“Yes, of course!” Her lashes flutter. “He’s free for the next hour.”
“Which office?”
“Fifth door on your left. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
I won’t. “Appreciate it.”
Polished floors grumble under my feet as I make my way down the annoyingly long hallway. Miriam’s tears play on an endless loop. She was still in her car when I pulled up to her house yesterday after practice. Her gloves gripped the steering wheel, her breath visible in icy puffs. Her eyes, full of light and my forever, didn’t blink. She just stared until panic rose with the flush rising up her throat.
Doe is an angel among the living, too kind for this world. I don’t deserve her, and she sure as hell doesn’t deserve anyone playing in her face and stealing her brilliance. After I kissedaway every tear, I promised I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my freedom, but this motherfucker is seeing me.
Voices float under Kieran’s door. I let myself in.
“What are you doing in my office?” His eyes double in size, like he’s unsure if he wants to square up or stay behind the safety of his desk. Like I won’t clear it feetfirst.
Kieran doesn’t know who I am, but he’s smart enough to realize I’m not here to talk about bridges. He eases back into his chair, doing everything he can to look important in a bland suit that matches his bland office.
I’ve seen his type on the pitch. Players who talk shit but flinch before a tackle. His breathing changed, and so did his heart rate, given the erratic pulse popping out of his neck.
Silence chokes the office until someone clears his throat. In the corner, next to the door, is the second man on my shit list.
Frank Mancini.
“Antonio, right?” His head tilts, shifting the light from his Chuck Norris toupee to a mole sprouting on the bridge of his bulbous nose. I don’t know if the former action star wears a hairpiece, but Mancini would benefit from a trip to the beauty supply store on Bailey. A lace wig and some edge control might work wonders.
I tower over him by almost a foot. He’s short, with leathery skin hanging from his meaty features and bony shoulders that barely fill out his gunmetal suit. For one of Buffalo’s elite, he looks like he needs to check his drawers every time he farts.
“I’m here for Kerry.”
“Kieran,” Dickhead corrects.
“Kerry, like I said.” I smile. “I don’t see any accolades around your office. Is that why you get off on stealing ideas and selling them as your own?”
He swallows hard and looks away. “I think you’re mistaken.”
“Now that would make my lady a liar, and she’s far from it. Miriam is brilliant, but you already knew that.”
Kieran’s eyes snap to mine, his face a shade of rage.
Yeah, she’s mine.
I grin and cut the distance to put my palms on his desk. “You trying to get out your seat?”
“I suggest you go back to where I pay you, which is the field,” Mancini cuts in. “My business doesn’t concern you.”
I whip around, careful not to give Kieran my back. His trifling ass might try to take me out with some scissors. “Oh, but it does when it involves someone I love. Fix it. Now.”
“Or?” Mancini challenges.
“Or I have no problem going public.” That is, once Miriam gives the okay.
Cold gray eyes flash black. Mancini’s scowl loosens into a tight smile. “Good luck playing rugby after I release you. Nobody messes with my money.”
“And no one fucks with my baby,” I spit. “You own the team, not me.”
His tongue drags over his veneers. “I do own you, boy.”
I got your fuckingboy.
