Not a fucking word.
As much as he loved Emmy Lou, his word meant something to him. When he’d damn near lost everything, his word was all he’d had left. And he’d given his word to Vanessa that her secrets were safe with him.
He was vaguely aware of his phone vibrating, vaguely aware of answering it.
“Brock.” Connie. “What is happening? Why didn’t you call me? I need to know what’s going on and I need to know now. We are talking major damage control here.”
Brock ran a hand along the back of his neck. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Well, you better tell me something.” She sighed. “Anything. Some rational explanation that assures me, Alpha, and the Roughnecks that you are not and will not get involved with the woman who almost destroyed you.”
“V didn’t do that.” He sighed, walking quickly from the dressing room toward the exits. “I did it. I’ve never blamed her for the mistakes I made.” It didn’t seem to matter how far away he got; he could still hear the fans screaming Emmy’s name. He needed air. Peace and quiet.
“Brock, this is serious.” Her voice was strung tight. “Serious serious.”
“I get that.” He sighed. Considering what had just happened… “What do I need to do?”
“We need a statement. A good one. And soon.” Another sigh. “I’ll send you a few options shortly. I’ll need a quick response. Quick, understand?”
“Yeah.” He hung up, his brain working through everything Emmy had said. And she’d said so damn much.
What letters? He’d never received one from her. Not one. He was the one who wrote one after the other, full of pleas for an explanation—a chance to talk through whatever had happened to change her mind and cut him out of her life. The only letters he’d received were the ones he’d sent to her. Every envelope unopened with “Return to Sender” stamped in big, red letters.
His phone was ringing again. This time it was Coach McCoy.
“Shit.” He climbed into his rental car, started the ignition, and answered the phone. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m guessing you know why I’m calling?”
“I’m beginning to figure it out.” He sighed. “Haven’t seen the details myself, though.”
“I’m not sure what that means, Brock?”
“Nothing.” He groaned.
“You need to listen to me, you hear? You’re one of our best players and I don’t want to lose you, so I’m telling it like it is.” McCoy cleared his throat. “The owner called. Ed was highly concerned about this.”
“Understood.” Brock nodded.
“Every player is an investment. The more time and energy invested, the more we expect of a player. I’d like to think you know and appreciate the level of investment this team has shown you—no matter what. Up until a point. And, Brock, you’re about to get to that point.”
“Yes, sir.” He shook his head. “This is my team. My family. My life. I don’t know what’s floating around out there, but I’m guessing it paints a not-so-pretty picture.” He stared out the front windshield. “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my career.”
There was a long pause. “That’s good to hear. Because that little shit Ricky Ames is standing by hoping you’ll screw up. And if I have to play him, my next heart attack will be on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m counting on you. Counting on your word. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get some rest,” McCoy said. “Practice. Tomorrow. Early. Chances are, it won’t be pretty.”
He took a deep breath and opened the internet browser on his phone.
“Fuck.” The pictures weren’t pretty. Vanessa’s breakup didn’t help. Neither did the recount of their short-lived marriage and messy divorce.
But the thing that tore him up inside was Emmy Lou’s reaction. She’d seen these, believed it, and chosen to walk away. What else could she do? If he’d been in her shoes, he’d have done the same thing. But the rest of it? There were so many holes now he had to decide if he was going to try to set her straight or if, like her, he was going to walk away.