Lady and the Champ (24 page)

* * *

A
fter a few days
of feeling sorry for myself, I realize I’m bored of sitting around the house doing nothing. It’s time to take control, get organized, and start looking for a job.

Less than a month ago, I never would have dreamed I’d be in this position. Then, I had a great job and a potential boyfriend. Now? What do I have? A big bunch of nothing, mostly. I doubt anyone in the local physical therapy community is going to want to hire me after what happened. Hell, considering the national visibility of Austin’s case, I might be shit out of luck throughout the continental US.

I have to try though. Even though I know the news has spread and there’s probably not a practice in town that would touch me with a twenty-foot pole, I start looking for employment.

I make a list of every job I can find online that looks like it would be even close to fitting my qualifications, then I add a few that don’t. I even take a quick jaunt to the grocery store to pick up a newspaper. They still have classifieds in those, right? Apparently they do, because I find a half-dozen more possibilities in the back of the local paper.

Armed with my list and a spreadsheet on my computer, I start making calls. To my surprise, no one hangs up in my ear as soon as I mention my name, and a few people actually sound interested. When dinnertime rolls around, I’ve got three appointments for phone interviews and four people who’ve asked me to follow up with them in a couple of days.

It’s like a weight has lifted from my shoulders. I feel lighter, happier, less like I hate myself and everything about the world. Maybe my career hasn’t totally landed in the toilet after all. I whip up a grilled cheese sandwich and flop on the couch to relax and watch a little television.

I forget that I left the TV set on ESPN, and when I flick it on, there’s Austin. At first I think he’s addressing reporters from the stadium, then I realize he’s out in front of his house. My thumb moves to change the channel, but then I stop.

Austin looks so sad it makes the middle of my chest knot up. He’s standing on his porch behind the rail, using it as a lectern, more or less. It’s a calculated pose; it reminds me of a president speaking from the Rose Garden or the Oval Office.

He’s certainly laying on the drama now, with his sad eyes and the backdrop of his house. I roll my eyes but immediately feel bad. I don’t want to admit it, because right now I’d rather just forget his football-playing ass completely, but he looks sincere. Almost painfully so.

A reporter is holding a mini tape recorder up close to Austin’s face and is in the middle of asking a question. “…so how has the rehab gone? Are you going to be playing in the game on Sunday, or will you be watching on the sidelines?”

Austin is silent for a few moments, as if he’s trying to decide what to say. Or as if he’s trying to hold back the emotion that might come out with his words. I’m not sure which, but I find myself blinking rapidly, my own eyes going hot.

What is going on with him? Did he hurt himself again?

I’m a little lightheaded suddenly, flashing back to Mason announcing that he would have been ready to play again if his physical therapist hadn’t been completely incompetent.

Finally Austin looks straight at the camera that’s pointed at him. “I’m ready to play,” he says. “But I’m not going to.”

“What the fuck?” I say it out loud, and on the TV the reporters’ voices rise, repeating the sentiment. Several of them even repeat the actual words, and since this is live and they all have microphones in front of them, there’s no way to censor it.

Austin waits until the initial shock dies down. It doesn’t take long; they’re all beyond anxious to hear what he says next. So am I.

“I’m quitting. Retiring. I’ve had some down time, and that got me to thinking. And now I realize there’s way more to life than football. I want to enjoy that part of my life before it’s too late.”

He leaves some space for the reporters to ask questions, but nobody seems to have anything ready. There’s some mumbling, some confusion, and then finally one of the female reporters says, “What exactly do you mean by ‘that part of your life?’”

Maybe his mother’s passed away.

My breath catches at the thought. I’d liked her.

“I have a date on Sunday,” he says quietly. “A date with a girl I’ve finally realized I’m in love with. I can’t live without her, and if I have to walk away from the game to keep her, then that’s what I’ll do.” His eyes lock on the camera. “I hope you’re out there listening, Doc.”

He turns, and all the reporters start yelling after him. “Who is it?” “What’s her name?” “How long have you known her?” “Are you really quitting football?”

He answers none of them. He just walks back inside the house and closes the door.

I can’t breathe. Is Austin serious? He’s really quitting football to be with…

Me. To be with me. He couldn’t have meant anyone else when he said “Doc.” Other people watching the broadcast will think he means the team doctor, or someone else who’s been working with him. But I know exactly what he means.

Hands shaking, I turn the television off, grab my keys, and head out.

* * *

I
n addition
to the people I know are waiting in front of Austin’s house, there’s a group of reporters camped out just outside the gate into the complex. I have to slow the car down to about two miles an hour to keep from running over people. The security guy at the gate recognizes me, though, and waves me through, and the same time shouting back reporters who try to sneak in while my car passes onto hallowed ground.

The crowd in front of Austin’s house has gotten bigger, if anything. I park my car about a block down the road and walk the rest of the way, shouldering my way past people I recognize as beat reporters and local sports news anchors. Some of them aren’t particularly polite about letting me slide past.

“Just get the fuck out of the way or I’ll mace your ass,” I tell one when he blatantly tries to block me from the porch with his shoulders. I must look or sound threatening, because he eases back. I mount the steps, paying no attention to the muttering from the crowd, and I pound on the door with a clenched fist.

There’s no response at first. I pound again. Finally I hear a slight shuffling on the other side of the door. I assume he’s checking the peephole, so I stare right into it. I hear the deadbolt unlock, then the door opens.

“Let me in, Sherwood, you fucking moron.”

He glances behind me, at the crowds who are, remarkably, staying off the porch. When he sees nobody is trying to push in after me, he moves back just enough to let me in, closing the door and quickly reengaging the locks.

“What the fuck was that about on TV?” I demand, fists planted on hips, glaring up at him.

He just looks down at me, not even remotely cowed, but there’s softness in his expression. He’s not going to try to bullshit me this time, I can tell. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I know that came out of nowhere, but I had to do it. I couldn’t see any other way to get through to you.”

“You could have—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“You weren’t answering your phone, weren’t answering my texts. I’m sure if I’d just dropped by, you would have slammed the door in my face.”

He’s right. “That still doesn’t explain why you decided to put your whole career on the line just to get my attention.”

“I guess I just wanted your attention pretty damn bad.” His soft smile takes the edge off his words, leaving me standing there with no idea what to do. Automatically, my thoughts flick to the other subject he mentioned.

“You said you’re ready to play? Are you sure about that?” I can’t let that get past me—it’s my job to make sure he’s ready, and I haven’t seen him in far too long.

“As sure as I can be without you, Doc.” That smile still curves his mouth; it’s so intimate, almost like he’s touching me. My cheeks go warm, and I shake off the feeling by moving into PT mode.

“How about you let me take a look?”

Of course he can’t let that opportunity slip by. “You can take a look at anything you like.”

I roll my eyes. “Then let’s get started.”

He doesn’t hesitate about stripping down so I can take a look at his injured leg.

It looks good. Surprisingly so. I would have thought he’d need a bit more work on it—maybe another five or six sessions—but he’s got most of his mobility back, and the joint’s showing good extension.

“Does it hurt?” I ask him, bending his knee back and forth.

“Not really.”

“Not really? What does that mean exactly? Give me a points scale.”

“Three?”

Three out of ten. Not bad at all. I set his foot carefully back down and pat the knee. “You can play, as far as I’m concerned.” I lean toward him, looking directly into his face. “I give you my blessing.”

He can’t hold eye contact, though, and lowers his gaze. “I don’t want to,” he says, so quietly I’m not sure at first what he said. “Not if it means I can’t be with you.”

He’s so sincere, and my eyes prick with tears. “Don’t say that.” It’s hard for me to keep my voice steady. “Football is your life.”

“No, it’s not. It’s my career. It’s not my life. That’s my family. My Momma. Emma.” He pauses. “You.”

“Austin, I’m not—”

“I want you to be. If football is what’s keeping that from happening, then fuck football.”

I have to blink hard. “Austin…” I’m at a loss for words.

He moves closer to me, taking my hands in his. “I love you, Chloe. If you want me to play, I’ll play, but not if it means losing you.”

I don’t know what to say. The tears are flowing now, but I’m laughing. “It won’t. I promise it won’t.” And then I’m kissing him like there’s no tomorrow, like we didn’t just promise to be together.

He pulls me abruptly up into his arms, almost roughly, lifting me against him, and heads for the stairs. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering if this is a good idea—he could hurt himself again carrying me upstairs.
You said yourself he was okay to play football—if he’s okay to play he’s okay to carry you—

I can’t even finish the thought before he lurches on the steps. I grab hold of him, afraid he’s going to drop me.

“Oh my God, Austin, if you fuck up that knee again…” My on-the-way-to-the-pillow-talk remains on point.

“Just tripped,” he says, and as if to prove he’s fine, he jogs up the last few steps. I grab tighter again, because he’s jogging, and again I’m afraid he might drop me. It makes me laugh though.

I laugh more when he tosses me onto the bed and I bounce a couple of times, making one of the pillows fall off the side. He falls right next to me and another pillow makes an ignominious exit. Then his mouth is on mine and I’m laughing against his tongue and he’s laughing back, his hands pulling at my clothes.

He gets my shirt off over my head and bends to bite a nipple through my bra, hard enough that I slap him. He lets go and grins at me. “I love you. Did I tell you that?”

“I think so. Maybe not. Maybe you should say it again.”

“I love you.” He sobers. “I loved you right from the beginning.”

“When you were acting like a complete asshole?”

“I acted like an asshole because I wanted your attention.”

“You seem to do a lot of stupid things just to get my attention.”

“Love makes me super idiotic.”

“I’ll vouch for that.”

He kisses me again, and I shut up when the heat of his palm touches my breast. It sends an electrical shock through my body, making my skin tingle. The air stills as he unlatches the front of my bra. My gasp cuts the air as my tits spill out. Then he kneads and strokes and plays with my nipples. He sucks me into his cavernous mouth, the wet sting of his tongue sending a jolt of arousal straight to my pussy.

Holy shit, I’ve missed this.

He closes a hand between my legs, his grip firm like he’s holding me down onto the bed. Through my jeans, he presses into me. His fingers are hard and insistent, and for a split second I think he’s actually pushed fingers, panties, and denim right up inside me. It’s a strange, intense feeling, almost harsh, and that splinter of almost-pain sends me over. His teeth clamp onto one nipple, and I howl at the sensation as it stabs right to my clit.

He unfastens my jeans and pushes his hand inside, tugging them partly down. His fingers probe inside me and I cry out again, grabbing at his shoulders. He pinches my clit, sending a stabbing sensation deep into me. My eyes start to water; I’ve never had anything
hurt
so much and still feel so damn good. Everything inside me goes quiet, and I just let myself
feel
.

Austin jerks my jeans the rest of the way off, and then my panties. A thrill runs through me when I see his expression has changed. He’s not laughing anymore—he’s dead serious, focused. Feral.

“Austin.”

A predatory smirk tugs at his lips, and his eyes flick up to meet mine. Before I can quite catch my breath, he buries his face between my legs. His teeth ease over my clit. He makes a hissing sound of amusement when I jump, my thighs closing around his face.

This time he uses his tongue. A wet, hot length reaches all the way back, sending another jolt of ecstasy in my pussy. My skin sears with the sensation, and then he flicks his tongue across my clit.