“I have to.”
But now that it’s quiet, I canhearmy ankle. I denied anything stronger than ibuprofen in the expectations I’d be able to bully Keltner into letting me back out and I’d need to be clear-headed if I was going to get the rest of my yardage to get that 50-yard bonus. The ice is working its magic, but without stronger drugs, the waning of my adrenaline is warming the pain.
She gets the front of my jersey untucked and realizes that it’s not as easy as just a shirt to take off. Not with all the pads and everything. It’s more like a condom holding everything in place inside. She focuses hard on it, and I love watching her figure it out. I love seeing the way she glares and scowls and inspects.
She’s so goddamn beautiful.
It hits me like a ton of bricks. Like that player who took out my ankle. I don’t even know who it was. I’ve been hurt on the field before. I’ve been stuck on Injured Reserve. But none of it has felt quite like this. I can’t believe it’s not broken.
And I can’t believe how beautiful Tilly is.
When did that happen? When did she go from fascinating and unusual and intriguing to beautiful? When did she stop being someone I wanted to look at and start being the only person I wanted to look at?
“Stop,” Tilly whispers when I make a grab for the wig she has on today, but it’s not her fancy lace-front. It’s a maroon and goldenrod one to match the team colors. I’m sure it’s just pinned on.
One good tug, and it comes right off.
“Dammit,” she huffs, but she’s been doing her hair lately, making simple but clean braids in a pretty spiral.
She’s beautiful.
“And stop looking at me.”
But how can I not when she suddenly straddles me on the hospital bed, thankfully big enough for guys like Gabe, so there’s plenty of room for her, and pulls my jersey up by the collar. It pops right off along with my pads, and then she takes my white undershirt with it.
She lowers herself down, folding herself up neatly enough that she avoids touching my right leg even as she lays her calf alongside it and lays herself on my chest.
“Oh, babe, I’m all gross right now.”
“I don’t care. Tell me why you needed to get back on the field. Tell me what’s going on.”
I sigh and toss my head back, rubbing her back to make me feel better. “I’m going to hurt you.”
“Yeah, well, I think we’re both real good at that.”
I snort. “What have you ever done to hurt me?”
She shrugs and gives a non-committal, “You know.”
“I don’t.” Whatever she thinks she did to hurt me, she didn’t hurt me at all. I did it all to myself.
I have to tell her that.
“If I could go back in time to that night when I saw you in my hot tub, when I saw that tattoo snaking up your baby bump and knew you were my Trixie and that was my baby growing in you? If I could go back to that night and know in that moment that you weren’t the one who was ruining my life, it would have been the greatest fucking thing that ever happened to me. Fuck, itwasthe greatest—”
But Tilly is already looking up at me with dark, shrewd eyes. “Wait, wait, wait, who is ruining your life?”
“My blackmailer,” I spit out, taking that plunge. No sense testing the water when I’ve always been a strong swimmer. “Someone recorded us that night, Till. At the hotel. There . . . there must have been cameras everywhere. And microphones? And you didn’t know me well enough to recognize me then, but there’s no question it’s me. They’ve taken everything from me.”
I can see the moment when Tilly’s eyes fade, stuck in thought. They’re still on me, but she’s not looking at me anymore, not really. Her fingers drum a slow cadence on my chest, her nails just long enough that there’s both a dull and an acute sensation prickling me.
This is it. This is when she blows up on me.
Incredibly hesitantly, far more hesitantly than I’d manage if the situation was reversed, she says, “How much money is it?”
I wince, like if I scrunch my face up enough, it won’t hurt as much. But saying, “Twenty million dollars,” hurts way more than a lineman to the ankle.
“Oh, Blaise.”
