Why the hell did she care what Ricky Ames said about him? He risked a look at her.
“I get that the team has to bring in someone until you’re released to play. But…it’s like he doesn’t know who you are.” Her cheeks were going red again. “Doesn’t he know your record? Does he have four hundred and sixty-nine tackles? Ninety-one sacks? Does he watch Reggie White footage to be a better defensive end? Does he even know who Reggie White is? Or that this is your team? And you carry this defensive line? He really thinks he can replace you?”
She was talking about football. His stats, but football. And he liked what he was hearing a hell of a lot. “Never pegged you as a football fan.” He waved Todd Flynn, one of the trainers, over and carried her into the game-day emergency clinic. Gently, he set her on an exam table and started unlacing her tennis shoes.
“Thank you.” Her gaze shifted, meeting his.
He nodded, carefully sliding the pink sequined shoe off her foot. Her hands fisted at her sides. “Sorry.”
She nodded. “It’s fine.”
He inspected her now apple-sized swollen ankle. Her sock was stretched tight. Pink socks. Pink shoes. It had always been her favorite color. Hell, he’d worn a pink tie to prom for her.
He nodded as Todd came in. “Her ankle.”
“I can see that.” Todd bent, his fingers moving over the inflamed joint. “Tell me if this hurts.”
Brock crossed his arms and watched her face. She scrunched up her features and closed her eyes as Todd slowly moved her foot one way, then the other.
“That.” Her hands pressed, flat, against the exam table.
“Probably a sprain. Ice and elevate. I’ll go get some. Might call your doctor, get an X-ray to make sure.” Todd nodded and glanced his way. “Um, looks like you could use some ice, too?” He shook his head and left the room, saying, “Be back.”
“I’m not.” She swallowed, staring down at her ankle and wiggling her toes. “A football fan, I mean.”
“No?” He leaned against the counter. “I thought only die-hard fans cared about stats?”
“I guess.” She shrugged. “I only know yours.”
For a split second, he was frozen.
Don’t. Don’t do this. He wasn’t eighteen years old anymore; he knew better.
He pushed off the counter, fully intending to leave but closing the distance between them instead. Standing there, staring at her, was hard. He knew her face like the back of his hand. The tiny mole on her cheek. The dot of blue in the iris of her right eye. The fullness of her lips—he could still taste her mouth beneath his, clinging, gasping for breath, and wanting more.
What was she after? Why was she laying it on thick, acting like she’d kept up with him—acting like she cared? There was no audience. Her green eyes locked with his. All wide-eyed innocence. Bullshit. To her, he’d been temporary. To him, she’d been everything. She’d made a fool out of him once. No way he was going to let her do it again.
“Brock—” Her soft voice wavered.
“Em…” No, dammit all to hell. He pulled up CiCi’s words, played them on repeat until he’d grounded himself in reality. She is not my problem. She is not, and never was, mine. “Your bodyguard.” The burn of anger made it easier to put distance between them. “Call him.” He tore his gaze from hers and waited, pacing, until Todd came back. He took the ice pack for his jaw and walked out, ignoring the curious stares and questions from his teammates…and the sharp twist of his heart.
Chapter 6
“Are we clear?” The director, Chad, held his hand up. “Can we turn up the fog and wind, please? I want her hair blowing.”
Emmy tilted her head as her stylist, Andrea, swept a fine dusting of powder along her nose and cheeks. The thrum of the bass was playing already. Even though the music and sound would be added after the fact, she liked to sing during the shoot—it kept her in full performance mode. And since the goal was to wrap this shoot in a couple of takes, she needed to give one of her best performances ever.
“Not too much,” Momma said, waving aside Andrea. “You don’t want her to look…too made up.”
Andrea stepped back, tucking the brush into her apron, and forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. King.”
“Stop fidgeting.” Momma shook her head. “You look fine.”
Emmy Lou wasn’t about to disagree. Still, her low-cut, painted-on, gold-covered jumpsuit hugged every curve of her body. The original outfit, a mini-minidress, had been discarded in favor of something that would cover her ankle brace. And it did cover the brace. The rest of her? Well, it didn’t matter.
“Don’t listen to her, baby girl.” Her daddy patted her cheek. “You look beautiful. All lit up.” He nodded, his gaze sweeping over her gold-sequin-covered jumpsuit. “That’s some outfit.”
Momma shot him a look. She wasn’t happy. At all. She’d done her best to make sure every single person knew it, too. But even the great CiCi King didn’t have the power to remove Brock from the video. She had tried. As soon as she’d found out, she’d started making calls—using her “aw sugar” voice, then moving on to far less cajoling tones. Nothing worked. Brock was in the video.