“How’s the shoulder?” he sneers as I approach.
I know what he’s doing. He’s baiting me, trying to kill my focus so I go out there and play for shit, but that’s not going to happen.
Amelia is my balm, and all day I’ve been redirecting my thoughts to her and that amazing kiss. “Good enough to beat your ass,” I growl as I walk by. “How’s yours? You block like a fucking pussy now. Hope fucking my wife was worth your career because after your shit season, you’ll be lucky to get B-teamed.”
His growl echoes behind me, and I turn as his shoulder slams into my chest. We crash into the lockers. Air explodes from my lungs as we topple over a bench and hit the floor. I shouldn’t be surprised by the cheap shot—it’s the only one he’s going to get. He might have the brawn, but I’ve got the speed. Fury fuels my adrenaline, and I drive my knee into his ribs, knocking him off me. Satisfaction surges through me when I feel them crack. I jump on top of Williams as he gasps for breath, and my fist connects with his jaw once, twice, but that’s all the blows I land before someone pulls me off him.
“Careful with that ball-hand.” Penner’s amused chuckle is in my ear as he strong-arms me away from Williams, muscling us toward the lockers. “Not that we all wouldn’t love to see you kick that bitch’s ass, but that piece of shit isn’t worth your game, man.”
I’m craning my neck to get a visual on Williams as Penner drags me around the corner, but three of the players, Pax, Houston, and Thompson have created a wall between us. None of them are coming to his assistance as I catch a glimpse of him trying to get off the floor.
“What the fuck happened in here?” Coach’s bellow echoes through the locker room.
“Williams tackled Evans when his back was turned,” Pax volunteered.
“Fucking pussy,” Houston adds. He’s a first-string linebacker and has been one of the guys kicking William’s ass during practice.
“That so?” Coach asks. “Whoever saw it, write it up. Williams, you’re suspended pending review. Get the fuck out of my locker room. The rest of you, get your shit together. We’ve got a game to win.”
And just like that, Williams is gone. If I’d known it’d be that easy to get rid of the bastard, I’d have goaded him to hit me weeks ago.
…
Amelia
I’ve never been to a football game before. As far as firsts go, this one has been an awesome experience. The seats are front-row, the view is incredible. When Lily and I picked up our tickets, Brody had Evans jerseys waiting for us. We look like official fans, and I have to say, being in a stadium with thousands of people cheering for Brody is pretty darn awesome.
The excitement in the air is tangible. Lily hasn’t stopped smiling the entire time, and my voice is hoarse from cheering. Brody on TV is fun to watch, but in person he is captivating. It’s like the ball is an extension of him, and the plays he’s made this game are outstanding.
We’re tied with the Patriots, 14-14, with twenty-four seconds left in the fourth quarter. We’re on the ten-yard line and everyone is feeling the pressure. The ball is hiked. BJ Penner lines up for the catch but goes down by a hit from Duane Wright. Brody falls back, looking for another open receiver. Movement catches the corner of my eye. I watch as Silas Butler barrels toward him. My breath freezes in my lungs as I wait for the hit. Does Brody see him?
It’s one thing watching these guys crash into each other, and quite another when you’re emotionally invested in the player who’s about to be run down by a three-hundred-pound defensive lineman. Brody glances left, then right, and runs with the ball. Penner has his eyes on Brody—he’s trying to get some distance from Wright as Brody books it for the end zone. Butler is closing in. Brody won’t make it. He’s got to throw the ball.
Penner’s arms fly up, signaling he’s open. Brody stops, pulls his arm back and torpedoes the ball toward Penner. The second the ball leaves his fingers, Butler slams into him. His legs fly out from under him, and he’s airborne.
“Brody!” The riotous cheers of the fans drown out my scream as BJ Penner catches the ball for a touchdown and the win.
Brody hits the ground—hard. Wright lands on him, and my view of them is blocked by all the players rushing the field to celebrate their win. My heart stalls with panic as I wait to see if he’s injured. Get up, get up, get up…
A camera pans to Brody, and I watch from the big screen as Butler climbs off him. Brody’s slow to roll onto his back. Thank God, at least he’s moving. The players are gathering closer, realizing they’ve got a teammate down, but then Butler extends a hand, and Brody grasps it. He’s hoisted to his feet, and the player pulls Brody in for a back-slapping hug. The cheers around us are deafening.
My heart starts beating again, and I exhale in relief.
He’s okay. Thank God, he’s okay.
I glance at Lily, and she’s got tears in her eyes. My attention was so fixed on Brody and that mammoth of a man piled on top of him, I completely forgot she was right beside me, watching everything that I was.
“It all right, sweetheart. Daddy’s okay.” I squeeze her little hand, clutched tightly in mine. She nods and gives me a brave smile I can tell is forced. The field is in chaos with celebrating players.
I was hoping we’d have a chance to see Brody before we left and tell him congratulations on a great game, but that doesn’t look likely. “Want to go home? I picked up the construction paper you asked for. We can make that sign you were talking about.” Her smile brightens, and she enthusiastically nods. We stand to merge into the crowd of fans exiting the bleachers when I cast one last look at the field. Brody’s breaking away from the group and jogging our way, wearing a big smile on his handsome face. The sight of that dimple makes me melt a little inside. I stop and tug Lily’s hand. “Hey, Lil, look who’s coming.”
Her face lights up and she begins hopping up and down, frantically waving at Brody. There’s a flash on the giant screen, and I glance up to see we’re on TV. The cameraman’s following Brody over and catches Lily and me. I run a nervous hand over my wild hair and try to pretend I’m not on camera. This isn’t about me. It’s Brody and Lily’s moment.
“Daddy!” she squeals excitedly as he gets closer. She’s leaning over the rail, arms stretched toward him.
“Lily pad.” He plucks her over the railing and gives her a bear hug. It’s all on the big screen, and I’m sure it’ll make the sport channels’ highlight reels for days to come. They’re adorable together.
Lily wrinkles her nose and sniffs. “Eww—you stink.”
Brody and I laugh. “That’s because winning is hard work.” He tucks Lily on his hip and turns his attention to me. That sapphire stare does crazy things to my insides. “Did you enjoy the game?”
“I loved it—until the last few seconds. I was scared you’d been hurt.”
“I’m all right.” He shrugs off my concern. “My jersey looks good on you.”
“Thanks.” I give him a preening twirl, so he can see the back, and he chuckles. Maybe it’s the camera or that this is the first time since the kiss I’ve seen him, but my nerves hum, and my pulse pounds with the sense that every eye is watching me.
“The team is going out for a celebration, and some of my old Patriot friends are coming, so I have to go. I might be home a little late.”
I smile through my disappointment. I really want to figure this thing out between us. Was the kiss a one-time slip of judgment, or is this the beginning of something more?
“All right.” I hold out my arms for him to give Lily back to me. He plants a quick kiss on her cheek before handing her over the rail. “Have a nice time with your friends.” I turn to leave, and he catches the hem of my jersey, tugging me back toward him. He looks like he wants to say something, but then doesn’t. I shoot a quick glance over his shoulder to the TV screen. “We’re being watched,” I tell him, just in case he didn’t realize it.
He glances behind him and mutters a curse under his breath. “I’ll see you at home,” he t
ells me, letting his hand drop away.
“Behave yourself.” I give him a parting wave and make my way with Lily into the crowd of fans.
Chapter Eleven
Amelia
I wake to a dull thud and the uncoordinated shuffle of footsteps passing my room. A few moments later, the soft hiss of a shower starts up down the hall. I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand and scowl at the time—one a.m. Disappointment sours my stomach as I aggressively fluff my pillow, flop onto my side and commit to going back to sleep. But slumber eludes me.
The water stops rushing through the pipes, and there’s another loud bang. I throw back the covers and march down the hall to tell Brody to keep it down. Lily had a hard time getting to sleep tonight, and I don’t want him waking her. I pause to give a courtesy knock before entering his room but it’s empty. When I turn toward the bathroom, I’m not prepared for what I find.
The door is open, and he’s standing by the shower, water dripping off him, sluicing down his muscles as he leans against the wall. His towel is barely hanging on, a corner haphazardly tucked in near his hip. One wrong move and that thing is coming off. His eyes are closed, head tipped back, exposing his thick, corded neck. A rush of tingling heat licks through me, centering low in my stomach as I stand there, eyes feasting—memorizing—every glorious bare inch of him. He is sculpted to perfection—strong square jaw, broad shoulders, chiseled pecs. I drag my gaze lower over the ropes of muscle covering his lats and…wait, are those bruises on his ribs?
“Oh my God, Brody.”
He startles, his eyes flying open as he jerks away from the wall. I think I woke him up, because it takes a moment for his eyes to focus on me, and that’s when I see the cut above his left brow. I step into the bathroom and catch a whiff of alcohol. “Are you drunk?”
“Nope.”
I’m not convinced.
“What happened to your ribs? And your face? Is that from the game?” He didn’t have that cut above his brow when he left the field.
“Got into a fight.”
My eyes drop to his right hand, his knuckles are cut and swollen. “Why? With who?”
He just looks at me and shakes his head, refusing to answer.
“Let me see.” I raise to my tiptoes, but I still can’t get a good look at the cut above his brow. “Come closer.” I tug his shoulders down and his hand shoots out to the bathroom counter to steady himself. When he drops to his knees in front of me, the knot on his towel comes loose, and he makes no attempt to catch it. The towel hits the floor and my gaze automatically drops. A surprised gasp catches in my throat.
Holy Hannah, he’s huge. And thick. And long. I force my gaze to his face and another gasp leaves my parted lips as he watches me watching him.
I focus my attention on the cut above his brow and try to ignore the fact that he’s naked—and aroused. I wet a washcloth and start cleaning the blood off his face. He begins to list to the side and slings an arm around my waist, using his grip on me for balance.
Silence settles between us as I administer first-aid to a laceration that could probably use a few stitches, but I’m sure he’ll refuse to go to the hospital, so I butterfly-tape the cut closed with some supplies I find in the bathroom drawer. “Come on, stand up.” I slip my arm around Brody’s waist and help him to his feet, taking care to keep my gaze chest level and higher.
The best thing for him right now is to sleep this off. I walk him to the bed and pull back the covers. He flops onto the mattress, oblivious or uncaring of his nudity, but it’s a sight that’s going to keep me awake for the rest of the night.
“Get some sleep.” I pull up the covers and turn to leave, but he grabs my wrist and stops me.
“He was talkin’ shit about you.”
“What?” I sit on the side of the bed and study Brody intently. Please tell me he did not get into a fight over me.
“Williams was there, at the bar. Heard him talking shit about seeing you on TV. I lost it.”
He reaches up and gently brushes his thumb over my cheek, studying me with those intense sapphire eyes.
“Shouldn’t have kissed you today,” he mumbles, but I don’t think he’s talking to me.
Still, I need answers. “Why not?”
“Because now I know.”
“What do you know?” I pry, my pulse kicking into overdrive. I’m unsure whether it’s from being this close to him, or the anticipation of what he’s going to say.
“How good you taste.”
Sober Brody would never tell me that. He’s too guarded, too in control to ever let his walls come down for this level of transparency. Even when he’s cracked physically, he’s never opened up to me emotionally.
“Why do you keep pushing me away?” Maybe it’s not fair to ask him this, but I need the truth.
“Don’t want to. Just can’t stand the thought of hurting you.”
“Why are you so sure you’ll hurt me?”
He studies me a moment, seeming to contemplate his response, but he’s uninhibited enough to tell me the truth. “Because, I can’t love you, Amelia. And I think that’s what you want from me.”
His honesty hits me square in the chest, and for a moment I can’t breathe. The blow of disappointment knocks the air from my lungs. Sucker for punishment that I am, I ask, “Why not?” He’s not so drunk that he doesn’t realize what he’s saying, but just buzzed enough that he’s lost his filter. “Is it because of Stella? Are you still in love with her?” The pain squeezing my chest is making my heart ache.
He scowls as if tasting something bitter. “Fuck, no. I’m not in love with Stella.”
“Then why?”
“Because I can’t do it. I won’t get hurt again.”
“You think I’ll hurt you? You don’t trust me?” I challenge, trying not to be offended, but failing.
He doesn’t respond, but his answer is in his unwavering sapphire stare.
Wow, that stings. I’ve got to get out of here before the tears burning my eyes start to fall. “Good night, Brody.”
I stand, click off the lamp beside the bed, and leave. I’m almost out the door when I hear him say, “I’m sorry, Mia.”
Forcing one foot in front of the other, I go back to my room. Here I was, spending the day wondering where we stood, and now I know. Brody’s determined to push me away. He regrets our kiss, and although he claims he doesn’t want to hurt me, that’s exactly what he’s done. If he’d told me he was still in love with Stella, that I could understand. It’d hurt to hear, but at least then I’d have something to work with. But his flat-out refusal to even consider the possibility of love? What do I do with that?
Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I climb into bed and try to go back to sleep, but my mind is determined to torture me with images of Brody, naked and kneeling in front of me. I want him so much I physically ache. With two more months left on my contract, how am I going to live like this?
Two o’clock comes and goes. Then three o’clock. A soft knock on the door startles me from my musing.
“Come in.”
I reach over and click on the nightlight as the door cracks open. Brody quietly enters and steps toward me. Why is he here? He’s already made himself perfectly clear. I’m about to tell him as much, but my words catch in my throat as I watch him approach. Curse those damn little butterflies in my stomach. He’s naked from the waist up, but at least he’s put on a pair of gym shorts. Though now that I know what’s beneath them, they’re only a tease, a thin covering over what I want but can’t have.
He sits on the side of my bed and the mattress caves beneath his weight. Feet planted on the floor, he braces his forearms on his knees and covers his face with his hands. Several moments pass as I study him, letting him gather his thoughts. As hurt and rejected as I feel, seeing Brody so conflicted softens my heart. He’s in pain and I just want to help him.
Exhaling a heavy sigh, he lifts his head and we lock eyes. “I’m a selfish bastard.”
His eyes
are focused, his speech clear. He’s had time to sober up and no doubt is here to apologize, though an apology isn’t what I want from him. “Why do you think that?”
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
Brody’s many things—a loving father, a dedicated athlete, a heartbroken, conflicted man maybe, but he’s not selfish. And he certainly isn’t a bastard.
“Tell me why,” I press.
“Because…” He holds my stare with unwavering clarity, and my breath stalls in my lungs. “I want to fuck you so bad, it’s all I can think about.”
His vulgar honesty should not turn me on as much as it does. “And what if I want that, too?” I challenge. “Doesn’t that make me just as selfish?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you want more from me. You’re not using me.”
“And you are? Using me?”
“You want more that I can give, but I still want you. That’s what makes me selfish. That kiss yesterday, it became my escape. I want to fuck you to forget. I want to forget this whole last year of my miserable life.”
“Brody—”
“She died.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry.”
“And a part of me died with her.” His gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “Tell me to fuck off, Mia. Tell me to get the hell out of your room, because if you don’t…”
He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. I’m not an idiot. I’m aware he should leave. I don’t want to be a distraction. I’m better than that, and I deserve more than he’s offering me. But I want to take his pain away so badly, even at the expense of my self-respect, and my heart—because if I do this with him, it’s for all the wrong reasons. And yet I can’t seem to say no. I think I might be falling in love with Brody. It’s the only reason I’d ever consider doing something that is wrong on so many levels.
I don’t speak. There isn’t anything more to say. Sitting up, I grab the hem of my tank top and pull it over my head before I change my mind. My nipples harden as the cool air kisses them, and he growls a curse, scrubbing his hand over his mouth.
The Nanny Rules Page 7