“What would have happened if your bodyguard hadn’t come in?” He stepped forward, looking down at her.
But she stayed quiet, those green eyes fixed on him.
Shit. Even now, he was giving her the upper hand. He’d just admitted he wanted her. And she hadn’t said a thing. Shit. He should have kept his mouth shut. Instead he added, “You look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong. Don’t act like you were just there to visit my father.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath, but it was the shock and anger on her face that held his attention. “Are you serious? You think…” She broke off. “Travis is right. You are a complete a-ass.” She pushed herself onto her feet, pushing his hand away when he would have helped her up.
“For telling the truth?” There was an edge to his voice now. “The truth can be hard to hear. Hell, sometimes it hurts.” He could attest to that fact.
She recoiled then, shaking her head, one hand pressed to her chest. “Is that what you want? To hurt me?” The red drained from her cheeks. “What have I ever done to you?”
It took everything he had not to laugh. Was she serious? Making fun of him? Or did she just not have the capacity to understand what love—love and trust—was? Or the hell that followed when that love and trust was broken?
Did he want to hurt her? Yes. Dammit all to hell. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to hurt her like she’d hurt him. He wanted the lying to stop… But then he’d have to stop lying, too. He’d have to admit that every time he heard her sing, saw her face on a magazine or billboard, or touched her, the hole she’d left in his heart ached for her to come back and make him whole again.
Fuck no. He’d never give her that power over him, not again. Maybe the lies were easier.
The sooner he got out of there—away from her—the better.
She drew in a deep breath. “I—”
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore.” Nothing good could come from this conversation.
“Fine,” she agreed, walking to the other side of the room to lean against the wall. “You don’t have to stay on my account.”
None of this was fine. Not the anger, regret, and longing. Not the hurt she stirred, again. Not the wide-eyed, wounded look she was giving him as he pushed out of the green room and left the studio. He left knowing the last thing he needed to do was go back to his hotel and the minibar. Not right now, not this worked up.
He called his sponsor, went to a local gym, and worked out until he was sweat drenched and shaking. But after he’d showered and eaten his dietitian-approved dinner, he was still too worked up to sleep. He called Milton Thomas, a friend and LA Charger. Milton rounded up some friends and they hit a few clubs. Clubbing sober? Not much fun.
He slept for shit and woke up irritable and ready to get home. He hated leaving his father right now. Aunt Mo kept saying she had things under control, but that didn’t make him feel any better. He should be there. Instead, he was heading toward some high-end men’s clothing company to talk about a new endorsement deal.
“You were on fire last night.” Connie sat across from him in their town car, the tinted window keeping the interior cooler than the triple-digit temperatures outside. “Who knew you could play the guitar?”
“I told you,” he murmured, adjusting his sunglasses.
“I didn’t think you could play play.” She had one of those dramatic haircuts—black and supershort, with a long sweep of bright-white hair that fell at an angle across her forehead. With red-tipped fingers, she tucked the white strands behind her ear and grinned. “You should be thrilled. Guy James donated ten thousand dollars—and convinced his network to match it.” She paused. “What’s got you so uptight?”
Not what. Who. He wasn’t going to talk about Emmy. He didn’t want to think about her. He shrugged. “Who said I’m uptight?”
She arched a well-defined, black brow and shot him a pointed look. “Okay.” The rest of the drive consisted of her filling him in on the latest pertinent player injuries and backroom chatter leading into this weekend’s game. The first game of the season, and he wouldn’t be playing. Ricky Ames’s name came up and Brock had nothing nice to say about the kid.
“Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows he’s a shit. But everyone knows he is a hell of a player.” Connie leaned forward. “One thing he is not? You. You are Brock Watson. Don’t let some cocky little asshole get in your head.” She sighed. “Today is all you. Not the team or the game—just you. Options, Brock. Income streams off the field. Security. Responsible shit.”
Standing in the foyer of Alpha Menswear’s ultramodern foyer, he read the slogan, in bold, red, block letters, covering most of the far wall. “Be the alpha in the room.”
Connie grinned. “I’m seriously psyched about this.”
Fifteen minutes later, Brock was feeling pretty damn psyched, too. He did his best to keep a straight face. But it wasn’t easy. They were willing to pay him seven figures to launch their new line. It wasn’t a men’s line so much as a men’s underwear line. While he’d never imagined strutting around in underwear for a camera, he was willing to give it a go.
“We feel like Brock is the best fit. Our polling numbers confirm he is one of the most recognizable athletes out there and, frankly, a lot of fans find him attractive. Added appeal means added dollars when consumers are thinking about buying products for their family or significant other.” Nolan Young, head of Alpha’s marketing, kept going. “Our name is synonymous with quality. Brock Watson is, too.”
Connie nodded, then asked Brock, “So?” He gave her the thumbs-up she’d been waiting on. “Then we have a deal,” Connie said. “We’ll be waiting for the final contract.”
There was a collective sigh from the room, followed by a lot of handshaking and congratulations. But Connie had saved the best for last. As their driver took them to the airport and his waiting Cessna, she said, “I thought I’d share a little something with you.”
“That’s some smile.” He waited.
“You wouldn’t believe who was campaigning for this.” Her smile grew. “I didn’t want to tell you before the meeting because I thought it might stress you out.” She clapped her hands. “But now… If you thought Ricky Ames didn’t like you before, get ready. He wanted this, begged for this. And you got it.”