Chapter One
Keaton
Early June…
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” an unfamiliar voice hisses, making it sound like a curse. A woman, her hands full, is standing in front of a door, no doubt having just exited it, with an expression declaring she’s done with this day. It’s only nine in the morning, which does not bode well for the remainder of it for her.
Struck by her beautiful eyes, the champagne color of them enough to make me feel slightly intoxicated, I stare at her for at least a minute before rushing forward. “Let me help.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she responds, her gaze pausing on me as mine did her.
“I really do,” I assure her. “Otherwise, my mom will somehow know I left you to fend for yourself and make me rue the day. She’ll ask the universe where she went wrong and bemoan my lack of manners to my dad, who’ll be forced to take the gentleman card he gave me when I turned sixteen.” She laughs and I love that it’s from something I said, even if it’s a fairly accurate description of the scolding I would receive, and the consequences from it.
“Moms do know all, don’t they?” She agrees, then mutters what sounds like, “If only wives did, too.”
Not wanting to touch that, especially if the latter label refers to her, I begin searching around her feet. On the second pass, I notice a small empty jewelry box, and the ring I assume had been inside it barely visible behind a potted plant to the left. Had the sun not hit just right, catching the gem adorning the metal, I would’ve skimmed over it. Again. Bending, I try to reach it, but my bulk isn’t making it easy. I end up on one knee, balancing my weight on the same side hand as I contort my body like there is a Twister mat under me. Grabbing it, I glance it and, not seeing any obvious damage, I pivot so I’m kneeling in front of her. Not expecting such a maneuver, I swear I catch her staring at my ass, but that has to be my imagination. The first time I have a personal interest in a woman she could already be taken. Clearing my throat, wanting my voice to sound somewhat normal prior to asking a question I might not want the answer to, I inquire, “Yours, I take it?”
She nods, and I let her know I think it survived without any damage. Now she seems more excited as she gives a little bounce and declares, “Yes!” Taking that as further confirmation she deeply cares for the person who gave it to her, I resign myself to having lost her before I found her. Extreme yet surprisingly accurate.
Rising to my feet, I attempt to give it to her, smiling when she flaps her arms, silently reminding me they, and her hands, are occupied, I ask which digit I should put it on. Of course, I could slip it back into the box and give her that, but that doesn’t enter my mind until after the fact. When she wiggles the left ring finger, I mentally swear. This is a worse torture than repeatedly running drills while Coach Ford yells at us that his seventy-year-old grandmother is faster.
“Congratulations,” I tell her, trying like hell to actually mean it. She stumbles at my word and, unable to catch herself, I wrap an arm around her waist and another behind her head, my fingers threading through her hair. Her slim weight feels perfect against me and I’m sure she can feel and hear the rapid beat of my heart at our contact.
She rises to her tiptoes and I instinctively dip down, lessening the distance our at least foot difference in height causes, right as she leans forward. Her mouth is almost touching mine when I become aware of an unmistakable sound. Applause and celebratory exclamations. Overriding that is a click that makes me grit my teeth. “Why are they watching us?” She hasn’t noticed them recording yet and I hate that I’ll have to inform her of it.
Wanting to put off that fact as long as I can, I focus on her question. “Because it looks like I just proposed.”
I swear I can see her mentally replaying what transpired in the last five minutes and coming up with the same answer. “And I nodded, said yes, then essentially hugged you.” Almost kissed me, too, I want to add but doing so and discovering I completely misread it would suck.
“After I put the ring on that important finger.”
“Mr. Wayne,” someone hollers, and I groan when I identify the speaker. A reporter that has no scruples and reports fiction rather than facts. Why the hell is he here? Granted, it’s a public street and he has every right to be, as do I, but the timing is suspicious.
Staring at the woman, I search for signs of a set up. As paranoid as that sounds, I’ve discovered it isn’t that far-fetched of a scenario since signing with the Midland Mavericks a few years ago. Shoving down my paranoia, I remind myself there’s no way she could’ve planned this, nor could Martin. He’s notthat smart. “Can we talk somewhere privately?” She agrees, but before we can escape, Martin continues to bother us.
“This is a surprise,” Martin gloats. “I didn’t know you were dating.” I glare at him. “Not that the media would,” he adds, giving me a wink as if it’s an inside joke. He can’t know, can he? Every contract pertaining to employment with any of the Decker brothers contains an NDA, which means the morality clause should never be spoken of to outsiders. My teammates refer to it as the gentleman clause – ironic considering my dad truly gave me that card in my teens – and the women’s version as milady clause. In essence, they’re the same, though there are specifics based upon our gender.
What it boils down to is how we act in public. Our every action should be above reproach, which means no drugs, no fights, no arrests, and no scandals. That includes our dating life. Meaning, be discreet. Don’t flaunt it. Only bring around someone you’re truly serious about.
I have never brought anybody. It’s not that there haven’t been many hoping for the opportunity. Only that I’ve never accepted. Any of them.
I don’t trust the attention nor their intention.
A suspicion that isn’t solely based upon the knowledge my star power and bank account balance are what they’re really after. Childhood trauma cuts deep and leaves lasting marks that never fully leave us.
As a kid, my metabolism was terribly slow, meaning what I ate to stay with me instead of being worked off with the energy only the young has. That followed me through middle school and didn’t go away until my sophomore year when I tried out for football at my dad’s urging. He knew I was struggling and thought the aggression needed on the field would help me sort out my emotions, giving me a healthy outlet to process them.
It did. It also allowed me to lose the weight in a manner nothing else could and, shocking me and my parents, let me discover I had what my coach described as natural talent. He nurtured that in me, teaching me what I needed to know in order to catch up with teammates who’d been playing their entire lives. They weren’t pleased at how quickly I moved from sitting on the sidelines to being out there with them…until we started winning.
As the pounds dropped and my body became leaner and muscled, girls who treated me as if I were invisible suddenly realized I existed. Which also had my male peers wanting to hang out with me. Where I’d initially been known as Weighs a ton – children aren’t exactly the cleverest – I’d become Mr. Popular. While my classmates wanted everything to do with me, I wanted nothing to do with them. Despite my body changing, I still saw that kid with the extra pounds any time I looked in a mirror.
Body dysmorphia.
My brain sees a distorted version of my reflection, almost as if I’m staring into a funhouse mirror. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been able to retrain my perception thanks to therapy, but sometimes, when I’m really tired or overly stressed, it rears its ugly head and makes me question my appearance.
The irony isn’t lost on me that football, the very thing responsible for getting me in shape could end up being what brings on a relapse. Being the star quarterback for my hometown’s football team isn’t exactly a calm gig. It’s a lot of pressure, win or lose people the world over are scrutinizing my performance.
Then there’s dealing with those like Martin.
