Personal Foul (Moving the Chains Book 6) Page 11

  I laugh. If she doesn’t want me to kiss her, then she doesn’t want to hear that it was as soul crushing as I always knew it would be. “It’s been six years. What do you think?”

  She smiles.

  “Was it good for you?”

  She stretches her arms over her head and reaches her toes toward the open doorway. The long lines and firm slopes of her body go on for miles, and my eyeballs drink their fill. “Thank you for scratching my itch. I am satisfied for now.”

  The way she says that makes me think that satisfaction won’t last long. “Remember how I told you recovery time was give or take twenty minutes?”

  She nods.

  “That was six years ago, and I’m out of practice. I have no idea what the timeframe looks like now that I’m an old man.”

  She laughs then rolls onto her side to face me. Her eyes suddenly widen.

  “You can’t possibly want round three yet.” She’s gotta be at least a little sore after the way I fucked her.

  “I…” She licks her lips and swallows thickly. The throat I had my hands around heaves with the action. “I am experiencing another first, courtesy of you.”

  “Orgasm aftershocks?” It’s literally the only guess I have.

  She whispers, “Your semen is leaking out of me. It feels odd.”

  I’ve only ever heard about the dreaded wet spot. Never experienced it for myself before. If this is the only first we’ll share, then I don’t necessarily hate it. I’m also not the one who will be lying in it.

  My muscles are jelly, but I lift myself up. “Let me get you a washrag.”

  “No.” She places a firm hand on my chest to keep me from climbing off the bed. “No. I’ll clean myself up.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  She nods as she sighs. “I think it should be.”

  I know what she’s doing. I’ve done it all before. Hell, I tried to teach her this shit. She’s taking the intimacy out of the act.

  I flop back down onto my pillow and imagine crushing my disappointment beneath me. “Okay.”

  By the time she slinks out of the bathroom with movements that resemble her cat, I wish I was already passed out to avoid any more rejection. That’s another first. She’s flipping the script. I don’t like it. I’m wide awake.

  Could be that it’s only five o’clock in the afternoon.

  She climbs back into bed with me anyway.

  I wrap my arms around her and pull her back against my chest. Over the past few weeks, I’ve gotten used to using her as a body pillow. I throw my leg over her hip to elevate my knee.

  Her hand glides gently down my thigh. “The pain relief has worn off already?”

  Not at all. My body’s numb from head to toe.

  I press my mouth to her shoulder, testing the boundaries. Breathing in this moment that’s not mine to take. “Wasn’t sure if you still require being held after.”

  “I—” She stops mid-sentence then glances over her shoulder at me. Her mouth kicks up at the corner. “You knew all along? I thought I hid my expectations quite well that day.”

  The only thing that was hidden that day was how much I wanted to give in. I embraced the panic instead. “I’m the one who told you that you shouldn’t expect it. You’re the one who told me you needed it when I showed up at your dorm room, remember?”

  She licks her lips as her gaze drifts down to my mouth. “Oh. That’s right. I remember. According to the rules, you should not be holding me now.”

  “We sleep together anyway. It doesn’t matter.” It fucking matters.

  “We should not do this,” she murmurs, still staring at my mouth.

  “Do what? Take a nap before dinner?”

  “No, this. Pillow talk,” she clarifies as she rolls over to face me. She stays in the circle of my arms instead of breaking loose.

  Her black eyes suck me in. They’re wide, deep, and endless. I see a mirror of fear, hurt, and a glimmer of hope.

  That tiny light relaxes me a little. Is this worse timing than college? Hell, yeah. Do I care? Not anymore.

  “You think we should quit being friends just because we’re fucking?”

  She bites her lip, but her body shakes in my arms anyway.

  “What’s so funny about that?”

  She bites her lip hard enough to turn the puffy pink skin white then blurts, “We’re fucking.”

  The demon woman laughs in my face.

  “You know what?” I pull her closer. “You’re right. We shouldn’t talk. You puked a few weeks ago when you saw my dick, and now you’re laughing at the idea of having sex with me. I don’t wanna talk to you anyway.”

  She laughs harder.

  “Shit, wait. We actually do need to talk.” I hate to be the one to kill her good mood, but we have no playbook for what’s going to happen. My free time is about to become very limited when the season starts this weekend.

  She sobers on a dime. “Is this where you tell me we cannot sleep together anymore? I’ll get my bed out of storage this week.”

  I notice she doesn’t suggest we quit fucking.

  “That’s a great idea. You should definitely do that.”

  She nods and bites her lip again. This time it gives off a completely different vibe.

  “Your parents will need a place to sleep in two weeks,” I remind her.

  “Oh, shit.” She closes her eyes then buries her face in the crook of my neck.

  I’m still not gonna tell her it’s all going to be okay. I do pet her hair. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

  Mindfulness matters. Being fully present in the moment becomes more difficult than walking a gauntlet with so many distractions. The noise from the fans in the stadium threatens to deafen me. Nearly everyone on the sideline is outfitted with a headset. Their expressions make it obvious how hard they’re concentrating to hear anything.

  Coaches, trainers, refs, journalists, camera operators and more buzz around me. There must be at least a hundred people on this side of the field. What’s really different between NCAA and NFL football is the speed of play. It’s practically light speed. Watching it on television or in films isn’t the same as seeing it in person from field level. Emotions swell and ebb here. This isn’t just a game to these men.

  I make a few more notes on my iPad.

  “How are you doing, Dr. Deep?”

  I glance up and smile at one of my co-workers. We might both be doctors, but his field of expertise in sports medicine means we rarely interact at the Sharks facility. “I’ll be honest with you, Dr. Waters. I’m a little shell shocked. I knew it would be different than UCLA, but wow.”

  He grins, revealing a deep dimple in his left cheek. Dr. Matt Waters is an attractive man—tall, well-built, and with a model’s face. He’s as light as I am dark, with blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. If he hadn’t torn his ACL in college, he might be on this field now, although he’d be nearing retirement. Instead, he chose to go into a career where he could help others not just from years of specialized training but also from personal experience.

  He nudges me with his elbow. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been begging for years to make the team psych part of the usual suspects on the sidelines. These guys need all the help they can get. If you ever want a sideline pass to a game again, you just let me know.”

  “Thank you.” I touch his arm to show my sincere gratitude. “Unfortunately, my brand of help tends to take a little longer to unpack than a three-hour game. I understand why this is no place for the team psych. There’s no reason to add a single other person. This is already madness.”

  He winks. “You keep helping them learn how to focus through the madness then.”

  We watch as the offense lines up for third down.

  “Betts is having a great game. I was worried about the groin injury he sustained during camp, but he’s playing like nothing’s wrong,” he says conversationally.

  Alex’s fear about becoming addicted to pain medication i
s never far from my mind. The past few evenings—and even one early morning—have been filled with pill-free relief. Many players struggle with addiction in favor of remaining on the field for as long as they can. Dr. Waters writes the prescriptions.

  “Is nothing wrong? Should he be playing?”

  Matt chuckles as the team misses a first down by two yards. “I’m not a miracle worker. Time and age and regular beatings take their toll. He’s in his last few years of play. There’s not much more I can do other than keep an eye on him and make sure he’s comfortable. Is he handling the inevitable well when he talks to you?”

  “I can’t discuss that,” I respond as I watch Alex rope his arm around Charlie’s neck when they jog to the sideline.

  The rookie is obviously upset about not converting on third, and Alex is acting as a seasoned mentor for the younger man who plays the same position. Most people don’t realize that supporting others is as good for mental health as seeking support for themselves.

  “Good girl,” Matt whispers. “Keep that confidentiality close. The longer the season drags on, the more the coaches, trainers, and other players will try to shake your secrets loose. Stay strong.”

  “You were testing me?” I’m not sure what I dislike more—the way he addressed me as a good girl or the fact he feels the need to tell me how to do my job. I earned my letters the same as he did.

  He shrugs. “You’re a rookie in a way, too. I’m a vet. I’ll teach you the ropes this season as much as I can.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and resist the urge to glare at him. The last thing Matt needs is physical proof that I’m anything but a consummate professional.

  The man who taught me different ropes does a double-take when he notices me behind the bench. His expression changes from his usual super-star grin that he wears in public to an expression of clear displeasure. He slowly weaves through a crush of people to stand in front of us.

  Matt acknowledges him first. “How’s the knee feeling?”

  Alex glances between us with icy eyes. “It’s holding.”

  “Have you met Dr. Deep yet?” Matt places a hand on my shoulder.

  “Buddy, I know her well enough to know that you should take a step back. She doesn’t look real happy, and I’ve seen her breathe actual fire when she’s that pissed off. You’re about to get roasted.”

  “Alex,” I snap.

  He’s not wrong, but I don’t need him defending me on the job as much as I don’t need him demeaning me in front of our co-workers.

  He raises his eyebrows. “What are you doing here?”

  “Observing my clients in their primary stressful environment.” I gesture toward the field where today’s opponent inches closer to a touchdown.

  He reaches for the laminated pass around my neck. “How’d you get this?”

  “Oh, I got that for her,” Matt says, still not taking Alex’s warning seriously. He grins. “Don’t worry. I cleared it with the front office first.”

  Alex glances at him like he’s losing patience. “Do you think I’m worried she’s going to ask for an autograph or a selfie?”

  Matt chuckles. “I didn’t want you to think she’s here to try to pick your brain apart while you’re concentrating on the game.”

  “I sleep with Dr. Deep every night. She picks my brain apart all the time.” Alex turns his attention to me. Unfortunately, he doesn’t turn into a smoldering pile of ash. “Why didn’t you ask me for a pass? I could’ve gotten you one.”

  I am a professional. I am a professional. I am a professional.

  While I’m busy calming myself with a reinforcing mantra, Matt finally steps away from me. “You two are together? How is that not a conflict of interest?”

  Alex nods. He smiles again. “Probably because she disclosed it before being hired, and I have a referral to seek treatment from an outside source if I need it.”

  “So, you’re the father.”

  Alex’s eyebrows only rise a fraction of a millimeter, but I sway on my feet. Likely because all the blood in my body has pooled there. My heart makes a feeble attempt to continue beating in my chest.

  Alex reaches out a steady hand to keep me upright while never breaking his even gaze with Matt. “I am.”

  “Alex, you should be concentrating on the game,” I whisper, heat building in my cheeks and nausea swirling in my stomach. No matter how tempting, I will not cause a scene on the sideline of my new team’s first game of the season. The GM would not be pleased if his star wide receiver suddenly couldn’t do his job because I removed his testicles from his body.

  Alex dips his head to meet my gaze. “You good?”

  I roll my lips between my teeth to keep from speaking. I nod.

  Football is his life, so he squeezes my arm then goes back to the bench.

  I turn to Matt. “How do you know I’m pregnant? Did Alex tell you?”

  “I’m a doctor.” Matt shrugs then glances at my stomach. “You’re starting to show. I couldn’t help but notice.”

  I clasp my hands over my stomach. My pants have been a little more snug than usual, but I didn’t think anyone else could tell yet.

  The buzzer sounds, signaling halftime.

  “I’ve gotta head to the locker room.” Matt thumbs toward the hallway the players are funneling into. “Do you need me to bring you back some crackers or Gatorade?”

  “No. Thank you. I’m good.”

  I’m not good. Not at all. People are going to start asking questions that I don’t have answers for. Oh my God, Alex just told the team doctor that he’s the father of my baby.

  A wince of pain nearby tears me from my spiral of panic. Several journalists are staring at a phone. “That hurts me just to watch it. I hope Mitchell’s okay.”

  Mitchell. I know that name.

  I approach the group that’s huddled together like an entirely different sort of team. “Excuse me. You’re not talking about Mike Mitchell, are you? The running back for the Albany Wolves?”

  “Yeah.” A man with a clearly concerned expression holds the screen up for me to see. “He took a hit in an earlier game that’s making the rounds on media. Poor guy.”

  Horror spreads through my limbs as I watch one of Alex’s dearest friends unmoving on the field after a violent helmet-to-helmet hit. “Is he all right?”

  The guy shrugs. “No one knows yet. He was out the rest of the game. The team hasn’t released any statements.”

  Oh, no. I glance back at the entrance to the locker room. Players and immediate staff are banned from having their phones during games. Alex won’t find out about this until later. That’s probably for the best. He’d never be able to play the second half if he saw this footage.

  “Thank you,” I tell them. “Excuse me.”

  I head down the tunnel then make a beeline for the parking lot. I have some calls to make.

  She’s on me like a leech the second I walk through the door—sliding the strap of my bag off my shoulder and setting it aside, peeling my suit jacket away from my body. She loosens my tie as she gazes up at me with worry in her black eyes. “How is he?”

  “Not good,” I admit. I want to scrub my hands over my face to wake myself up and block out reality, but I can’t.

  A goddamn gorgeous woman invades my personal space to the point that I’m not sure it ever existed.

  She frowns, then takes my hand in hers and leads me to the couch. Her face tips up to me when she sits. She pats the space next to her. “Tell me all about it.”

  That feels way too much like a doctor offering her client a safe space to talk it out.

  “I’d rather stand. I’ve been sitting for hours.”

  “Nervous energy?” she guesses.

  She’s spot-on. I pace back and forth across the soft rug she decorated the living room with. This has become one of my favorite thinking spots.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Of course, you’d put Persian rugs in here. Makes total sense.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’
m Lebanese, not Persian.”

  This argument has been going on for years. She still doesn’t realize it’s fun for me.

  “Same difference.”

  “It is not,” she insists, her cheeks pinking with indignation. “Lebanon is its own country. Persia is Iran.”

  Hold up. “What?”

  “What you call Iran is in fact, Persia,” she explains while gesturing with her hands. It’s funny as hell. Like she’s the teacher whose buttons I’ve pushed one too many times while she’s trying to give a geography lesson. “Iran is the Farsi word for Persia.”

  “What’s Farsi?” I can push one more…

  “The official language of Iran!”

  “I thought it was Persia?”

  The irritation slides off her face the way melted butter slides down a fat stack of pancakes. “If you don’t want to talk about Mike, then we don’t have to talk about Mike. You can be honest with me. I won’t push for more than you’re willing to give.”

  I know she won’t. She’s the one pushing for far less than I’m willing to give.

  I succumb to the temptation and scrub my hands over my face. It’s better than popping a couple of pills. “He’s in bad shape, Brain. Really bad. You know what a hit like that can do to a man. I didn’t wanna overload him with how worried I am, but you should’ve seen him when I dragged Tori out of the house with me. He looked like a guy who could care less that his girlfriend was bawling her eyes out. He loves that woman, but he was stone-cold. Like he was watching a stranger leave his house.”

  “It’s only been a few days,” she murmurs, her black eyes watchful on me. “His brain needs time to heal. When everyone’s had some space to process their emotions, they’ll both be grateful that you made a tough decision neither of them were capable of making for themselves in the moment.”

  Her validation doesn’t make me feel a damn bit better about playing the role of the villain again. “I still don’t feel like it was my right to make that call. Who am I to them? An old college friend? A friend of a boyfriend?”

  A flood obliterated the bridges we’re still rebuilding. We’ve seen shit, been through shit, and done shit to each other I never would have imagined back in the good old days when we played pee-wee league together.