The Baller (32 page)

“It’s Angie.”

The next thing I knew, I was being steered out of the arena and into the hall. Brody kept moving, clutching me tightly to his side as if I might run if given the opportunity. When we got to the entrance to the men’s locker room, it was being guarded by Henry Inez.

“Hi.” It came out just as nervous as the first time we’d met, maybe more so.

He nodded. “Dam. Mr. Easton.”

Brody scrunched up his brow. “I need to use the locker room for a few minutes.”

“Not supposed to let anyone in. Even players.”

I sensed Brody’s anxiety. “We won’t be but a few minutes. It’s just impossible to escape all the reporters. They can be pretty annoying,” I joked.

Henry stepped aside, shaking his head. “A few minutes. That’s it. We rotate when the interviews start inside.”

“Thanks, Henry.” Brody wasted no time pushing the door open. But I stopped. “How’s Larissa’s arm doing?”

The security guard smiled. “Cast comes off tomorrow. It’s a good thing, too. She’s threatening to take a saw to it herself to get back on the court.”

“That’s great.”

Brody tugged at my arm, pulling me into the locker room. Inside, I glared at him. “That was rude. I was talking.”

“We only have a few minutes.”

I folded my arms over my chest.

He grinned. “But it never took me that long to get you off.”

“Brody . . . ”

His eyes darkened as he moved to me. With every step he took, I retreated, until my back hit a tiled wall. He lowered his face to mine, our mouths inches apart. “I think you lied.”

“About what?” I had the immense urge to lean forward and press my lips to his.

He shifted and leaned toward my neck, running his nose along the vein that pulsed with my heartbeat. It was beating out of control, and my breath was joining in on the race. “About how you feel about me. I think you lied.” He moved to my ear, his voice raw. “I think you feel everything I feel.”

I said nothing, but the hitch of my breath spoke volumes.

“I bet if I slipped my hand into your panties right now, you’d be as wet as I am hard.”

“Brody . . . ”

He pulled back a few inches and cupped my face with both hands. “And it’s not just your body that has a reaction to mine. I think you feel it . . . ” He slid one hand from my chin, down my neck, and stopped when his palm covered my heart. “Here. I think you feel it here, too.”

My heart was pounding under his hand.

“What are you afraid of, Delilah?”

He stared into my eyes, so open and vulnerable, and like a coward, I closed mine. Neither of us moved for a long time.

The door to the locker room creaked open. “Easton. Interviews are starting, and the shift is changing. Time’s up,” Henry yelled, and then the door closed again.

I opened my eyes. My words were barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

He pushed my hair back, and his thumb stroked my cheek. His smile was real, but sad. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You’ll figure it out.”

He let go of me and took a few steps toward the door before turning around. The cocky smile I hated to love was back now. “Oh, and Delilah? Now it’s your turn. You’ll come around. But when you do, I think I’ll make you beg for another chance.”

Brody

I felt like a twelve-year-old boy again. In two days, I would play in the motherfucking Super Bowl, there would be an arena half full of women wearing my name on their backs, and here I was jerking myself off in the shower. To say I was frustrated was an understatement.

When I’d told Delilah last week that the ball was in her court, I hadn’t been thinking of how often I would see her. Super Bowl week was a media frenzy, and I saw her beautiful face every day. After our locker room understanding, something changed—the anger and hard feelings between us were gone. We were friendly even. Which made it exceedingly harder to keep my hands to myself.

Last night, she’d been at the practice field for a coach’s interview. I’d waited around like a damn puppy just to walk her to her car after she was done. When we got to her Volkswagen, she stood with her back against the door, and I knew if I had leaned in and claimed her mouth, she wouldn’t have objected. I was more certain than ever that she wanted me; what I needed now was for
her
to be certain it was what she wanted. She needed to push past whatever was holding her back and make the decision to be with me. So I’d intentionally brought up Marlene and how Grouper had cleaned out the last of her things before I brought him and the guppies to Media Day. I casually mentioned that I’d mailed Marlene’s cross to Willow, who now lived upstate. She had said that she believed nothing happened between Willow and me, but I needed her to know that Willow wouldn’t be part of our lives going forward.

That night at the hotel, after Marlene’s service, Willow and I had a long talk. She admitted she had come to my suite hoping for us to get back together. As much as I hated that I hurt Delilah, the conversation between the two of us needed to happen. I needed to say goodbye to her once and for all, and she needed to hear me tell her to move on. It was a long time coming for both of us. While I wished her luck, there was no connection holding us together anymore. And I was good with that. Whatever crack of the door that I had left open for Willow, it was finally shut once and for all.

I had offered to pick Delilah up to drive her to the stadium today for the final press conference since we were both attending, and I was shocked as shit when she agreed. She’d told me to text her when I arrived so I wouldn’t have to park, but a car ride to the stadium wasn’t enough time with her. So I showed up an hour before our planned departure time and rang the buzzer, pretending that she had gotten the times mixed up.

“I’m sorry. I thought you said eleven.”

I did
. “Nope. Ten.”

When she opened the door, it was obvious she had just gotten out of the shower. Her hair was wet, and she was dressed in a pair of logoed Steel sweats and a pink ribbed tank top—sans bra.

“Nice sweats.”
Nice tits.
The damn things were saluting me.

She stepped aside for me to enter. “I’m not ready. But I’m fast. I can get done quick.”

I quirked an eyebrow.
Good thing I took care of myself not an hour ago.

Delilah chuckled. “Such a perv.” She waved toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I watched the sway of her hips until she was out of sight, and then made myself at home. The entire place smelled like her perfume. I sat down on the couch with the remote and flicked on the TV. Every station was talking about the upcoming game. Athletes were superstitious—I didn’t like to know the odds before a game, so I hit the off button and looked around. The end table held a photo album that I’d never seen before. Not thinking twice, I grabbed it and started to flip through.

It was page after page of Delilah and some guy, who I could only assume was Drew. He was in a football uniform in half the pictures, and apparently Delilah didn’t have to grow into her looks as many women did—she was smokin’ hot at every age. Most of the photos looked like they were from high school, but some looked like they might have been from college. The two of them were arm-in-arm in most pictures. Smiling, laughing. A pang of jealousy reared from within when I flipped to one of them kissing. It was probably eight years old, and the poor guy had been dead for almost as many years. God, I was an asshole.

I put the book back on the coffee table and closed my eyes for a few minutes to clear my head. I smelled her come back into the room.

“Do you want something to drink?” She was smiling, and then suddenly her face dropped. I followed her line of sight to the photo album. She walked to the coffee table and picked it up, storing it in the console beneath the TV.

“No, thank you,” I said.

She scrunched her face.

“You asked me if I wanted something to drink. I’m good.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” She paused and looked around the room. “I’ll just be a few more minutes.”

When she disappeared, I stared at the cabinet that Delilah had just put away the photo album in.
Young love. Loss. Football.
It was like a light bulb had turned on for the first time. My head fell back against the couch. How had I not figured it out before? Had I been hit one too many times in the fucking head at practice? I smacked myself in the skull and groaned.
Jesus Christ, Brody. It’s so obvious.

I stood and paced back and forth for a few minutes, trying to gather my thoughts before walking into the bedroom.

“Hey.” I leaned against the doorframe and waited for her to come out of her closet.

She came out wearing a navy skirt and a white shirt, with a set of pearls that caught around one breast and hung down to her waist. Classy, yet sexy. Although I preferred the pink tank top without the bra as long as it was just the two of us. “Am I taking too long?” She was carrying a pair of navy heels in her hand.

“No. Can we sit?”

“In here?”

“I just want to talk a minute.”

She hesitated but then walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. I kneeled, balancing myself on one knee, and took the shoes from her hand, slipping on one at a time. She looked down at me, confused. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” There was so much I wanted to say, yet I wasn’t quite sure of the words.

“Everything okay?” she asked

“Other than I’m a dumb fuck? Yeah, everything is fine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“And you’ll answer?”

“I’ll try.”

“Why aren’t we together anymore?”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her eyes were sad. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try. I’ll listen.”

“Well. That night when I came to your suite and Willow was there, I was upset. Jealous even. I hated the thought of another woman near you. But when you told me nothing happened, I believed you. I never doubted you would keep to your word and be faithful.”

“But you still think I have feelings for her. The same kind of feelings I have for you.”

She looked away. “I don’t know what I think.”

“Look at me, Delilah.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“You wanna know what I think? I think you loved Drew the same way I loved Willow. And when you lost him, it hurt for a really long time. So much so that you were afraid to do it again.” I wiped a lone tear from her cheek. “This whole time I thought you were afraid to fall in love with
me
, that I was the problem.

“It’s not you.”

“I know that now. You’re just afraid to fall.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. This makes my job much easier.”

“Easier? How?”

“Changing me was going to be a lot of work, but proving to you that if you’ll take a chance on me, I’ll be there to catch you won’t be as hard. Let’s face it, I’m an asshole. It ain't easy to change an asshole.”

She laughed through her tears. “I think I just need time.”

“I’ll be right here waiting.”

She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me for a long time. It wasn’t the outcome I had hoped for, but at least I knew I was on the right track.

Delilah

Two weeks after the Steel won the Super Bowl, life had finally begun to calm down. Brody had lived up to his promise—being there for me and letting me take my time. The only time he’d even attempted to touch me was right after he’d won the game. Everyone was celebrating on the field, and he’d managed to find me. He picked me up, swung me around in the air, and then planted a fat kiss on my lips. We both spent the next seven days in a craze. Between media coverage, the team parade, and dozens of interviews, I was surprised he even found time to see me. But he did. Every single day he made time for me. There were no grand gestures or attempts to move things along, either—he just showed me every day that he’d be there for me. How could a girl not fall the rest of the way when she knows she can count on the man she adores to catch her when she does?

The buzzer sounded right on time at three o’clock. I’d asked Brody if he would mind doing a short interview this afternoon down at the station. He’d said yes without hesitation, even though I knew he was pretty much at his limit of cameras in his face. I also knew that he wouldn’t listen to me when I told him to text me when he got to my apartment. He always came up. I wasn’t sure if it was him being a gentleman or him hoping I would have a moment of weakness, and he wouldn’t have to be a gentleman anymore. Knowing Brody, it was fifty-fifty.

I opened the door, and there stood the most delicious man I’d ever laid eyes on. He had on a navy wool peacoat, with a navy-and-light-green plaid scarf that brought out the golden specks in his green eyes. The morning after the Super Bowl, he’d called me saying he had to drag his ass out of bed to shave before the day full of interviews. I’d mentioned I liked him better with a few days of scrub. Since then, I noticed scrub had become a permanent fixture.