Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

Breathing hard, I bend down next to him. “What happened?”

He shakes his head, his throat bobbing as he winces. “Old injury. It flares up at the worst times.” He leans his head back, taking in big gulps of air as he presses his hand against his shoulder.

“What can I do?”

He stares up at the ceiling, still too pale for my taste. “Nothing. I need some heating pads, meds, and a deep massage.” He closes his eyes. “Just give me a minute.”

I try to help him get comfortable on the smallish couch, but it’s no use with his huge frame; he’s actually bigger than the couch.

“Can you take Aleve?” I’m digging around in my purse and pull a bottle out.

“Yeah.” He takes three pills from my hand and throws them in his mouth and swallows.

“Let me get you some water from the kitchen.” I stand, and he takes my hand and pulls me down until I’m back with my knees on the floor.

“No, don’t go.”

He grips my hand as another spasm hits him.

“Jack, please, you’re worrying me. Should I phone the town doctor? He’s no fancy athletic doctor, but he does house calls, and I’m sure he’ll come here. Mama knows his family—”

“No, thank you; that’s kind.” He slowly eases himself to sitting, his breath labored.

“Is this a football injury?”

His eyes find mine. “Not originally.”

Odd answer. “Then what is it?”

He doesn’t answer but heaves himself up more, straightening his back and slowly moving to stand. I move with him, supporting him. I’m small, and I’m sure I’m not much help, but I try.

He flicks hazy eyes at me. “I need to get back to Nashville. I have a whole routine I go through when this hits, and I can’t do it here. Would you . . . could you . . . drive me?” He flushes.

“Whatever you need.”

“I hate to ask you.”

“I can tell.”

He nods. “I’ll get a town car to bring you back.”

“Of course.”

I’d agree to anything right now to get that grimace off his face.

Moving slowly, he walks to the door, me beside him. My panties are lying on the floor where I dropped them, and I bend down and stuff them in my purse.

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re either going to be pissed or amused when I tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I had those in my pocket last night.”

“You are a sicko, Jack Hawke. You had those the entire time and never offered them to me? I may never forgive you.” I smile.

“Carried them around all night, like a little secret I had all to myself. Then you walked up to me, and I thought I was going to pass out in shock.” He leans against the wall next to the door, pausing for a moment to rub his shoulder.

I shake my head. “Why didn’t you just give them back?”

He sighs. “Thought about it. Probably should have. Wanted to see you again.”

“Jack.” I shake my head, bemused by his interest. “What am I going to do with you?”

“First thing is get me out of this church without anyone seeing I’m in pain. Think you can do that?” He gives me a searching look. “If just a hint of an injury gets out . . .”

Right. His career. He’s overly paranoid about everything. “You’re speaking to the unofficial and unwanted leader of the Daisy Lady Gang, so yeah, I’m slick. I know this church like the back of my hand. Hand me your keys, and I’ll pull around to the back. All you have to do is leave this room, go right all the way down the hallway, and there’s a side exit before you reach the kitchen. Got that?”

He nods. “Smart. My keys are in my pocket. Do you . . . can you get them for me?”

I nod and pat his right pocket, sticking my hand inside as he leans his head back against the wall.

“Elena . . . ,” he moans when I grab the metal keys, brushing my fingers around something hard.

“How on earth are you excited and in pain?” I’m whispering, and I don’t even know why except that I’m close to him, and he’s so beautiful and . . .

He huffs out a laugh. “It’s been a while for me. And it’s you, I guess.”

Well.

I let out a shaky breath and hold his keys up. “What are you driving?”

“Black Porsche. When you come out, it’s to the left, next to a big Lincoln.” He sends me a look. “Can you drive a stick? This car is kind of my baby, and the thought of you grinding gears—”

“My nana taught me to drive a tractor when I was ten. I can handle your fancy little car. The issue might be getting you in it.”

“I’ll take care of that. Meet you outside in three minutes?”

I give him a nod and open the door.