The Game of Love (21 page)

Brett helped her into the passenger seat, touched her forehead with the back of his hand. “You okay? You don’t look good.”

She turned, blinked twice before he focused. “Just tired.”

His hand, so cool on her forehead, stayed for a second longer, then he shut the door and climbed in to start the engine. She let her head fall back against the headrest, and her vision glazed over as she watched the landscape pass by. Brett, for his part, seemed to understand that conversation wasn’t on her top ten list and let her wallow in peace. Thank God for his understanding, because she might have burst into tears if he’d forced her to review the whole thing.

She didn’t question when he pulled into his own driveway, didn’t fight when he took her hand and led her inside and up the stairs. Didn’t resist when he stripped off her school jacket and polo, took her shoes and pants as well, and left her in her sports bra and panties. Gently, he pushed her down onto the bed, slipped in fully clothed next to her and pulled her close to his side so that her head rested on his shoulder.

“Okay, baby. Let it out.”

With that simple command, the dam broke and her tears poured, burning hot and unstoppable. She tried to explain why she was so heartbroken, tried to make him understand she wasn’t being a sore loser, that it was grief for her girls, for the end of something special.

He let her soak his shirt with her heartache, let her mumble and sputter through her explanation without interrupting. Just smoothed a hand over her hair, murmured soothing words and agreements and kissed her forehead when she couldn’t say more.

And let her sleep. The physical outpouring of her sorrow led her into the darkness, and she succumbed to sleep, feeling protected, cherished and, for once in her life, understood.

He woke up gradually, one sense at a time. The clean, simple scent of Chris, like wind and soap. Then rustling, the unmistakable sound of sheets being disturbed, followed by the loss of weight against his side as she left the bed. Drawers opening and closing, a thump and Chris cursing. He bit back a smile, imagined her hopping around on one foot holding her knee. Sure, he could have opened his eyes, but it was more fun this way.

The bathroom door creaked and he heard water running in the sink. Finally, he cracked his eyelids to look at her.

Through the open door, he saw her standing at the sink. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt of his, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She’d tucked the tail into a pair of sweatpants with the waistband rolled up several times to make them tighter and shorter. On her feet were a pair of his thick socks, so baggy that they sagged around her ankles and the toes flopped uselessly as she raised one foot to scratch the other leg’s calf.

Her hair was falling out of her ponytail and her face was dripping wet as she continually splashed herself with water.

She looked ridiculous.

He leaned to one side, propped up on his elbow. “Chris?”

She jumped. Toweling her face with quick motions, she turned to him, smiled apologetically. “Hey.”

“You have a sudden urge to look like a bag lady?”

Her eyes drifted down to her outfit, then back up. She struck some pose she probably thought was modelesque but that would probably make Heidi Klum shudder. “What, you don’t like?” Losing the pose, she shrugged a shoulder. “It was cold, and I don’t have anything here. Sorry.”

He watched one sleeve of his enormous shirt slide down from her elbow to her wrist in silent surrender. And just like that, his fight against the feelings he’d been denying broke. “Christina, I love you.”

The earth stopped. All right, not the earth. But in Brett’s small corner of the world, time froze. He couldn’t even hear the whir of the HVAC that normally provided white noise. Then he watched as her pupils actually dilated and she shook her head. Wisps of hair stuck to her wet jaw, but she didn’t lift a hand to remove them.

He sighed. Damn it, he’d blown that one. Talk about crappy timing. He patted the bed next to him. “Could you come here so we can talk?”

Again, she shook her head.

Okay, she was going to make this difficult. Not surprising. “Chris, look, I—”

“No, thank you.”

No, thank you?
Like she was turning down seconds at dinner? “What?”

A flush crept up her neck and bloomed in her cheeks. “That’s, uh, not what I meant. I just mean, you know. Um.” Her fingers twisted the long sleeves of his shirt, and she wasn’t making eye contact. For the first time since he’d met her, Christina actually seemed intimidated.

“Baby, come here so we can talk—”

“You promised.”

The accusation caught him off guard. Again. “What are you talking about?”

“We said this was an affair, simple and physical.”

Oh, great. Now she gets her confidence back.

“This wasn’t about love or…or…whatever.” Her hands fluttered to dismiss her lack of vocabulary, the sleeves flying. “This was
not
in the plan.”

Trying to figure out where to go from there was like trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces. He sat up, stretched out his back a little to give himself some time. “Okay, you’re right. We did discuss things, and you came up with the affair scenario.”

“Which you agreed to,” she added, propping a shoulder against the door jamb.

“Actually, I didn’t. I told you that it sounded reasonable, but I never agreed.”

Her mouth dropped open, and he could almost see the mental videotape rewinding in her mind. “That is the most immature thing I have ever heard, Brett Wallace. What’s your encore? I am rubber and you are glue?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I usually preferred the old standby of ‘I know you are but what am I?’.” When she didn’t crack a smile, he walked over and gently grabbed her wrist, pulling her back onto the bed. He worked hard to not be offended when she made sure there was a foot of space between them. “I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. But I won’t take it back. It’s the truth. But I also won’t push.”

“Feels pushy,” she mumbled, picking invisible lint off his sweatpants.

He grabbed her hands, held them steady in his until she made eye contact. “I love you. No, don’t pull away. I love you, but I understand you’re not comfortable with that. Yet. So I’ll leave it alone.”

Her eyes held wariness. “We can’t keep this up if you keep talking like that. This is sex.”

Uh huh. Just sex. Like it was all about the sex when she cried herself to sleep on his shoulder. But he could wait. Sooner or later, she’d catch up with the program, and he’d be ready for her. “I’ll drop it.”

Like an animal not sure whether or not the treat being offered was a trap, she slowly crawled from her spot into his lap and wrapped her arms around him.

Rubbing his cheek on her messy hair, he asked, “Up for brunch at my mom’s tomorrow?” Before she pulled out of his arms he tightened his grip. “I’m kidding. I’m sorry. Ouch!”

“Not funny,” she grumbled. “You’ll give them the wrong impression.”

“Didn’t have to pinch.” He eased her back until she was lying down. “I’d never give my family the wrong impression.”

“I’m getting married, Mom.”

The spoon in Anna Wallace’s hand clattered into the stainless steel sink. She turned to look at him, soapy hands on her hips. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open. “Repeat that.”

Brett turned to make sure all of his brothers and their families were still bundled up outside. “I’m going to marry Chris.” When she didn’t say anything, he shifted a little. “I thought you liked her.”

That snapped her out of the trance. “I do. I like her very much. More importantly, I like how you are when you’re with her.” She went back to the sink, started washing the seven thousand dishes that Sunday brunch accumulated. But her movements were slower, more deliberate, as if she was worried she’d forget a step if she didn’t slow it down.

“All right, so, what’s the deal?”

“Why are you marrying her?” She didn’t look away from her chore.

The question baffled him. “Why do you think I’m marrying her?”

Anna sighed, set the bowl she was washing on the towel laid out to dry, turned back to him as she wiped her hands on her apron. “I hope for the right reasons. What I hope you’re not doing is marrying her because she’s the exact opposite of your ex-wife—she is, but that’s not good enough.”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d told him she was being drafted next year. “I’m marrying her because I love her.”

And just like that, his mother went from rational grandmother of nine washing dishes to a mommy sobbing over her baby boy. She walked into his arms and drenched the front of his shirt. Brett smiled, knowing she’d come up for air eventually. She’d done this with all his brothers when they made their big announcements. Of course, when he’d announced he was marrying Lilith, she had sat dry-eyed at the table and told him to think hard about the choice he was making. The first of many warnings he didn’t heed.

A few moments later, she stepped back, dabbing the corner of her eyes with her apron. “These are happy tears.”

He grinned. “I know, Mom.” He went to put his arm around her for another hug, but she slapped him with the dish towel. “Ow!” Why was it every woman he loved ended up abusing him?

“Why didn’t you bring her? She’s been here before, why didn’t you bring her so we could make a big announcement?” A curious glint took over her eyes. “And why didn’t you announce this in front of your brothers?”

Brett mumbled as he turned around to start putting dishes away, hoping the clatter covered his words.

The towel snapped him on the back. “Brett Wallace!”

“I said, she doesn’t know yet.”

His mother stood so still, so stiff that he could’ve pushed her over with a finger.

“She doesn’t know yet.” The bun wobbled as she shook her head, tsked and turned back to the sink. “She doesn’t know that she’s marrying you.”

Brett slammed his palms down on the counter. “Don’t act like that. It’s not as if I was planning on kidnapping her and whisking her off to Vegas where some Elvis impersonator can hold her at gunpoint while we say our vows.”

“Then your plan was?” Her hands flew, drying plates at rapid speed.

He put one big hand over her forearm, stalling her movement. “Mom.” Waited for her to turn around. “I love her. And she cares about me. More than she wants to admit, for whatever reason. So I’m waiting. And when she’s ready to admit she loves me, we’ll get married.”

She blinked, then went back to drying. But he heard a suspicious sniffle, and he walked up behind her, put his arms around her waist and his chin on top of her head, next to her messy bun. “I love you, Mom.”

“Oh, for the love of—” The towel fell out of her hands and she spun in his arms and gave him a hug. “How did I get so lucky with all of my boys?” she asked, muffling her words in his shirt.

“We had pretty amazing parents.”

“You’re thirty-four, you don’t need to suck up anymore.” But when she pushed back, her eyes were misty again. “He would have liked her.”

She meant his father. And hearing that put him at ease. “Thanks.”

I love you.

The words played over and over in her head all day. While she graded papers. As she cleaned the house. When she took a jog. The echo followed her, and the more she heard it, in that deep rumble that Brett’s voice took on, the more she started to wonder if it was true.

She’d written it off at the time, thinking maybe he was being kind after her mini-breakdown. Or maybe he thought she was about to walk away and he wanted to keep her with him for longer. Maybe he just thought she wanted to hear it, period. Most women would.

But to Chris, it felt almost like a death sentence, hearing him say those words. Placing too much importance on something that wasn’t permanent. Making her heart want to open layer by layer, like a flower reaching for the sun. And then reality comes along like a big shoe to crush it.

Wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let it happen.

That didn’t stop her from wondering if he meant the words, though.

Later that night, she turned onto her side in bed, where she lay in the surrounding heat of Brett’s body. She traced the thin white line that ran from his temple to behind his ear. It normally hid beneath his hair, but he’d had a haircut that afternoon and she could see it again. His eyes fluttered open. “Hey.”

“What’s this from?”

He paused, as if trying to decide how much—if any—to tell her. “Helmet flew off in practice, got hit on accident.”

“Oh my God.” Though he was clearly all right now, the idea had her cringing and wanting to check him all over for other injuries. “Were you hurt badly?”

He shrugged one massive shoulder. “I ended up with another concussion and the cut bled like a stuck pig, but all head wounds do.”

“Another concussion?”
Stuck pig? Head wound?
And she had thought hockey was a violent sport.

“Concussions were what put the brakes on my career. One too many. Doctors finally told me another one could do me in.” He looked at her face and chuckled, then kissed her nose. “I’m fine. I was getting old for the game anyway. A career in the NFL has a short lifespan, so really I was only a few years early.”

Pure insanity had her asking, “How did your wife react?”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “How’d you know I was married?”

“Katie.”

“Ah.” He shifted, pulled her tight against him, rubbed her back. “Lilith didn’t take it well. As it turns out, I was a pretty decent husband when I was bringing in cash and endorsement deals and she could be Mrs. The Wall. Between that and finding out I wanted to move back here, she figured I was pretty useless.” His voice stayed flat, unemotional.

“She divorced you?”

“Yup. Luckily for her, she found someone with the Bears to make her feel all better.”

She didn’t say anything, which he clearly took as a sign to continue.

“But I’m glad I found out when I did.”

“Found out what?”
That you’re an idiot, Chris? God, stop asking! Change the subject!

“That she was a pro-ho.” When she didn’t say more, he clarified. “Pro-ho. Women who date one pro athlete after another, looking for the permanent gravy train? It’s one of the first things that caught my eye about you, actually. That instead of fawning over me, you couldn’t have cared less about my career. I had to work for you.”

He gently kissed her temple, then shifted their bodies so she was partially draped over him. The man was a cuddler, that was for sure. In a sleepy, thick voice he added, “It’s one of the things that made me love you.”

“Mmm.”
Well, you asked, didn’t you?

She nuzzled his side, and soon she felt his chest rise and fall with the deep, even breathing that came along with sound sleep.

He loved her—or at least he thought he did—because she didn’t have a thing for pro athletes. Right. Sure.

This was bad.

Now more than ever, she didn’t want him finding out about Dax. He wouldn’t understand it had never been her intention to seek out jocks for the notoriety or the fame or the money. She had avoided Brett in the beginning simply
because
he had that in common with Dax.

But after hearing about his ex-wife, she needed to keep that relationship under her hat as long as she and Brett were involved. But with Dax’s penchant for trouble and the media harping on their previous relationship, it was going to be more and more difficult.

Brett hadn’t felt this good since, well, he couldn’t remember a time when he felt like everything in his life was lining up so easily.

The football team was gearing up for Sectionals, which they had every intention of winning. Chris was opening up more, and he could feel her slowly accepting their relationship as more than just two people scratching an itch. And he was in love.

He’d left early that morning, not wanting to get in her way while she got ready for work. A quick pit stop at his mom’s for a muffin and some chit-chat had delayed him until almost lunch. A little behind schedule, since he’d planned to get to school early and watch some film before practice, but not too bad.

Pulling into his long drive, he saw a midnight-blue H3 Hummer sitting in his driveway, the driver still in the car. He drove around it, unable to see through the tinted windows, and parked in the garage. The mystery driver opened the door as he got out, and Brett stared at his doppelganger.

The guy was almost his height, with broad shoulders and long legs. The hair was a lighter brown than Brett’s, shaved to the skin on the sides and spiked into an inch-high Mohawk down the middle. The guy wore designer jeans and a crisp button-down shirt and was built like an athlete.

In short, most likely not a rabid fan who planned on digging through his trash for a keepsake.

“Brett Wallace?”

Brett walked back through the garage door, punched the code on the keypad for the door to close and leaned against the brick exterior of the house. “Depends.”

Mystery Man flashed him a bright smile, whipped off his mirrored aviators. “Daxton Riley, nice to meet you,” he said, offering a hand.

Brett accepted the hand, returned the firm shake. He was a good-looking guy, though his nose was just slightly crooked, like it had been broken. “You look familiar. Were you in the League?”

The man gave a short chuckle, stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Sort of, but not the same league you’re thinking of, I’m sure. Goalie for the Philly Centaurs. NHL.”

The name and face suddenly clicked. He’d heard about the Golden Glove a time or two. But hockey wasn’t his sport of choice, so beyond a few random details, he was at ground zero with information. “Well, Mr. Riley, what brings you by this way?”

“Dax, please. Mr. Riley’s my grandfather.” His face lost the hint of amusement and suddenly, he was shifting in place. “I, uh, hmm. First, I wanted to say it’s an honor to meet you. Football isn’t my number one sport, of course, but everyone’s heard of The Wall, and from one pro athlete to another, I respect your career.”

Brett nodded, wondering where this conversation could possibly go from there.

Dax rocked a few more times, shifting from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again, looked around at the front yard’s landscaping. “It’s not easy, you know, coming here. You’re someone I respect, someone I look up to. So, this is hard.”

“Maybe you better spit it out, then.”

“I heard through the grapevine that you were seeing a woman. Christina St. James?”

No. Damn it, no.
Whatever this man had to say, he wanted Chris to have no part in it. So he stayed quiet, numbly wondering if that would make it better.

As the silence stretched on, Dax looked around, his mouth tightened. “Right. Well, anyway. I know we’re not involved in the same sport, and you’re not even really playing anymore. But all the same, I always kind of felt like there was this sort of camaraderie between pro athletes, you know? An understanding, a brotherhood of sorts.”

The longer he talked, the less Brett liked the man.

“And so when I heard you were dating Christina, and I realized you were The Wall and all, a guy who I looked up to, I figured I had to come talk to you. Partly to see if I could help out, and I’ll admit the other part is just purely selfish, trying to ease my own conscience.”

He was getting tired of the grand lead-up. “Point is?”

“I dated Christina a few years back. She used another name, Christina Parsons. It was my first few years in the league, playing in the big times. We met up at some event, and I thought she was a real sweetheart, you know?”

Chris, a sweetheart? Either they had the wrong woman or things had changed. “Moving on…”

“Right. Anyway, we dated for a while, no problems. But turns out the ‘Oh, I’m so simple I don’t need anything fancy, please don’t buy me jewelry’ thing is just a bit. The whole time we were together she was scouting out other jocks. Looking for her next meal ticket. The next big thing, you know? Caught her trying to start something up with other guys in the league a few times. Even a few of my own teammates. Stupid me, took her back every time, believing her when she said I’d misunderstood.”

He scoffed. “Misunderstood. Right. After I laid down the law at one point, telling her we weren’t flying across the country just for a fancy dinner, she flipped out. Told me I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore and she was done with me.”

Brett’s mind was spinning, trying to match up what Dax was telling him with the Chris he knew. The Chris he loved. They weren’t fitting together. Sounding more gruff than he meant, he asked, “Why the hell should I buy this?”

Dax lifted one shoulder. “Not sure why I’d lie about it. Lot of effort for nothing. Just thought that you might want the warning. What you do with it is up to you.” He started walking back toward his Hummer, then looked behind him. “In the league, we call ’em rink bunnies. The girls who are out for a piece of puck every night. But apparently she’s not particular about the sport, long as he’s a pro. Not sure what you’d call that.”