Defending Love E-Book

Henry Glenn

• Herausgeber: Henry Glenn
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In the realm where the clash of wills meets the passion of the game, "Defending Love: My Anti-Hero's Story" unveils a tale of resilience, redemption, and the transformative power of love on and off the field. Step into the world of competitive sports, where victory isn't just measured in points but in the hearts won and lost along the way.
Meet our protagonist, a formidable athlete whose prowess on the field is matched only by the walls around their heart. Known as the anti-hero of the game, they've built a fortress of stoicism to shield themselves from the vulnerabilities of love. But when fate throws them into the path of an unexpected romance, they find themselves on a journey that challenges everything they thought they knew.
"Defending Love" is more than just a sports romance—it's a story of breaking barriers, both on and off the field. As our anti-hero grapples with their past and navigates the complexities of love, readers are invited to witness the highs and lows of their journey, from the thrill of victory to the agony of defeat.
Amidst the roar of the crowd and the heat of competition, will our anti-hero discover that love is the ultimate defense against life's adversities? Join us as we delve into the heart of the game and the depths of the human spirit in "Defending Love: My Anti-Hero's Story."

Leseprobe

1

BILLIE

T

his was the most moronic, stupid-endous, idiotic move of all moves I’d made in the last ten years. And I’d done some seriously stupid shit. But agreeing to be interviewed on a local news channel when I lived mostly as a hermit was, yeah, just plain dumb.

My armpits looked like they’d been dipped in buckets of water, and there were red splotches all over my arms.

I’d already been in the hair and makeup chair, so not only was I screwed, the news people were screwed. No touchup was going to fix the mess my nerves were making of my body.

“Willow, are you ready…?” One of the show’s staff came in, saw me, and promptly trailed off as horror flashed over his face. He clutched his clipboard to his thin frame and reached for his radio. A forced smile plastered over his face. “If you’ll excuse me? One moment.”

He was in the hallway in a flash, and I could hear his slightly panicked voice. “We need a fixer in guest room two ASAP.” Click. “Also, we’ll need to switch segments. Alert the prompter.” He continued speaking, but his voice grew quieter, so he must’ve been walking away.

This was my fault. All my fault.

I worked alone, dealing with clients over the internet. Graphic design. Any contact was through email or private messages. Or sometimes a phone call, which was fine.

It’s not like I was some social recluse. I could be around people. I was around people growing up from the time I went into foster care at age twelve until I got lucky on my tenth home. The couple took a liking to me, and though they’d never adopted me legally, they’d raised me in every other way. I lived with them until I turned eighteen, then took over their guesthouse, and I’d been there ever since. They charged me almost nothing, just enough to cover their gas and electric, and I’d been able to finish high school, put myself through community college, and take a few extra classes in Photoshop. That had gotten me to where I was now. Well, not exactly here. Only my dumbass self was to blame for my current predicament.

“Oh dear.” Frantic energy brought my attention to the doorway, where the makeup guy now stood. He shook his head, talking into his radio. “We’ll need wardrobe. A new shirt for sure.” He spoke to me. “Honey, you’ll need my chair again. Come on. You can tell me what’s going on too. You got nerves? Is that it?”

I followed him through the back of the studio.

“I guess with what you went through, you wouldn’t want to talk about it? I wouldn’t either. If I were you—” He prattled on, but I mostly tuned him out. It was all things I’d heard before.

Still, I was able to respond when he said something that required a response—a nod when needed and a grunt or yeah of agreement when it was appropriate. I’d learned to do that a lot over the years, mentally checking out. Usually, if and when people recognized me or heard my story, they wanted to talk because everyone knew about my story.

It used to be overwhelming.

Because I was more focused on studying the wall as we walked along the hallway, I wasn’t expecting what happened next that happened next. We passed a doorway—and it hit me.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was most definitely lust at first sight.

It hit me hard, right in the sternum, and I stopped in my tracks. Actually and literally stopped. My mouth wasn’t on the floor, because I was too reserved for that, but it was definitely open. Some drool action might’ve happened.

Coming out of another room was a giant. Or he looked like a giant.

He was massive. There was no softness about him. He was all muscle, and holy gods, I was reeling.

Tan skin.

Rich black hair.

A yummy looking beard that made me want to rub myself all over it.

A thick neck.

Square jaw.

Massive shoulders.

Massive pectorals.

Holy—his entire chest was large and in charge but ended in a tapered waist.

The guy, whoever he was, had me seeing stars. And I wasn’t like this. Ever.

My last relationship had been with a guy in community college. I’d had a brief relationship with a girl before then, but that was it. I didn’t do casual sex, and I’d learned it was easier just staying away from most people in general, for everything. But this guy made me ache for things I’d never experienced in my life.

I wasn’t sure how to handle it.

I was usually locked down, or actually, I didn’t even need to lock down. I’d just learned not to expect a whole lot of good from people. So I was completely unprepared for the whiplash of need and want and yearning that now raged inside me.

The guy looked me over, and when he caught my eyes, his narrowed. A different look came over his face. A wall came down, but his eyes held a gentle concern. He’d been talking to another man, both in some serious business suits. Each of them filled out those suits to where I was realizing how the right suit could be a weapon. Funny how I hadn’t known before.

The first guy stepped toward me. He ran his hand over his face, flicking through his dark beard, and he angled his head down.

Jesus. He was probably a foot taller than me.

I was five foot six, average height. Average weight, though I dropped to a size four during stressful times. And there wasn’t anything remarkable about me, a fact I’d loved growing up. I could always blend in. Pale skin. Shoulder-length strawberry blond hair and dark eyes.

My face was normal, and a few people had said I was attractive growing up.

I hadn’t cared. I’d never been a makeup girl, and Vicky, my foster mom, had once told me I had natural beauty so I could get away with it. I could do lipstick, but mostly kept to lip gloss. I did indulge in pedicures. Keeping my toes painted light pink with sparkles made me happy. Sometimes I did a manicure too, but working on a computer every day chipped my nails, and since I never saw anyone outside of my foster family, what was the point?

Yet somehow, as this massive giant studied me, I wished I’d done my face up.

Then I remembered, I had. The show. But wait, I was a mess. I was on my way back to the makeup chair because I was such a mess.

“Are you okay?” The giant spoke, a deep baritone rumbling out of his chest. Smooth.

The sound of it washed over me, calming me. I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling. His voice settled me, cementing something inside me, just as it had woken at the sight of him.

What is going on with me?

“Miss Harm?” The makeup guy was back. “We need to fix you up. Can you follow me?”

I needed to go. I needed to fix my face.

The giant was still staring at me. The guy with him was now also staring at me.

Man, oh man. Those business suits…

Oh God.

Now the makeup guy was staring.

My face and neck got hot, probably breeding more of those red splotches. I ducked my head. “Yes. Sorry.”

There was another beat of silence. “Follow me, please.”

We continued down the hallway. I kept my head down, becoming mute—another habit I’d learned growing up. It helped with the attention. When you didn’t respond, people just talked about you instead of to you. Eventually they forgot you were in the room.

I got back into the chair, and he started fussing.

A new shirt was brought in.

All the while, I sat there, my eyes anywhere except making eye contact, and I waited for the usual numbness to settle over me. It was like a blanket. My system would return to being empty but peaceful.

I liked the emptiness. I could function if I felt empty.

It wasn’t happening.

Whoever that guy was, he’d stirred something in me that wasn’t settling.

Slight panic laced through me. What do I do with this?

“You met our newest Kings football player,” the makeup guy said. “Defensive end, I believe. He’s delicious, ain’t he?”

My mouth went dry. “He plays football?”

“Mmm-hmmm.” He kept working on my face. Another person was smoothing my hair because I had messed that up as well. “He’s one of those big, burly guys who tackle the quarterback.”

The hair guy laughed. “You think every football player tackles the quarterback.”

“They don’t?”

Both laughed.

“Or maybe that’s just what I would like to do,” Makeup Guy clarified. “Colby Doubard. Hmmmm mmmm mmmm. Either way, this one is the newest sports celebrity in town. Brett Broudou is here to promote a charity.”

Brett Broudou.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him.

I started to nod with them, dazed.

He made a disapproving sound. “Don’t move, sweetie. They switched your segment so the football hottie is going on first, in your place, but we don’t have a lot of extra time.”

“Right. Sorry.” I was horrified, but still… Football. It’s one of the few things I knew. I enjoyed watching all the trades, seeing how the teams worked together with new players on the roster. The trash talking. The egos. The politics. The continuously evolving door of all the coaches going from one team to the other. The personal relationships too.

And the Kings had won the Super Bowl last year.

I’d been on a high for two weeks after the game. I’d even indulged by ordering pizza and Chinese food the next day because I was still celebrating. I almost immediately regretted it, but it’d been worth it. It’d been my own little personal party that lasted two days, or more if the diarrhea counted.

I was kicking myself because I should’ve recognized him when he spoke.

I was glad I hadn’t in the moment. My reaction would’ve been worse. I’d already made a fool of myself. He thought there was something wrong with me. The first guy in ten years who’d made me feel something though… I didn’t know what he thought. Nothing good, I’m sure.

“Okay, sweetiekins.” The makeup guy stepped back to admire his work. “You are back to being gorgeous! And you’re just in time for your segment.”

“What?” But we were moving, a staff person drawing me along—off the chair, down a hallway. I heard the audience applauding, and I saw him again.

Brett Broudou.

A shiver went through me.

He was delicious.

He stood to the side, off-camera, talking with a bunch of the show people. That made sense now. That had probably been his agent or manager next to him, the other guy in a business suit.

The staffer brought us to a stop.

I felt Brett’s eyes coming my way.

I felt the punch of them landing on me, and oh boy, my body heated all over again.

This wasn’t good. Just a look and I was hot and bothered?

“Okay!” The staff person touched the small of my back and pushed. “You’re on, Willow.”

I started but looked back. “My name isn’t—” I didn’t go by that name. I went by Billie. It was the nickname my little brother gave me. He could tell the host through their earpieces, and I wouldn’t have to endure being called Willow during the whole interview. Only when I tried to tell him that, my feet weren’t paying attention.

One kept going.

The other started to turn back.

They twisted and slam! Down I went.

Or I would’ve gone down.

The audience gasped.

A few cursed.

I felt myself melting into a puddle of shame. All the work they did to make me look good and this? I was a disaster.

A pair of hands caught me.

It was happening in slow motion and my heart literally did a backwards flip in my chest.

I was held before being lifted up against a strong and massive chest.

My throat was up in my mouth.

I didn’t know what to do because part of me didn’t want to pull away because I knew who had caught me and I didn’t want to pull away from him. Who would? And the other part was already thinking about what happened, where it happened, and oh no.

I hoped that hadn’t been caught by the camera, but then I was being lifted back to my feet and released from the chest behind me.

It was like magic.

I knew, but I hadn’t known. Though, I knew.

Brett Broudou was standing in front of me.

The defensive end out of Cal U who never played football in high school but got recruited because he’d been scrimmaging with the right guys at the right place, right time, and a scout saw him. Saw his size. Saw his speed. Saw his reflexes, and he was asked to try out. He got a full scholarship and then went on to college stardom. Cal U won the National Championship, and Brett went in the first round of the draft to Kansas City. He was given a five-year contract, and they kept renewing until he’d come to the Texas Kings last year. He’d been a perfect combination with Stone Reeves, Jake Bilson, and Colby Doubard. The Kings were going to be unstoppable.

And he was still touching me. On television.

“I—” I couldn’t talk. My face felt so hot. I was going to break out in splotches all over again.

He gave me the kindest smile, which almost broke my heart because I knew it must’ve been filled with pity. “They’re waiting for you.”

Right.

Interview.

I jerked around, smoothed a hand over my hair, and strode out.

The host had stood from her table, starting to come toward me. I waved her back. “I’m good. I’m so sorry about that.”

She laughed, and the audience joined in. Everything was getting back to normal. Though, God, how humiliating.

She extended a hand for me to take a seat, and as I did, I smiled, hoping to hide my mortification. “I can be clumsy sometimes. I’m sorry again.”

“No, no. As long as you’re okay?” Her eyes held mine.

I managed a nod. I’d blanked on her name.

The back of my neck was so hot.

She turned to the audience and started our interview. “Ladies and gentlemen, Willow Harm is the only person to have come face-to-face with the infamous serial killer known as the Midwest Butcher. She is the survivor who helped bring him down. Welcome to the show, Willow.”

2

BILLIE

L

o: How’d the interview go??? I recorded it so I can watch it when I get home.

I’d escaped the stage in one piece, my interview complete. Now I was back in the green room, trying to remember how to breathe normally and staring at my phone.

Lo: Mom said the chickens are upset. They’ve not been producing the normal amount of eggs. She’s worried about you, so I’m going to stop out at the place and bring some from the store. They’ll be organic and free range, don’t worry. Or I can grab some from my neighbor’s place. They love their chickens. They built a whole playground for them. She messaged they had extra. I’ll try her first, and if she doesn’t have any left, I’ll go to the store. Anywho, let me know how the interview went!! I’m sure it went great. You always think you do worse than you do. Love you lots. Want to have some wine tonight? I know Mom has some on hand, but I can grab some extra too. BYE!

Elowin was like a sister. That’s what I called her in my head—like a sister. But Elowin, or Lo, would call herself my actual sister. It was easier for her, easier for them, her parents, Vicky and Harold Mitchell. They were a bit more reserved than Lo, but I knew the sentiment was there. They considered me their daughter, their second girl. But for me, on the outside, it was safer to remind myself I wasn’t blood.

I wasn’t really family.

I did love them. All of them. I’d never be able to express how grateful I was to have met them at fifteen. It was an awkward age, so bless their hearts for that as well. Lo was three years older than me. I was a freshman, and she was about to graduate, so we got one year in the same school together. After that, she went to Texas A&M, and I spent time with her during her school breaks.

Me: The interview was okay, but I tripped on the way out and I think the camera got it. I was mortified.

Lo: Heyyyy!! Don’t worry about that. Even when you trip, you look like a little swan. Graceful and elegant and all class. Plus, with your story, no one will laugh.

Me: Hopefully. Wine sounds good tonight.

Lo: REALLY??? Yay!! I’m excited. Want me to come alone or should I bring Roger and the kids?

Me: Bring Roger and the kids. You know your mom and dad will dote on them.

Lo: I’m asking because you know Roger is going to want to have wine with us, and if he wasn’t as head over heels for me as he is, I’d be worried! He adores you. But you’re warned. He’s going to be on cloud nine since you finally agreed to be interviewed.

I sighed. Roger had this delusion that if I put myself out there more for publicity, my story would make me money. A few writers had reached out, asking to interview me, but I’d turned them down. Roger wanted a movie, and he thought a bestselling book would be the ticket to that. I’d had a few inquiries, but Roger didn’t understand that I flat out wanted nothing to do with any publicity—no books, no newspaper articles, no blogs, no television shows, and most certainly no movies.

They didn’t entirely need my permission, but I’d kept details quiet, so without me, all they had were theories and rumors. Only I—and certain people in law enforcement—knew what had happened that morning when I came across the Midwest Butcher.

I blamed the wine Lo had supplied me and my own soft heart for agreeing when the local news channel had contacted me. They were doing a segment on domestic abuse and violence and said they thought my story would draw even more viewers. I’d agreed only for that reason.

Me: Roger is hilarious. Bring on Wine Roger!

Lo: I’m going to remind you of this when he’s badgering you tonight about why you’re not dating.

She was right, but I had a soft spot for Wine Roger. He would be considered a golden boy, or now a golden husband—one of those guys who grew up popular, good-looking, and nice, yet it never changed him. He was nice in school, nice in college, and still nice. He could’ve had a huge ego with his perfect tan, sharp jawline, smoldering blue eyes, and broad shoulders. Roger could’ve been famous himself if he’d wanted. He played baseball in college but chose to marry Lo and start a family instead of going pro. Lo always got choked up when she talked about it, because they’d made a conscious decision to have her pursue law and her career. Roger got a job at his father’s golf course and took care of the kids while Lo went to law school.

Man. Thinking about them again, thinking about all of them, I realized just how lucky I was.

None of them should’ve loved me. None of them should’ve accepted me. With my past, my very heavy baggage, all my therapy, all my issues? Yet still they let me live with them.

I didn’t deserve them.

I gathered my things, exchanged the borrowed shirt for my sweaty one, and headed for the elevator.

“You did great, Miss Harm,” said one of the staff as he walked past me.

I should’ve lifted my head and squared my shoulders with confidence. But that wasn’t me. Instead, I ducked my head and mumbled, “Thank you.” Learning to be invisible had saved my life, literally, but Lo’s text was on my mind. She was right. Roger was always asking to set me up. He had two friends he said would love to go out with me.

Roger and Lo didn’t get it.

Sometimes the way to get through life was to be as small as possible.

There were reasons I didn’t date.

“My agent says your trip is already trending.” That same deep baritone from earlier, smooth like whisky, sounded from behind me in the elevator.

Gah! I’d been looking at the floor as I got on. I’d not even noticed him. Brett Broudou was there, staring at me. This guy wasn’t small. At all. How had I not noticed him?

Where are my survival instincts now?

His words penetrated. My gaze jerked to his. “What’d you say?”

Those eyes, man. So dark and deep and looking inside me.

I squirmed until his lips twitched and I got distracted by how good that looked on him.

“I believe the term is that you’ve gone viral,” he said. “It’s a good thing.”

My face was probably all red, but horror pushed aside my normal shyness. “Viral?”

This was my worst nightmare. I didn’t want attention, and why had I done the show today? I shouldn’t have agreed. I should’ve kept to my usual policy of no publicity at all.

This was horrible.

“You look good in it,” the giant—Brett—assured me. “You don’t need to worry about any negativity. Trust me, and anyway, the assholes are assholes. Fuck ’em.”

I was now in a daze. He meant that. I could tell. I blinked. “Huh?”

The side of his mouth lifted. He was almost smiling, and I swear, I was pretty sure he leaned toward me. The top half of his body shifted forward. Just a little.

That meant something. Right?

“I said, fuck ’em. That’s always been my motto.”

I was vaguely aware of the elevator moving, aware that the doors opened. He started forward, then paused.

I moved ahead of him, and he walked beside me off the elevator.

“That’s always been your motto?” I asked.

He kept watching me, not looking where we were going. Something about me amused him. “Yes,” he said seriously. “Only people’s opinions that should mean anything to you are the people you love.”

I started to say I didn’t have anyone like that, but I stopped because it wasn’t true. Vicky, Howard, Lo, Roger, and their three girls loved me. Vicky’s chickens loved me. Miss Sylvia Rivera really loved me.

“Miss Sylvia Rivera?”

My face flooded with heat. “I said that out loud?”

He nodded, no longer smiling. “Who’s Miss Sylvia Rivera?”

“My—where I live, this woman has a bunch of chickens. Miss Sylvia Rivera is my favorite hen. I named her after the real Sylvia Rivera. She was at the Stonewall riots. She also cofounded a homeless shelter for LGBTQ+ youth. And—” I stopped myself. My love was true and genuine. I could’ve talked for hours about all the great things the real Sylvia Rivera did. “She’s just someone I really respect.”

“I’m getting that.” His tone was kind again.

Why was it kind?

“Broudou! Hey, my man,” a voice said. “Could I get a selfie with you?”

“Oh man! It’s Brett Broudou. You kicked ass in the Super Bowl last year. The Orcas didn’t know what hit them.”

His buddy laughed. “Literally, man. I could tell Doubard was happy you’re on his team. Hey! Is it true you and Mason Kade are archrivals from high school?”

“Was it about his woman?” the first guy piped up, handing over a pen and paper. “Aren’t you, like, screwing a supermodel?”

I’d gone tense at the first question, not paying attention to where we were going, and boom, here we were, out on the street. What was I doing on the street? My car was in the parking lot.

I was tense and confused about our location.

Brett said, his voice went low. “You want a selfie with me, and you expect me to sign your shit while you speak disrespectfully about people I know? You serious right now?”

Whoa.

Brett’s jaw was clenched, and he hadn’t moved a muscle to do anything for these guys. Pose. Sign. Nothing. He scowled at them to the point that it seemed he was keeping himself from putting his hands on them.

I’d known this about him earlier. It was a sixth sense I had, knowing when someone was capable of violence. There was a difference I could feel between people—those who had never needed to use violence but were capable, people who weren’t capable of it, and those who had needed to be violent and would and could be violent again if a situation occurred.

Brett was in that last category.

Brett?

I was on a first-name basis with him?

I suppose anyone who knew about Miss Sylvia Rivera should be on a first-name basis with me. I didn’t talk about her with just anyone. I held her in such high regard, like the real Sylvia.

But also whoa, because I knew Mason Kade. He’d gone over to join the San Diego Orcas, a brand-new team, and they’d shocked everyone by almost winning the Lombardi. Brett knew him in real life? From childhood? I was trying to remember who Mason Kade’s woman was, but I couldn’t. My football knowledge centered mostly on the players themselves, their college playing history, and the general game gossip about them. I didn’t pay attention to the blogs that wrote about their personal lives, unless they’d been arrested for some reason and that interfered with their career. I’d never heard about that with Mason Kade. Most newscasters just talked about his athleticism and whether he was going to stay with the Pats, his old team, which he hadn’t.

“Whooooaaaa! The Brood Machine is activated.”

That guy’s voice was annoying. It was high and shrill. There was a wide smile on his face, like he was watching a show play out in front of him. The other guy looked more chastised. His head was down, and he looked back at the group of guys waiting for them. There was a girl with them, and she eyed Brett like he was covered in whipped cream.

She probably needed a hamburger.

The guy shoved his paper and pen out again. “Just sign, man. We didn’t mean anything.” He moved closer, lowering his voice. “My girlfriend is two seconds away from coming over here and pressing her breasts against your chest. I love her, but she’s a fame whore.” He looked to me now. “No disrespect, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” I barked, all my usual hesitancies forgotten. Who was this? I didn’t recognize myself. “I’m thirty-two. Not old enough to be your mama.”

He flushed. “I call every woman older than me ma’am. It’s just a thing.”

The other guy hooted. “He just insulted Broody’s woman. This is classic. Hey, wait a minute.” His laugh died. His head straightened, and his eyes got big. “You’re the chick who tripped this morning. On CBX. It was a clip from their show. HOLY SHIT! You guys.” He stepped to the side, pointing at me. “This is the hot chick that took a nosedive.” He looked between Brett and me. “That like just happened, didn’t it? It was loaded an hour ago, and ESPN already added it to their Sunday highlights. It’s all a joke, that Broody’s magic is so powerful, even a girl who survived a serial killer is affected. And shit, girl. I’m real sorry about what you went through.” A keen look flashed in his eyes. He tilted his skinny head to the side. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Fuck’s sake.” Brett’s hand wrapped around my shoulder, tucking me against his side.

Tingles shot through me. Humiliation raged inside me, but it warred with the fact that he was touching me again. Oh no. Yay. No. Yay! Shit, no. But also, yay!

He smelled good. Like fresh laundry. That was the best smell.

And his chest was so tight. There was no softness to him at all—not that a little softness was bad. I liked a little cushion. Dad bods. Brett Broudou definitely did not have a dad bod. All muscles. And strength. And hardness.

I needed to stop thinking.

“I mean this with the utmost respect,” Brett clipped out. The guys quieted. I waited. “But fuck off.” He moved us back and returned to the lobby.

An hour ago?

I’d stayed after to talk with one of the producers because she knew Vicky, and then to calm down, but it’d been over an hour?

I’d lost track of time.

“Mr. Broudou?” One of the front lobby guards approached, likely concerned about how livid Brett seemed. It was radiating off him.

Yet somehow I felt protected and safe. None of the violent tendencies emanating from him affected me, which was shocking, because with my past, with anyone else, I wouldn’t be anywhere near him.

I would’ve sensed them on the elevator immediately. And I would have gotten the hell out of there.

“Yeah. Stupid dipshits outside,” Brett explained. “Can you have my car brought to the parking ramp? Is there a connecting door to it from this building?”

The guard nodded. “Do you want the police called?” He had a walkie out and was walking quickly beside us, an arm stretched ahead, showing the way.

“No. They’re just young shits. We were all young shits at some point.”

“Of course, Mr. Broudou. And yes, we got ahold of your driver. He needs to go around the block in order to pull into the ramp. It’ll be a short wait, if you’d like me to stay with you?”

“No. I’ll be fine. Thank you. It’s not a big deal.” There was a slight pause, and the guard’s gaze moved my way. Understanding dawned.

He nodded. “Yes, of course. Miss Harm, would you like me to arrange for a ride home?”

I felt Brett tense again as we arrived at the skyway connecting the ramp with the building. I stepped away, feeling the loss of his body heat. I shook my head. “I parked in here. It’s just over there. I’ll be fine.”

“Ah. Yes.” He looked Brett’s way one last time before inclining his head. “I hope you both have a good day.” He left quickly after that.

The door swooshed closed.

“I want to see you,” Brett stated.

“What?” My stomach fell out of my body.

In a good way. I think…

A set of headlights swept up over the lane as a car came inside.

Brett sighed, tightly. “Of all days for me to get a ride from my agent and Jason has to leave early.” His eyes found mine, ignoring the SUV now waiting. “I drive myself. I always drive myself. Why the fuck did I start not driving myself today?” He grinned.

God. Even that was smoldering.

I had a problem.

I was horny.

I never had this problem. Or rarely. I’d been horny, of course. That was normal, but not to the point where a smile could fry my brain.

I was horny for Brett Broudou.

I’d have to stop watching the Kings. That would suck. I really liked watching the Kings.

He took a step toward me, his gaze holding me in place. “Why do I feel like you’re going to rabbit if I let you out of my sight?”

My mouth opened, and I said it before I knew I was going to say it. “Because I will.”

His eyes flashed before darkening. “Why?”

“Because you scare me.”

This was why I didn’t like hormones. They complicated, well, everything.

He froze.

“I mean, not in a bad way,” I rushed out, holding up a hand. “In a good way.”

His hand took mine and he tugged, gently. With purpose. “Leave your car. Come have coffee with me.” He entwined our fingers. “Right now.”

Flames zipped through my body. My hand was on fire. I kept staring at his big fingers next to mine, how his hand almost swallowed mine. “Right now?”

He tugged again, until I was almost touching the front of his body. “I want to learn more about Sylvia Rivera.”

“You do?” I breathed. “She did so many things. I’ve had her Wikipedia page memorized since it was created—”

“I meant the chicken.”

My chest deflated but then inflated. I also loved talking about my favorite hen. “Oh, Miss Sylvia Rivera. She has no nickname. It’s the full name. You either commit to it or you just call her Hen One. It’s the rule around the flock.” I could’ve said more, but noticed his lip twitching again, so I bit the inside of my cheek to shut up. “You don’t really want to know about Miss Sylvia Rivera.”

“You’re wrong. I want to know about anything you like. You shut down, but when you talk about Sylvia Rivera, your eyes light up. Your face gets this glow. I want to know what else makes you glow.”

He watched my every move, studying my face as if he needed to memorize it.

I confessed, softly, “This doesn’t happen to me.”

“What doesn’t?” A slight pressure from his hand, and I was pressed against him.

Ooh. That felt nice.

He moved his thumb along the inside of my palm, and more sensations raced through me. He held me in place, not pushing any closer, just keeping me there, with his front touching my front.

My horny needs exploded in me, reminding me it’d been years since I was touched like this. Did that make me pathetic?

“I’ve only dated two people in my life,” I said, faintly.

His smile was quick, and it was stunning, flooding my body with warm feelings. Warm aches. “I was thinking we could start with coffee first. Then see what happens.”

“I could do coffee.”

His smile flared again, and yep, my knees actually knocked together. “Perfect.”

He must’ve given a signal, because suddenly there was a man behind us, opening the rear door of the SUV. “Mr. Broudou.”

Brett guided me inside.

The man gave me a nod. “Ms. Harm.”

“Miss.” I said it without thinking as I moved to the far side.

“Miss Harm.”

Brett got in next to me, but he didn’t crowd me. He stayed on his side, his body seeming relaxed. “Do you have a favorite coffee place?”

I shook my head. “I usually just make it at home. I have the best almond creamer. Can’t get that quality anywhere else. Except the grocery store, where I bought it.”

He was smiling again and leaned up to ask the driver, “Where do you get coffee?”

“Miss Walters’ is local and has the best coffee there is.” The SUV started forward. “Also got a nice back area for privacy.”

“I think that’d be perfect,” Brett said.

“I know the owner. I’ll give them a call ahead.”

“Thank you.”

The divider went up after that, and it was just Brett Broudou and me in the backseat.

And my horniness.

“I know who you are, you know.”

We were still in the back of the SUV. Brett had been looking out the window, letting me sit with silence, which I was grateful for. That’s the kind of person I am, and it was like he could sense that and give me what I needed.

Major points there, on top of everything else about him.

I swallowed over a nervous knot and picked at my seatbelt with my fingers. “The football you. Your career. I know all your stats. I know who scouted you for Cal U, that you never played in high school. I know all of that. I just felt like you should know since you’ve made your interest known. You know, your interest in maybe seeing me naked.” I rushed on, ignoring how he’d gone still after that last statement. “I’m a football person. It’s something I like to watch.”

He remained quiet, an eyebrow raised.

I frowned. “I don’t know what that look is for. I’m putting my cards on the table.”

“I don’t think it’s fair.”

I frowned again. “What?”

“You know all about my career, and I know almost nothing about you.” He grinned. “Except that you love chickens and also Sylvia Rivera, who I will learn everything about now that you’ve gotten me intrigued.”

I perked up. “I can tell you all about her.”

He leaned toward me, across the seat. “I’d like to know about you.”

I slumped down. “Well, that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head, my tongue feeling heavy. What was there to say about me? Trust issues galore? Baggage to the excess? “The chickens are kinda my selling point,” I admitted.

His head leaned back, and he laughed.

I never would’ve expected that response, and I was fascinated by the sound of it, wanting to hear it more, hear it often, and let it settle over me like a warm blanket—on a cold night, not a warm night. That’s an important difference.

“Do it again,” I breathed.

He stopped. “What?”

“Laugh. It sounds amazing. Do it again.”

He didn’t, but he did give me a rueful grin. “I’m not a laugh-on-command type of guy.”

“You should be. You could make millions on Cameo.”

His next laugh was abrupt, as if it was out before he knew it, surprising himself.

I grinned. “I’m telling you, millions. Not that you need more millions. You’re one of the best defensive ends in the business. You and Chase Hart, but you have longevity. He won’t be where you are at your age.”

“Thanks.”

“Not that you’re old. You’re not, but for football and for your position, you’ve lasted a long time. The average is a little over three years. For linemen, it’s just slightly longer. Unless you’re a first-round pick, which you were. Then the average is nine years, so you’ve exceeded that by three years and counting.” I noticed a peculiar look on his face and stopped. “What?”

His voice was soft, just as the vehicle came to a stop. “You love female icons. You love chickens. You just rattled off stats that a normal person would not know without looking them up, and you sit here and say ‘what’ like you have no idea how you’re wrapping this entire package up for me.” His eyes went hard. Cold.

Shivers went down my spine.

His tone was deep, a warning. “The tripping? It was a nice meet-cute. The fanboys? I can’t decide if they were a plant or not. They seemed real, but all of this? You stepped too far over the line. Here’s something you missed in your research. I grew up with criminals, but I must be losing my touch. It took this long for me to spot the con.”

The door opened, and Brett got out.

I was too stunned to move.

He turned to the driver. “I’ll find my own way home. Please take Miss Harm back to her vehicle.”

What?

It felt like he’d calmly walked up to me, stone-faced, lifted his leg, and kicked me deftly in the sternum.

Again. What?

3

BILLIE

“P

ssst, Billie!” Lo fake whispered, laughing as she climbed into my bed with me. The whole thing rocked from side to side and she landed against my hip, still laughing. “You’re famous! And not because of your past, but because you’re gorgeous and who knew the hotness Brett Broudou had hiding under those pads and helmet. Wowza, the second clip is giving me steam factor.”

I rolled over. “What second clip?”

The first one, where I tripped, was still trending. I was pretending it hadn’t happened, which was easy because none of my clients knew my real name and I barely went out. My plan was to hide at my place, continue working, and take care of the chickens. In a week or two, the clip would blow over. No one would remember me until the next anniversary of when the Midwest Butcher was apprehended. I’d go into hiding again.

Lo cued up her phone and handed it to me. This clip showed the fanboys on the street. I was in the background. Brett was shielding me. I hadn’t remembered him doing that in the moment, and snapping at one of the guys. It showed Brett’s statement to the guy, not what the guy had said to him.

“He’s protecting you,” Lo said. “That’s mega sweet.”

“No, they didn’t include the beginning part. The guy asked if Broudou was rivals with Mason Kade because of Mason Kade’s woman. Broudou knows both of them.”

“What?” Lo hiccupped, which made her start laughing all over again. “You mean that second clip has nothing to do with you?”

I had to grin a little. I’d been in a dark hole, stinging more from Brett’s utter and complete rejection than anything else. I’d almost forgotten about the trending clip, now clips. “This one is really trending?”

She shrugged. “Not as much, but it got some juice yesterday. Assholes, though. They’re capitalizing on your shitty situation.”

When I’d gotten home after the disastrous interview, I’d made my excuses to skip Wine Roger night, wanting to do just this: hide out in my dark room. But Lo being Lo, she hadn’t gone for that. She’d dragged me back to the patio table and gotten the story out of me. She kept up to date on anything viral and trending. She would’ve found out about the clip no matter what. Roger had actually been the one who found it first, nearly spitting out his second glass of wine as he jerked forward in his chair. He’d been leaning it back so the front two legs were in the air, which Lo and I and his mother-in-law always told him not to do, but after the first glass of wine, he always forgot.

“Why were you guys on the street together? Were you walking to your cars or something?”

Lo knew me, knew I wouldn’t have been walking with him for any other reason, because let’s face it. Brett Broudou was Brett Broudou. Super famous. Super hot.

And super out of my league.

Except he said he was interested, a tiny voice whispered in my head.

I’d not told them about the coffee date that almost happened.

Pain sliced through me.

Gah. The way he’d looked at me at the end, as if he hated me.

There was no con. I couldn’t believe that’s what he thought. That made me ache for him. What had happened to make him think like that? Though, he was a celebrity professional athlete. I’m sure all sorts of people tried to target him for money, attention, or whatever other reasons people target people.

It was laughable how far I was on the opposite end of being a person like that.

I ran away from attention. In my life, attention never brought anything good.

I shrugged. “Just wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. I was trying to get to the food truck.”

Lo snorted. “Are you serious? That’s even more hilarious. Also, I looked up this Mason Kade guy. Holy effin hotness, man. He looks like a way rougher Superman Henry Cavill kind of guy. I’ve been sleeping on football. You watch the sport. Who are the other supreme hotties?” She poked my shoulder before settling beside me, lying on her back. “Man, and those uniforms. They knew what they were doing, accentuating their shoulders. Then how tight it gets on the bottom? Those asses.” She sighed. “Next Halloween, Roger’s going as an NFL player. We’ll have some good sex that night.”

A corner of my lip curved up.

“I prefer a guy with a beard.” Such as Brett Broudou.

Lo shared a smile with me. “Roger’s been hinting that he wants to grow a beard. He’s been trying with his mustache, but it just makes him look like a super villain in some cartoon movie.”

I barked out a laugh. “Not a cartoon movie.”

“I mean, he can’t even look like a villain from a cool movie. He’s got cartoon vibes.”

“Tell him about the football costume tonight when you tell him he can’t grow a beard.”

She smiled. “He’ll go out and buy it tomorrow. And he’ll wear it around the house. God. He’ll so totally do that. He’ll pose, asking how he looks in this position or that. He might even carry a football around the house with him, trying to make it look all casual, as if he’s just getting home from practice.”

We were laughing all over again.

Then we fell into a comfortable pocket of silence.

“All jokes aside, you got the dark-room effect going here,” Lo noted. “Should Vicky start making a meal plan for you? Scheduling who brings you your tray for breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack, and dinner?”

“Afternoon snack?”

“Everyone needs an afternoon snack. No shame in that.”

Her concern was disguised as a joke, but she was gauging how upset I was about the trending videos. Any attention tended to bring more fanatics out to find me—reporters, bloggers, writers convinced their book about the Midwest Butcher would land them a deal.

Hiding in a dark space kept me alive, so it was my go-to when I needed to feel safe. Vicky and Howard had found me many times in a dark room, but they’d always coaxed me out.

My current dark-room situation wasn’t about the videos going viral, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Lo. The rejection stung, more than it should’ve. That made it sting even more.

What was my issue? So what? He asked me for coffee.

So what if I’d wanted to go?

I could go to coffee with another guy.

That was the thing. I didn’t want to go with someone else. I’d not been interested in anyone for so long. It felt nice, just to have that feeling, and he crushed it so quickly. So cutthroat too.

That side of him was evident in football. He was one of the best defensive linemen for a reason, and I’d always been intrigued by him. I was elated when he came to the Kings. He hated doing press, except for the times he’d promote a charity. He was kind in those moments, no matter what. But there was a deeper, darker, rough side to him—an asshole side. The fans called it the Brood Machine, a play on his last name, when he was on the field. Most quarterbacks feared him. Colby Doubard, the Kings’ quarterback, had said many times that he was glad Broudou played with him and not against him.

Maybe I wanted to have coffee with him because something was healing inside me? Maybe it wasn’t even about him, but about the coffee, about going and having coffee with another person in a date-like setting?

I opened my mouth.

Don’t do this. You know it ain’t about the coffee. That tiny voice was back in my head, this time reprimanding me.

I spoke anyway. “Maybe Roger should set me up with one of his friends.”

Lo went rigid in the bed, then jerked upright with a gasp. “WHAT?!” Her eyes were huge, a wide smile stretching her face. “Okay. No. Don’t answer me. I’m not even going to try to connect the dots for whatever thought train you used to get to that suggestion, but yes! Yes! Travis. It should be Travis. I would never let him set you up with Doug. Nothing against Doug, but as your sister, you need to go with the guy even I would date if I wasn’t already madly in love with Roger. Travis is the guy.”

Girl, what did you do?

I ignored my inner voice. “Okay. Travis it is.”

“Oh! Do you want to double date? OH! Yes. I know you. You’re probably already freaking out inside at the idea of a date. Let’s do a hangout. Group hangout. I’ll invite some of our other friends so it’s not so obvious it’s a setup for you and Travis—”

“No.” I was determined now. This was not about Brett himself. It was about the coffee. “A date. If he’s a friend of Roger’s, I know he’s a good guy. I can meet a good guy for a meal.” Thought it was about the coffee? “Or for coffee.”

“Coffee?” Lo wasn’t privy to my inner voice. Lucky her.

“Either. I don’t care.”

See? This was not about Brett Broudou.

“We can turn the light on now,” I announced.

4

BRETT

W

e’d had a game yesterday, so I was coming in this morning later than usual. The elevators opened at the stadium, and I stepped off, heading for the reception area in our publicity offices.

The woman behind the desk smiled as she lifted the phone to her ear. “You can have a quick seat, Brett. I’m just letting Kim know you’re here.”

I gave her a nod and helped myself to some water from the little fridge. By the time I turned, Kim was coming out of her office and bustling my way, her suit jacket flapping to the side. Dressed in her normal business top, usually silk, and a business skirt on the bottom with pointed flats on her feet. She was fierce like a bull. Caucasian. Maybe five feet and an inch. Red hair that was cut at her jawline, and a bunch of her strands lifted in the air from how fast she was walking. A pretty face, except for the perpetual scowl she always seemed to have when dealing with me or any of the players. Kim was a no-bullshitter, and seeing the sharp look in her eye, I wasn’t sure what to expect from this meeting. I didn’t often get called to the office. At my old team, they’d learned I wasn’t the one to handle the usual press questions, but if they wanted a player to promote a nonprofit, I was all about that.

“Brett.” Kim signaled for me to follow as she ducked through another door. “Come on in here. My office is overrun by interns right now, trying to find something to dig us out of a Colby-sized hole. By the way, I know you’ve not been here long, but thank you for never making a Brett-sized hole. At least so far.” She sat with a frantic air around her.

“You want the door closed?”

“What?” She looked up. “Oh, yes. Please. Thank you.” She typed on her phone. Once the door was closed and I sat at the far end of the table, she stopped. “Okay. Tell me about CBX news. They said you did well last week.”

She paused, but I just waited. I knew a bait when I heard one. She wanted something from me.

She kept eyeing me. “The clip is still trending.”

I grunted. Fuck that clip. I was still pissed a week later, but I couldn’t figure out her hook—not Kim’s, Willow Harm’s. I’d been interested the moment I saw her walk past my room, and I’d stayed by the stage on purpose because I wanted to see her walk past for her segment on the show.

Then she’d tripped.

And after I’d watched her do her segment, and holy shit. She’d gone to a friend’s house for a playdate when the Midwest Butcher showed up. He’d killed everyone except her. She’d been hiding, and the speculation was that he hadn’t been looking for another child in the house. I was jaded from knowing the worst of the worst, and nothing much shocked me.

Her story shocked me. It made me feel cold to the bone that she’d gone through that.

She’d gone into foster care after that, which made me wonder what had happened to her real family. Had something already happened, and that’s why that friend’s family was watching her? That made sense. Foster care was hard. It pushed my buttons. Anyone who fucking decided to foster children, not for the children but for the money, deserved to be destroyed. Which I’d done. And I enjoyed it, especially when it was my fucking sister, who’d tried four times to foster a kid. I’d never let her do that, not when she barely raised her own.

If my sister had a heart of gold and was doing it for the right reasons, I’d be a big supporter. She didn’t. She was a parasite on society.

Shit. Was my sister after the con? It was something Shannon would do. Find someone she knew I’d like. Prep her with the right things to say. Willow Harm likes football. She likes odd shit, like chickens. She even named a fucking chicken after an activist. I liked all of that, a lot. It’d been too good.

I didn’t know how she’d done it, but it all made sense now. My fucking sister. She could do the long con, do her research, find out when I’d be doing another promotion on CBX. Shit. It was within her abilities to make friends with someone on staff and get her “friend” booked because somehow surviving a serial killer was related to highlighting domestic abuse?

This was the month for it, for fuck’s sake.

And having the girl trip? That was also classic Shannon. Make me feel like a stud, like I needed to save the damsel. Though if Shannon had been the one who’d tripped and been rescued, she would’ve already had a hand snaked around my back, lifting the wallet out of my pocket.

Willow Harm’s face flashed in my mind—her big, doe-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look. She was a knockout.

She also had no fucking clue she was a knockout.

I’d fallen for it. All of it.

Now what? This was take two?

I waited to hear Kim say they wanted me to do an event with Willow Harm.

Or hell, maybe I needed to step back and stop thinking like a fucking calculating asshole like my sister. Maybe none of it was a con and I’d misjudged everything?

Jesus fucking shit. I wasn’t sure what to do right now.

“You have nothing to say?”

Kim was hella smart. She had eyes like a hawk, missing nothing.

I didn’t respond.

She tapped on her phone. “Okay. Not that you’re a big talker anyway, but what’s this?” She turned her phone around and slid it my way.

Street noises came first, loud and invasive, and my voice came second. “…I mean this with the utmost respect. But fuck off.”

Kim took the phone back. She left it on the table in front of her, sat back in her chair, and folded her arms over her chest. “The rest of the video shows you manhandling Willow Harm back into the station.”

I cursed again. “That’s not what happened.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Care to fill me in? This is the third video that’s been released since that show. I’m sure they’re doctored for a negative slant, but this month is domestic abuse awareness. Not to mention, Miss Harm isn’t just some survivor. She survived a monster who killed sixty-two people up and down the entire middle section of this nation. She’s the only one who survived, and his story is still selling headlines. People love sports, but they also love the shit out of serial killers. Willow Harm is this shiny toy everyone wants to talk to, love, protect, shield—and by the way, she’s notorious for wanting nothing to do with any press. Nada. Zilch. No one even knows where she lives. People used to try to follow her. After a while she caught on and drove to a farm outside of town. The guy, no joke, met their cars with a rifle. After that it was widely known that if you wanted to find out where Willow Harm lived, you needed two extra tires because that rifle wasn’t a toy. He shot out the tires.”

I’m sure. This fit the script as if Shannon had written it herself… But fuck. It wasn’t like that. This woman, all her life? “She’s never done press?”

“Hardly ever,” Kim clipped out. “You were the cherry on top for the show last week, but the real headline was her. She only came out because of the cause. Obviously, violence in any form hits close to home for her.” She leaned forward, her sharp eyes never leaving my face, and she tapped again on her phone screen. “This is a problem for the team. This is a problem for you.”

That opinion might’ve explained why I had two missed calls from my agent and three from my manager. “It really wasn’t the way it seems.”

She nodded. “I talked to someone at the station. They said you seemed friendly with Willow Harm.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You knew the video was bullshit and you dragged me in anyway?”

“Fuck yeah, I did. You’ve got a reputation in the NFL world. You will support any and all charities. You do your job, almost like you hate quarterbacks and it’s your mission to rid the world of them. Though thank you for always doing clean hits when you take them down. And the other reputation you have? Don’t push you on anything that’s not explicitly in the contract. I’m telling you as a woman, you’re hot, you’re quiet, and you’re dangerous.”

I frowned. “Speaking professionally here?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. “My opinion as a woman matters. I got a call from the higher-ups, and they want this shit squashed immediately. I have no clue how to get in touch with Willow Harm. I’ve been told there was an email address the show used to contact her. That was it. No phone. Nothing else, and that email is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Like it never existed.” Her eyes were hard. “So riddle me this, Brett Broudou. You were friendly with her when you went back into the station after running into those dipshits. What happened between then and now? I need to stress this for you. Very little is known about Willow Harm—how she was found, how she helped the police apprehend the Midwest Butcher. It’s like that by her design, and I’m guessing with the help of some people who sit seriously high up in the FBI. Again, she is protected, and not just by the American people, who love her. They watched videos of her being carried out of that house, covered in blood. She looked half starved. Why she was there for a playdate, who the fuck knows? Details weren’t released because she was a child.”

She was still looking at me as if I’d manhandled Willow Harm. “Fuck. I didn’t grab her. I’m not like that.”

“I know, but I need to know if anything happened between you two.” At my pause, she added, “The station said Miss Harm had a vehicle in their parking ramp but chose to get into the car with you. Did you fuck her?”

This bitch. My fury was building, but I clamped it down. “Because she’s like that?” I said through gritted teeth. “That’s what you’re saying?”

She relented, a little. “Again, you’re hot, you’re quiet, and you’re dangerous. You’re also a goddamn professional athlete, and you’re rich. Yes. Even girls like Willow Harm might, on occasion, decide to throw caution to the wind and hike up their skirt for a guy like you.”

“Shit, Kim. I’m blushing.” I was boiling under the surface, and she knew it.

Her smile turned cold. “Did you fuck her? In this world we live in, it’s a very reasonable question to ask.”

“No. I asked her for coffee and changed my mind on the drive.”