Hard Tackle (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"You sure you're alright, Bree?" my mom whispers
to me. We're walking through a tunnel from the private parking lot to the
stadium used by the people in the Buccaneers' organization and their families.

"Yeah," I murmur back with a shrug, though I feel
odd. I can't even pin down what I'm feeling because my system shut down this
morning on our drive over. Jack has been so busy with practices that I haven't
seen him since we brought his things back over to his apartment, though I've
used the time to build back up my fake relationship with Miles.

We enter a cavernous area under a section of the stands. Ray
shakes a bunch of hands; he's a familiar face at his son's games, and a
well-known business man in his own right. I hear the hum of the crowd grow
louder as we're escorted into the stadium. The game hasn't started yet, but
it's opening day, so the excitement in the air is palpable.

The crowd is awash in red, white, and black, with hardly any
Falcons colors or jerseys visible. I accepted a red Bucs hat from Jack, and
have it pulled low over my face. The Jolly Roger symbol looks a little
different than I remember it. I wish my mom were wearing a hat, too. People are
far more likely to recognize her than me, and what if word gets out that Sonny
Bosko's family was here? The fans will probably start throwing things at us and
boo us out of the stadium. Maybe the death threats would start again.

I look around nervously as we're shown to aisle seats on the
Buc's side of the field, right at the fifty yard line. It's exactly where my
mom, Carter, and I would sit at the old stadium when we'd watch my dad play. I
can practically hear the chants now: Bos-KO, Bos-KO, Bos-KO!

I realize as I look around that I should have been more
worried about the players' parents than the players' wives. The wives are all
much closer to my age even if their husbands are some of the oldest on the
team. They all greet my mom cheerfully, their huge wedding rings glinting in
the sunlight as they shake my mom's hand.

The crowd claps politely as the Ravens take the field, but
burst into a stomping, clapping mob as the Bucs burst from the tunnel out of
their locker room. I spot Jack's number forty-one in front of us as he leans in
to talk to one of his coaches. I know he's too focused to talk to us right now,
but I'd feel so much less anxious if I could just see his smile. His picture
and stats splash across the Jumbotron, but it's just not quite the same.

The Bucs win the coin toss and Jack takes the field with the
rest of the offensive line. Their QB targets Jack on his first throw, and Jack
bypasses a defender as he heads for a first down. Just after he makes it, he's
taken down by a huge Ravens defensive back. If I thought Jack was big, he's
dwarfed by some of these other players. My dad always played defensive line, so
I never had to watch him get tackled in quite the same way, with both players
running at full speed. I cover my eyes with my hands, wincing as Jack is laid
flat on his back. But he quickly bounces back up, and I take a deep, relieved
breath.

"It's OK, honey!" my mom says cheerfully, taking a
second to rub my back. "You looked so scared for a second there!"

"I guess I'm just not used to this. I forgot what it
was like to see it so up close."

"I always loved the games," my mom confesses.
"It's so exciting! So many people gathered in one place to cheer on their
team!" she practically squeals. I smile at her. She's like a little kid
here. I guess it's not too surprising that she fell for a pro football player,
even one with such questionable morals.

I watch Jack get tackled again and again, though always
after he's taken the ball much further down field. He's on fire today. He and
his QB seem to be thinking with one mind, completely aware of the other's
positioning. Every time he gets up without being hurt, I relax a little. It's
like I have to learn that he really can take a tackle without dying before I
can actually start to enjoy the game.

At the one-yard line, the quarterback hands the ball off to
a member of his offensive line that charges through the Ravens' players for a
touchdown. After an extra point, the score remains seven to nothing through
halftime. The Ravens come back for a field goal to end their next drive, and the
Bucs return the kickoff to the thirty-five yard line. The safety hikes the
ball, and Jack sprints by our place in midfield. The crowd stands as the throw
goes deep, hitting Jack square in the chest. He stiff-arms his defender and the
crowd goes wild as he runs the rest of the way to the end zone unencumbered.

I don't realize how loudly I'm cheering at first. Not that
anyone else would notice, they're all doing the same, but I'm surprised by how
proud and excited I feel. I wish I could tell him right now, but that's an
impossibility for so many reasons. After another successful extra point, the
score stays at fourteen to three until the game ends with the Ravens stranded
on their own forty-yard line.

The field is swarmed by the Bucs as they congratulate each
other and shake the other team's hands. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of
Jack, but the mass is too thick and spotted everywhere with reporters and
bright camera lights. The crowd begins to filter out, with the family section
emptying back into their exclusive area.

"So where do we meet Jack?" I ask, looking around.

"He's going to meet us at the party," Ray tells
me, leading the way back through the tunnel to his car.

"What party?" I ask frowning.

"The one the Glazers throw every year," my mom
replies nonchalantly. "Eliot started the tradition, and now his sons throw
it."

"Oh," I reply, vaguely recognizing the owners'
names.

"I thought I told you," my mom says.

"I don't think so. Is it OK to wear this?" I ask,
indicating my t-shirt and jeans.

"I'm sure that's fine," she assures me. We drive
over to a hotel on the waterfront, and have to check in at the garage just to
be able to park. I start to get nervous when I see Ray pull out a blazer from
the backseat. My mom's wearing black pants and a blouse, and besides, she
didn't stuff a baseball cap down over her head all afternoon. I shake my hair
out, doing my best to ruffle away my hat hair with my fingers.

We check in again outside the elevators, and I look down at
the floor as cameras flash our way as we head into the ballroom. I look around,
and grimace as I see all the well-dressed players' wives happily posing for the
cameras. They're all wearing heels and skin tight jeans or dresses. When we get
inside, I quickly head for a tray of appetizers, nervously parking myself in
the corner while my mom and Ray schmooze.

Large numbers of women start pouring in, too many to just be
the players' wives. Groupies, hoping to meet one of the single players, like
Jack. I suppose they're regulars, and the security knows to let them in. Gotta
keep the players happy. I start to wish I could fade into the walls. Messy
hair, flat-chested, no makeup…I don't look like the rest of these women. These
are the kind of women I'm sure Jack was used to dating…or sleeping with, rather.
A sick thought reaches my brain: maybe he has slept with some of these women.
The more I think about it, the more sure I am.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I head over to the massive buffet. There's a ton of food,
which isn't surprising. I'm sure an entire NFL team that just played will
quickly devour everything here. I grab a plate and fill up a plate of lasagna.
No one else is really eating, but I could use some comfort food right now.

I park myself at a table and begin to wolf it down. I picked
a seat away from the crowd, but as it begins to grow I'm surrounded. Two women
sit across the table from me, tucking their long, straight hair carefully in
front of their shoulders. They're both wearing tight cocktail dresses, with a
fabric that crisscrosses over their bodies like bandages. I can just overhear
their conversation

"…with Shaun Merryweather," the brunette woman
says, and my ears prick up. That's Jack's friend that I met at my mom's
engagement party.

"Good luck! I've heard he's really picky. So what was
Stratton like?" the redhead asks. I stop eating, a piece of lasagna paused
on my fork an inch away from my mouth.

"Oh my god, I can't even describe it to you," the
brunette replies with a laugh.

"Huge?"

"
Huge."
I tremble, and the lasagna falls
off my fork and tumbles down my t-shirt and into my lap. I swear under my
breath and try to clean it up as best I can with a paper napkin. The women
don't even notice. "He likes it pretty dirty, you know? Don't be afraid to
like, really go for it. I swear, we did it like four times in one night."

I stand up, my chair screeching back from the table, and
head away from the table. I don't know where I'm going until I reach the doors
to the balcony. I burst out of them, gasping for fresh air as I lean over the
marble wall. I close my eyes as I smell the sea breeze coming off Old Tampa Bay
in front of me. I was right, Jack has been with some of these women, or
certainly that one. I open my eyes as an image of them fucking in his apartment
bed jumps into my mind. I grit my teeth, trying to push it away, but the
imagined sounds of him thrusting against her echo around my head.

I hear cheering and turn back around to see what's going on.
The Bucs are entering, and the crowd makes room for them as they applaud. The
players and coaches spread out to find their families, and through the glass
walls I'm able to see Jack walking over to Ray and my mom. I feel a stab of
pain in my heart as he gives each of them a hug. He heads for the buffet – no
surprise there – and attracts a gaggle of women, as though he has a net
trailing behind him that they get caught up in. I watch him smile and laugh
with them as he fills a plate up.

This is what it's always going to be like, isn't it? He's
always going to be pursued by these gorgeous women. How can I compete with
that? And how can I expect him to resist them, day after day, city after city,
as he travels for games? I turn back around to watch the setting sun. The crowd
begins filtering out to the balcony, and the area around me is quickly filled
with excited voices. There's nowhere to be alone.

Eventually, I look over and see Jack outside, plate balanced
on a high cocktail table. He's still surrounded by women, who all lean forward
and hang on his every word. Every once in a while one of his team members will
walk by and they'll high five each other.
Is there an eject button anywhere
around here?

I glance over again and kick myself as Jack catches my eye.
"Hey! There you are!" he calls out and waves me over. I shake my head
and he frowns slightly, but he picks up his plate and walks over to me.
Unfortunately, his entourage follows him. I've never felt so short as he and
the high-heeled women tower over me.

"Oh no, what happened?" the redhead I saw earlier
coos. I glance down at where she's looking and see the lasagna stains all over
my shirt.

"Accident," I mutter.

"Now it matches all your other stained shirts,"
Jack says with a smile. I know he's joking, but I blush, feeling embarrassed.
The women shift and glance at each other, sensing an intimacy between us.
"Bree's mom and my dad are getting married next year," Jack
announces.

"That's so cute!" Red exclaims.

"Is it?" I reply under my breath.

"You guys will be brother and sister."

"So, Bree, what's he like in private?" another of
the women enquires.

"In private?"

"You know, around the house and stuff. Does he keep his
room clean?" she purrs, draping an arm over Jack's shoulder.

"No, actually, it's fucking disgusting," I reply
matter-of-factly, giving Jack an icy smile.

"Bree…" Jack says, knowing I'm joking, but looking
a little worried.

"Really?" Red asks.

"Yeah, he keeps old food in there, like all hidden
below piles of dirty clothes. Last month it all got infested with maggots. I
mean, I didn't even know there was such a thing as a maggot infestation. And
apparently it's not very common, but boy is it tough to get rid of. We thought
they were all gone, but then I saw one crawling down the hallway away from his
room just yesterday. They could be inside all the walls of the house at this
point."

"What a shame," Red says, making a clucking noise
with her tongue. "I guess you'll just have to buy a whole new house then!
Luckily you can afford it!" she adds with a laugh.

"Ugh, excuse me," I groan, rolling my eyes.

"Bree!" I hear Jack call after me, but I slip
through the crowd, using my diminutive size to my advantage, squeezing by all
the giants around me until I'm at the ballroom's entrance.

"Bree Bosko!" someone calls from the press line as
I head for the elevator.

"Yes?" I reply automatically.
Wait, fuck, I
trained myself not to answer to that name anymore.
I turn to see Victoria
Reilly, the sideline reporter Jack pointed out to me, shoving a microphone in
my face.

"So you are the daughter of Sonny Bosko? I'm sure Bucs
fans will remember Sonny Bosko," she continues, turning to narrate to the
camera as I stand frozen next to her, "who lost so much money gambling
that he bet against his own team, then paid a member of the Bucs staff to sneak
into the opposing team's locker room to steal their playbook in an attempt to
throw the game. Do you remember much of the time after he was banned from the
NFL?" she asks, turning to me. "You must have been quite young."

"Yes, I was," I reply in a tiny voice. The camera
lights around us are all swinging toward us and I feel a trickle of sweat run
down my forehead.

"And yet here you are again, accepted back into the
Bucs' circle. Where is your father now?"

The question hits me like a punch in the gut. "I don't
know," I confess. "I have to go," I gasp out, running for the
elevators. I punch the down button but the doors don't open. I see the sign for
a stairwell next to me, and run through it. I wince as an emergency alarm goes
off, but I don't care. I just keep running.