Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow?” The nonquestion makes me snicker.
“Stop begging. It’s so unbecoming for a man of you stature.” The small smile I get out of him makes me feel like I just won a gold medal.
“I’ll leave the clubhouse passes and tickets on my desk.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I freeze. He scans my face, his expression hyper-alert. “Why do you look weird?”
“I don’t look weird.”
“Yeah, you do. Whenever something bothers you, you get that look––like you’re sucking on a lemon.”
“I do?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m worried some of the wives or girlfriends won’t want me there––and I know I sound like I’m in junior high, it’s just that I’ve been through this before.”
His expression alters lighting quick. His face crystalizes into a mask of pure malice. “No one is going to do, or say shit to you. I promise.”
He looks like he’s about to go mental. Probably not a good time to argue this point. “Whatever you say, Champ.”
“It’ll be fine,” he announces brusquely. Then his gaze swings back to meet mine squarely. “You’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It’s the first preseason game and although Calvin is only playing a couple of snaps I’m buzzing with nervous energy. As soon as we step into the stadium, I can feel it. The excitement of the new season is palpable. Both Sam and I are wearing jerseys Calvin left for us in the office along with the tickets. Just to mess with him, I almost wore my ‘Brady’ jersey, but thought better of it since I didn’t want to get jumped in the stadium parking lot. Do I need to explain how bloodthirsty Titans’ fans get at the mere mention of number 12?
We’re supposed to meet Ethan in the field level club, the section where the player’s families sit. I have to admit I’m nervous. News that we’re “dating” is everywhere. On tv, in magazines. The picture of us kissing at the Yankee game has been shared a million times. At least, that’s what Calvin’s PR people told him. I don’t know how I’ll be received by the wives. Sadly, I can only hope that having Sam with me will shield me from any overt insults.
The first thing Amber insisted I do when the investigation into Matt’s business began is to disconnect all my social media accounts. Best decision I ever made. It’s been three years since someone’s told me to go kill myself, or prayed that I contract AIDS and die a slow and painful death––and those were the PG rated insults. It got much worse. After living in blissful ignorance since then, I’m now convinced that social media is the root of all evil.
“Hello, Team Shaw.” Ethan walks up wearing jeans and a vintage Titans t-shirt, looking…young. I’ve never seen him wear anything other than a suit so it’s a bit of a surprise. “Hello yourself, counselor.”
He looks down at his t-shirt. “Just plain, old Ethan today.”
“There is nothing plain, or old about you, Ethan.” The compliment has him smiling shyly.
“You guys want to get something to eat before we go in?” Sam and I nod, and we make our way over to one of the food kiosks. We’re standing in line, bodies of fans streaming around us, when Ethan notices my fingers drumming nervously against my jeans covered thigh. “Too much caffeine?” He delivers this with a curve of his pretty lips.
“I don’t know how it’s going to go in there and I’m nervous,” I murmur in a low voice. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. But I really did want to come. And I don’t want to regret coming, but now that I’m here, I kinda do…” My voice trails off when Ethan’s expression alters.
“I talked to Cal. There’s nothing to worry about.” I’ve never seen Ethan be anything other than totally affable, and seeing the determined scowl on his face almost makes me laugh…he couldn’t even scare my grandma with it.
“I don’t understand. Is that supposed to be your mean face?”
He assesses me thoughtfully. “You should sit in when I negotiate Cal’s next contract.”
“I thought Barry did that?”
“Barry’s happy to let me do it.” The sly smile he gives me and the casual way he throws that out has me rethinking my prior judgment of affable Ethan Vaughn. Maybe the house cat is a tiger in disguise.
Minutes later, we walk into the clubhouse and every head swivels in our direction. All conversation ceases. “Get your game face on, counselor,” I murmur quietly to the handsome man standing next to me. On my other side, Sam takes my hand. Surprised, I glance down and am met by a pair of determined gray eyes. My sweet protector…be still my beating heart.
We find our seats and pull out the hotdogs we grabbed at the stand. While we’re quietly eating, I glance down at the field. My eyes find him immediately. It’s odd how familiar everything about him has become. The way he moves with stealthy, feline coordination, the way he stands, the set of his shoulders, how he stretches his neck from side to side when he readies for battle. When the hell did that happen?