by Amber Malloy
While she held the gauze to her knee, Remy raised her hand for Knox to help her up. The EMT returned with the medical release on a clipboard. “We recommend that she go to the hospital,” the guy addressed Knox instead of her.
Freakin’ snitch. Obviously, he figured the QB would be easier to convince.
“Babe…”
“No,” she said in a flat tone that left no argument as she scribbled her name on the sheet. Remy handed it back to the ambulance driver before she hobbled toward Knox’s truck.
“Some guy pushed her. I saw him!” the college kid who saved her yelled. “Tell them.”
“I’m not sure. There were a lot of people,” she lied. “But thank you.”
“Aren’t you Gavin Knox? Hey, everyone, it’s Gavin Knox.” His attention quickly moved on to the football star.
“Shit,” he muttered. The cops tried to keep the emerging crowd back. “Hey, man, I appreciate your help. Call the front office and we’ll see about getting you some tickets.” Knox cut a good path through the crowd.
“My friends are going to shit a brick!” the kid yelled.
“Ma’am, did you want to file a report?” the officer asked. Knox had parked in the bike lane. Amazed that Supastar had managed to pull that totally illegal move off, she rolled her eyes at his arrogance.
“No,” she told the cop as Knox held open her door and helped her in. “I’m sure it was just an accident.”
“Quarterback,” the EMT yelled. He threw a roll of tape at him. “You’re going to need that.”
Once they were alone in the car, he opened him mouth, but she promptly cut him off. “The shoot is a block away.”
“Remy…you can’t be serious?”
“We’re not fighting about this.”
“But—”
“Alone.” She stopped him from any further argument. “Just drop me off, alone.”
She felt his heated stare but refused to look at him. Putting the car in gear, he pulled away from the curb. The drive took less than eight minutes.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Shonda called. She heard a car horn and screams. She couldn’t get you back on the phone. Speaking of which—”
“Dead… Roadkill… The cell is permanently part of the street now. Sorry.”
He gently pulled her chin in his direction. Up until that moment, she’d done a pretty good job of avoiding eye contact. The sadness, pain and disappointment telegraphed on his face would chip away at her already weakening resolve. She simply couldn’t afford it.
“Why don’t you head up to Ontario for a few weeks—or Ottawa? My parents are there.” Knox continued to hold on to her chin.
Instead of answering him, she grabbed the passenger-door handle, and leaned over to place a quick peck on his lips. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
Remy snatched the tape out of the console and hopped out of the truck. Limping into the building, she hurried into the elevator. She wrapped the gauze around her leg, finishing before the doors opened.
“Are you okay? Knox called me,” Lashonda greeted her in an exaggerated Nicki Minaj outfit. A Playtex mini dress and a big blue wig would probably be a hard sell on anyone else. Strangely enough, it looked anime-hot on the curvy-ass woman.
“A little nick,” Remy lied. As they stepped into the swanky production company, the football wife gently took her arm and helped her into the studio. “No biggie.” She hopped into the dressing area.
“Okay, girl, cut the shit.” Lashonda closed the door behind her. “I heard what that man said. ‘You never should have come back, bitch.’ What the hell?”
“Uh-h.” Remy lowered herself onto the stylish chair that had no padding whatsoever. The cute crap made every ache in her body intensify by ten.
“Don’t lie. I’ve got three kids, so I’ll know.” Lashonda pointed her long, multi-colored nail in her direction.
Buying herself some time, Remy dove into her purse and rummaged around for the pain pills she’d received for her ribs. Her leg was on fire. She probably should have gotten stitches. The last time the congressman had acted this erratic, people had ended up dead. After she found the bottle, she unscrewed the childproof top and gestured at the basket of water on the table.
“Did you tell Dre?” Remy mumbled over the Vicodin-ibuprofen mix.
“Not yet.” Lashonda reached for a bottle and twisted the top off before handing it to her.
“Good, don’t.” Remy popped the pill into her mouth and chased it with the water.
“Girl, did you rob a bank?”
“Why?” Remy asked her. “You want in?” They stared each other down.
“Yeah.” Lashonda broke first with a lopsided smirk. “Mama needs a new pair of shoes.” They fell into peals of laughter. Once Lashonda petered out, she snagged a jacket off the dressing rack and tossed the designer number at her. “Since you’re obviously not going to tell me anything, let’s get to work.”
Chapter Seventeen
Out of his mind with worry, Knox had requested an emergency sit-down with his illustrious boss. While he stood outside of Bane’s office, he weighed his options. A gun probably wouldn’t work for her. He knew how to shoot but Remy didn’t. Also, the odds that an assailant would wrestle it away seemed likely.
“My man.” Andre, who walked into the reception area half asleep, reached out to slap his hand.
“Sorry if I woke you,” Knox told him.
“No big. Had a late night… We set up a mock testing for my new vodka at Moe’s. You know I’m all about that retirement life.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s not for a couple of years, and Moe’s crowd is bordering on dead. Why didn’t you have it at Murphy’s Pub?”
“It’s too trendy with all those damn lights. Besides, Moe’s has the best vibe.”
Bane opened his office door. “Not one star player but two. I can’t wait to hear this,” the owner said drolly. “Get in here.” He flipped his hand toward the room. No warm and fuzzy teddy bear today. Knox really hated to spring this on Bane. “What do you want?”
“This is kind of a GM conversation, but—”
“Then go have it with him.” Bane took a seat behind his desk. Even though he had dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, it didn’t make him appear any less menacing.
“For camp, I need Remy with me.”
“No-o-o-o.” Bane directed his attention toward his desktop screen. “Good talk.”
Rubbing at the knot of stress that had formed in back of his neck, he slid a glance toward Andre. Instead of stepping in for an assist, his teammate strolled toward the wall of photographs. Abort mission. His subconscious screamed for him to let it go, but Knox had to see this through.
“It’s an emergency.”
“When Doug came up here, it was muy importante,” Bane replied. “A couple of other people who I can’t even remember needed the same crap. The answer to them and you is ‘no’.”
“Then I’m out.”
“What?” Andre and Bane exclaimed unison.
“She won’t be sa-a—” Knox stumbled over his words. “I just can’t leave her alone.”
Leaning back in his chair, Bane sighed. “It’s only four weeks. How about she stays with Dahl and the kids?”
As Andre plopped down on the couch, Bane threw him the stink eye. The running back doubled down and snuggled farther into the cushions.
“Won’t work,” Knox admitted.
“I need a compromise, Canuck. There’s no way I can justify you bringing Remy.” Bane continued to type on his keyboard, not paying him the least bit of attention.
“Okay. Well, I’ll have my attorney contact the league to bang out an exit strategy.”
“What the fuck is your deal?” Bane roared. He stared at him with a stormy contempt that made Knox believe he wasn’t above punching one of his players.
“Hey, hey.” Andre held up his hand. “Canada here is the freakin’ easiest. Knox has never been a proble
m. If he says he needs Remy around, I believe him.”
“Look… I handed him a solution. Unless he wants to tell me something that will change my mind, we’re done talking.”
“Maybe your solution sucks,” Andre countered. “She’s a journalist. Give her a press pass.”
Knox’s mouth fell open. He had an education from a Big Ten university with an undergrad degree in finance and he still couldn’t come close to Andre’s genius. A simple solution he hadn’t even considered had come out of the hungover running back’s mouth.
“This will cause a shit-ton of problems with the team.” Bane leaned back in his chair with a groan.
“We’ll handle it,” Andre told him.
“Can I at least get a heads-up?” Bane asked. “What’s the mystery?”
For years it felt like he had carried the weight of the congressman around his neck. Knox really wanted to tell somebody. However, to place other people in the path of danger simply wasn’t an option.
“Hawk said it’s pretty bad and we can’t help.”
Knox slid a glance at Andre, who finally sat up.
“Moe’s. Remember I told you I went last night?” The bar was a second home to Hawk. Knox had been so consumed with his life that he’d completely forgotten that his best friend’s season had ended. “He’s knocking out a contract with the Northern Royals.”
Crap! Apparently Hawk had got traded. Since Andre loved to needle him, he fought to keep his expression neutral.
“What the hell am I listening to right now?” Bane complained. “Days of Our Hockey?”
“Does she get the press pass or not? ’Cause I got my own shit I need to talk to you about.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to hear anything, and I mean anything from your teammates,” Bane groused. “Now you go.” He tossed his hand in the running back’s direction.
“My boy is retiring after next season. I want to pick his replacement.”
Steam practically poured from atop Bane’s head. After a good few minutes of pure silence, he glared at Andre. “I’ll think about it.”
“My bad… I think I said it wrong. Juan is inconsistent and will only win us first prize in the shitty arm contest. Nothing personal, but I don’t have that much time on the clock to watch him fail. Besides, I’m the one who recommended Knox, so-o-o…” Andre stood up. “Trust me.” On his way past, the running back tapped him on the arm, signaling for them to leave.
Throwing a polite nod at his boss, Knox followed him out of the door. “Uh, so you wanted to piss Bane off?” he asked, once they were clear of the owner’s office.
“Nah… I don’t want management to get any bright ideas. From what I hear, no one’s been looking for your replacement, and I’m not about to watch my last season circle the drain because of Juan’s ass.”
As they hit the doors to the garage, Knox put his hand out. “Thanks for coming.”
Andre slapped his palm and gave him a half hug. “Not a problem. You’re like a brother to me. But seriously, I saw Hawk that night of the award ceremony and he was pretty shook.”
Lost in the ocean tide of his own mess, Knox had completely forgotten about his best friend. “I need to talk to him.” Rubbing the stubble on his face, he wished he could shake loose that crushing ball of dread squatting on his chest.
“Yeah, I guess. White-boy problems.” Andre walked to his car.
“Dude, you know he’s half black, right?”
“What?” The running back held his hand to his chest in mock outrage. “And he plays hockey for a living?”
Every once in a while, Andre would feign mock ignorance on Hawk’s decision to play on the ice instead of the turf. “Black people do play hockey,” Knox corrected him, confused as to why they had to keep having this conversation.
“Dammit, Knox, I don’t like liars.” Andre hit the alarm on his car. “And right now, you’re lying to me.”
“Dre—”
“Don’t.” He hopped into his sports car and rolled down the window. “It’s going to take a minute for me to get over this betrayal.” He chucked deuces out of the window with a cackle. “Peace.”
Chapter Eighteen
Humid heat swept the university’s field. With three weeks of training camp down and one to go, Remy sat in the stands with the other journalists. The players had practice from dusk to dawn. She wondered why management had picked the worst time of the year for such a strenuous workout.
Since the players’ day had been scheduled down to a tee, Remy spent all of her time with strangers. Light banter back and forth with the other reporters kept her mildly entertained. She couldn’t have any real conversations, considering she needed to keep her distance. The quarterback and his wife seemed to be a bigger story than their defense for next season—or even the strategy for their offensive line.
Bronzed from the sun and soaked in sweat, Knox made his way to the water jugs.
“He never even looked in this direction before you showed up.” Without a lick of grace, the old man pushed past the other journalists in the stands. Remy shaded her eyes from the sun, amazed by his determination to reach her. He had almost fallen twice.
“Dammit, Art,” one of the guys said. He’d probably crushed the poor man’s toes.
“It’s not like you don’t see all this sexiness.” Art bumped him in the face with his pregnant belly. “Now move.” He fanned away the young intern who sat next to her. Popping a squat in the freshly vacated spot, he shoved out his hand. “Art Newhouse. That jackass you married calls me Artie and the shit stuck.”
“Should I pretend like you don’t know me?” Remy ignored his hand. “Or go straight in on you like I have a bone to pick?” Since Art was nothing but a lovely mess, she didn’t bother to hide her smile.
“Considering I was the one to dig you up, it honestly could go either way.”
“Damn, Artie, I’m not dead.” Remy left off the ‘yet’, since the congressman had set his sights on her like never before.
“I didn’t mean to imply such. You got any quotes for me, gorgeous?” The old curmudgeon snatched a pen out of his shirt pocket, ready to write notes across the byline of his own newspaper. Such a professional. Remy snorted.
“Everything we say will be off the record, sweets,” Remy fired back. After Knox slung the ball down the field to the rookie, he locked eyes with her and frowned.
“This is already pissing him off. Coming up here might have been worth it,” Art noted with a grin.
Remy decided to keep an open mind. She totally understood why he rubbed Knox the wrong way.
“Tell me, beauty queen. What do you see in him?”
“Is that a real question, Art?” she chuckled. “Jill!” Remy shouted at the intern he’d misplaced a moment ago. “Why do you think everyone wants Knox?”
The college co-ed turned from the wire fence that separated them from the players. “Do you want the ‘three peppermint schnapps-down’ type of girl talk or the ‘I’m among colleagues and need to be polite’ answer?” Jill pushed her square glasses that had slid low back onto her baby face.
“I mean, besides the obvious,” he muttered. “He’s nowhere near as smart as you, and that arm has got what? Three…four more years tops.”
“Real talk,” Remy ignored Art and encouraged the intern to let it rip.
“Have you ever seen that meme where the cat has its ass tooted in the air?”
The men groaned.
“Or that girl who has her legs wide open, pointing to her crotch, where you can come get it,” she continued. “Like…get it in.”
“Geesh,” Artie said.
“That’s why women shouldn’t be allowed in men’s sports,” one of the reporters complained.
“Gross,” another guy shouted.
“Not what I meant.” Art grunted while he hung his head. “College was years ago, and that hot jock bit gets old after a while.”
“Bullshit!” Jill pointed at the men in the front row. “I call bullshit. Do you
know how many conversations I’ve walked into where you misogynistic assholes demean and reduce women to sex objects?” She addressed the whole section. “News flash… Your wives aren’t watching this shit because they care about team stats or throwing averages. Hell no! They want to know what that dick does—and you guys are too stupid and arrogant to see it.”
Unbelievably tickled by the college co-ed, Remy clapped and cheered for the girl.
“Jill!” Everyone on the bleachers turned their attention to her boss, who had entered the bullpen. “May I have a word?”
“Shit, that’s my third strike,” she hissed.
“What was the second one?” the quiet chick from Fox Sports asked.
“The color commentary guy… I threatened his future firstborn if he ever accidently brushed against my tit again.”
The woman nodded. Remy couldn’t tell if the Fox Sports reporter agreed with Jill or the decision to fire her, since she went back to her Sudoku puzzle fairly quickly.
With her shoulders low, the intern trailed her boss on the walk of shame. “Don’t worry about it, Jilly,” Remy called out to the intern. “I got you.”
“Thanks, Remy, but you write your own ticket. I need someone with sports outlets’ pull.”
Way too bright to be relegated to intern for a craptastic station, Remy refused to let the girl be reduced to sports roadkill. Considering she had instigated the hell out of that highly entertaining meltdown, she felt responsible.
“Did you forget who I’m married to?” Remy nodded to the field where several players, including Knox, were staring at the press core bleachers.
Jill squealed. Most of the men plugged their ears and groaned. In probably her best imitation of Jude Law in Breakfast Club, the soon-to-be-ex intern pumped her hand in the air before she left their little bird box area.
“So, he’s basically Superman, and you’re what, Lex Luthor?” As if nothing had happened, Art picked up their conversation.
“That’s a strange analogy. No, it’s more like if Superman decided go dark and bang Harley Quinn.” Most of the reporters nodded in agreement. “Did you know Knox has his BA in finance?”