting someone else in danger.”
“But you didn’t tip off the cops, right?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to leave, to forget the whole thing.”
He doesn’t question any part of my story, doesn’t probe, but thinking about what I left behind, everybody that was my in life… It breaks me. My eyes grow hot and I can’t stop the tears coming. I wipe them away with the back of a hand, my mascara running. “God,” I sniff, “I’m a mess”.
He places his hand gently on my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“I don’t cry,” I sob. “I mean, I don’t cry in front of other people, but I’m so stupid, so so incredibly stupid.”
He turns me towards him, placing his glass on the ground, holding me by both shoulders. “Don’t ever say that.” He brushes a fat tear off my cheek, his finger lingering. “Fuck, and to think I such as ass that first time in the massage room. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m really fucking sorry.”
I manage to regain a smidge of composure, but his hands remain. They’re comforting; the most comfort I’ve had in a long time. I’ve missed this—human contact. Chuckles, cuddly as she is, doesn’t make for the most empathetic partner. “It’s okay.”
“It was not okay. I am the one who feels stupid now, and I apologize, Sam. I really do. Can you forgive me for being such a fucking dick?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Those pleading eyes. “What can I do to help? Tell me and it’s done, whatever you need.”
I sniff back and try a smile. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Bullshit.”
The word shocks me. “Excuse me?”
“I said, bullshit. I’m not going to give up on this. We’re going to get you out of this mess. In fact, we’ve already started.”
Uh-oh. “What do you mean?”
“I knew something was up, so I spoke to David and we both went to Morgan. He agreed to hire a private investigator to look into it.”
I don’t know whether to feel flattered or angry. “On a hunch?”
“Don’t know if you watched any of my games, but my intuition is usually on the money.”
“And what did your intuition tell you about me?”
He looks deeper into my eyes. “It told me you were a kind-hearted, smart girl in trouble. A beautiful girl who can’t catch a break. Was I wrong?”
I shake my head, unable to speak it.
“We’re going to get you through this, Sam.”
“What did the private investigator find?”
He bites his lower lip, lowers his hands. Goosebumps rise on my shoulders without them. “That’s the problem. He’s missing in action. Morgan hasn’t heard from him in days.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“Yeah. Real unusual, apparently.”
Crap. I clench inside with the thought of someone else in danger because of me. I start to shake. “I’m scared, Chance. I’m really, really scared.”
He pulls me into an embrace without another word. “Don’t be. You’re safe here.”
I push away slightly from the warmth of his body. “Am I? They could be coming for me right now. What would they do to you if we were found together?” I’m growing frantic. “I can’t—”
He pulls my head to his shoulder. “Shhh, shhh now. It’s going to be alright. No one’s going to get hurt.”
I want to believe him, lose myself in this bubble of security, but I know it’s false hope. I start to cry quietly again, unable to stop the wracking causing my body to convulse against his.
He runs his hand over my hair. “Quiet now. You’re safe. You’re safe,” he repeats.
I drop the wine glass. It shatters on the concrete.
I come off his shoulder, holding myself before him to apolo
gize, but the thought is lost as our eyes meet and faces draw closer. Rational thought is gone. I breathe once—in, out—before he presses his lips against me.
The kiss isn’t what I expect at all. It’s subdued, almost timid at first. His lips are soft pillows, the pressure not firm but just right. I cock my head and return it, surprised at the sudden need swelling in my core, how badly I want this.
He holds my head and pulls me deeper, his lips parting and the tip of his tongue exploring, searching for my own as I whimper and press against him. His hardness grows between us, the alchemy of emotions running through my head forcing what should be a simple kiss to become so much more, a connection I never thought I would ever experience, but it’s here, now, with the most unexpected of suitors.
I can taste the salt of my tears between us, the hot draw of his mouth, and I want more, so desperately want to explore this, but my chest strains, my vision blurry.
Breathless, we finally break apart. Chance’s emerald eyes begging for more, hungering for it, but I’m struck by a wave of conflicting thoughts. Was this all a ruse? A way to get me to kiss him? After all, he did make the first move.
It’s happening too fast. I can’t process this right, a relationship on top of everything I’m going through. Would it even be that? Do you really want to let him in only to be tomorrow’s news when he’s had his fill? That kind of hurt I definitely cannot deal with, forced to see him every day, to face my mistake, and that’s all it would be, right?”
He goes to kiss me again, but I place my hand on his chest and push myself away, glass crunching under my heels. “Chance… I don’t know if I can.”
Confusion. “I don’t understand. Was it too much, because I want this more than anything, Sam, truthfully.”
I look down, the glass on the ground about as fragmented as my head right now. I take the coward’s way out. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”
“Danger?” he laughs, correcting himself. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just… Fuck. See what you’re doing to me?”
“Chance…”
He grips my arms. “Please. Let me back in.”
I can’t look at him. If I do I might not be able to hold myself back. “I need time. That’s all.”
His intuition kicks in. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he nods. “But I’ll be waiting. I want you to know that, and what I said about helping you still stands. You’re not alone in this.”
I don’t want to argue about it, so I simply say “Thank you,” struggling to even get that much out.
He nods in acknowledgment, but I see sadness there too. At least I think I do. Desire is one thing, but I can’t let it cloud my judgement right now.
He releases my arms and smiles. “I’ll take you home.”
I smile back and wipe my face again.
We take the Mustang and don’t even speak as the city lights peel by the windows. Chance is equally quiet and pensive. I can feel the tension between us, a physical and primal force, but whatever moment we did have has passed. As much as my body wants to initiate something, my head is the boss, always there with caution.
And where has that gotten you?
When we finally arrive back at my apartment complex, Chance turns towards me. “I can stay if you like—nothing sexual. Just company.”
I scratch the top of my hand, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to snap out of. “I’ll be fine, but thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow at the stadium?”
He nods, one hand gripping the top of the steering wheel. “You will.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I step out into the tepid air and close the door. My body screams at me to open it and invite him up, but I can’t do it. Maybe I’m afraid. Maybe I’m just being smart, but as Chance drives away all I know for sure is that this night went in an entirely different direction to what I was expecting, the very definition of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’
I climb the stairs confused, tired, but more than anything filled with a sudden and penetrating regret.
I open my door, thankful the girl-power brigade has long since left.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHANCE
I wait by the gates the following morning my head ablaze with thoughts, mostly the lingering memory of Sam’s lips. I’m waiting for David’s Tesla, which is why I’m a little surprised when a minivan drops him off instead.
He comes out the side door and runs to the driver’s door, kissing Sarah, his wife, before returning to the windows on the side, his two girls leaning out to hug him goodbye. “I love you, Daddy,” the eldest says, holding him tight.
He pulls away and blows them a kiss, Sarah waving as she takes off.
David walks over, his gear bag over his shoulder and a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
“So you decided to get rid of the hippie-mobile. Good for you.”
He plants a soft punch into the middle of my chest. “No. I’ve still got the Tesla and it will still wipe the floor with your Mustang. As for the minivan, Sarah had an early appointment, said she could drop me off, so what the hell?”
“The girls are looking older.”
“That is what kids do, Chance. They grow up.”
“Really?” I mock.
“Do you need me to fill you in on the birds-and-bees again? Oh wait, I think you’re well up to date given your Instagram feed.”
“I cleaned up all my social media after Sam left last night.”
Oops.
David shakes his head. He hasn’t missed it. “You fucking dog.”
“It was just a kiss.”
“Yeah, between her legs, right? That’s the kind of kissing they do in Australia, you know. Down-under and all.”
“No, a regular kiss, my friend, and it was actually quite beautiful.”
David drops his bag and cups his hands around his mouth. “Attention, LA. Chance Adams has lost his mind. I repeat, Chance Adams has lost his mind.”
“There’s more.” I add.
“There always is with you.”
“She is in trouble.”
The joker is gone, David’s suddenly all concern. “What did she tell you?”
“Long story short, the Mob is after her. The place she was working at in Vegas was raided by the cops the morning after she quit.”
“And they think she was responsible?”
I nod.
“Was she?”
“No, but they’re after her all the same. A co-worker tipped her off. That’s why she left. That’s why she’s here.”
David places his hands on his hips. “Fuck me.”
“Precisely.”
“Do we go to Morgan?”
I nod again. “We go to Morgan and we help her, any way we can. Is he even around this time of morning?”
David laughs. “You’re kidding, right? The guy lives here, as in he’s got a bed down in the old storage room next to the showers.”
“Is that what’s in there? I always thought it was a bondage dungeon, Masonic meeting hall at best.”
“Should we go wake him?”
I smile. “We are the golden boys, are we not?”
*
I rap on the door. “Morgan?”
It opens a solid minute later, a highly disheveled Morgan staring at us with squinty eyes. “Am I seeing things or are my two best players interrupting my beauty sleep five minutes before they’re due for training?”
I look to David. He’s blank. No support there. “It’s about Sam.”
That piques his interest. “I’m listening.”
“She opened up to me.”
I expect David to snigger at that one, but he keeps his composure.
“The Mob’s after her,” I continue. “The parlor she was working at in Vegas was raided and they think she’s the one responsible. It’s a real clusterfuck.”
Morgan looks to the flickering lights above our heads. “The Mob, those fucker
s.”
I exchange another look with David. “You’ve dealt with the Mob before?”
“Boys, you build up enough money and the Mob always comes knocking, overtly or not, but I know better. I want nothing to do with those pricks. You told her about the PI?”
“I did.”
“How did she take it?”
“Better than I thought, but I made sure to emphasize it was only done with her best interests in mind.”
Morgan scratches his stubble. “Good, good. Maybe I’ll have a word with her later, make sure we’re all on the same page going forward, because we are going to deal with this.”
“I appreciate the help, Morgan.” And I do. I don’t know many team owners who’d go to these kinds of lengths for the team massage therapist. But that’s the thing. Morgan used to be a player. He knows how it works on the bottom rungs of the ladder. “Speaking of, have you heard from the PI yet?”
A solemn shaking of the head. “Hate to tell you, boys, but I haven’t. Now that we know the Mob’s involved…” He trails off. “It doesn’t look good.”
Morgan claps his hands together. “But enough for now. We’re taking on the Bengals tonight, one of the first games of the season and absolutely crucial to get us to the top of the ladder. I need all your energy focused on that. Let me deal with this Sam stuff. Is that a plan?”
“Yes, sir,” we both reply.
“That’s what I like to hear. Now, can I get that beauty sleep or what?”
*
I’m so caught up with training I don’t get to see Sam at all during the morning. She remains tied up with a couple of our backs, all of which are nursing various soft-tissue injuries from a fiery clash with New York. I sure could do with her hands on me, but I’ve got to remember she’s a professional too. My needs shouldn’t come before the team’s, urgent as they may be.
My cock tightens thinking about last night. The kiss was everything I imagined it would be—light, soft, the heat of her body against mine. So why’d she go running off then?
I don’t have an answer. I’m not used to rejection, though that’s perhaps too harsh a definition for what went down last night.
A snap press conference doesn’t help matters. The coaches follow with a solid hour of play strategy stuffing my already overflowing head with yet more diagrams and lines and numbers, because that’s what American football is at its core—a carefully calculated game of chess.