“He’d get angry. Depressed. At first, it wasn’t too bad. My mom and I chalked it up to him not having enough to do. She tried to get him involved in activities, hobbies. Ballroom dancing with her, golf. Whatever might get him out of the house. Every month, it was like he got worse, the episodes getting longer. We took him to different doctors, neurologists, psychiatrists.”
Ah. She didn’t watch sports, but she heard what was going on in the news. “CTE.”
“Yeah. He played pro for seventeen years. He’d had God knows how many concussions, let alone subconcussive hits.” Samson shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “The episodes escalated. He stopped coming to my college games. Barely paid attention when I was drafted. He holed up in the house, drank, gambled, raged. My mom made excuses. I don’t think he ever laid hands on her, but I was always scared for her. Not that I expected her to leave him. I couldn’t leave him, no matter how angry my face made him, toward the end.” He cast her a quiet, anguished look, and Rhiannon’s heart clenched.
Samson’s affable charm was such a huge part of his personality it was startling to see something else in its place. She placed her palm on his back, wishing she could absorb some of his pain for him.
It’s dangerous to care this much.
Nah. She’d be concerned about what kind of a person she was, if she could coolly turn the subject to business right now. Bluster over how strong and tough she was aside, she’d never been someone who walked away from another’s pain.
Especially someone she kind of, well, liked.
“Do you know what it’s like, to love someone who hurts you? Because you know they can’t help how they act?”
Her fingers spasmed. “I know how it feels to love someone who turns out to be someone other than who you think they are. It’s not quite the same, though.”
The corners of his lips turned down. “Not quite.”
“I’m guessing it was difficult to get him help?”
“We tried. The league denied us more disability. Said their doctors had found no definitive link between playing football and long-term neurological issues.” His smile was bitter. “We had independent research proving otherwise. In the end, he died as we were filing an appeal.”
It took a second to connect the dots and the timeline. “He passed away... while you were playing pro? And you knew that his behavior was linked to concussive injuries?” That must have been a conflict for Samson.
“You’re wondering why I didn’t quit immediately?”
“No, not at all.”
“You should. I wondered.” He lifted a shoulder. “Even after I got the diagnosis, I tried to convince myself I was wrong, that my dad was a unique case. Deep down, I knewI was fooling myself. I only needed something to push me into realizing it.”
Realization dawned. “Your friend. The one you walked for.”
“Dean.” He put the frame down and gestured at the other photo, the one of him and his goddaughter. “When the reporters asked why I was retiring, I said I feared players’ head injuries weren’t being managed properly. The press went nuts, especially since my dad’s death was so fresh. There were already rumblings of the class action coming.” His words were halting. “I know the league was my employer, not my friend. But they spend all this time—the coaches, the media, my teammates—they tell you you’re part of a family. And it was like my family turned on me. My coach said I walked ’cause I couldn’t handle the pressure. Our quarterback said I was a traitor, that I’d left the team when they really needed me. I went from the Charm to the Curse.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
“I’m sorry.” She wondered if anyone had seen much of this brooding, dark side of Samson Lima. Words didn’t feel like enough, so she wrapped her arms around his waist. “That must have been painful.”
He held stiff for a minute, then relaxed, putting his arms around her, engulfing her in his body heat. “I loved the game. I loved my family more.”
She lifted her chin so she could look up at him. She opened her mouth to say something. What, she wasn’t sure. Something smart and clever and kind. But the next thing she knew, his lips were on hers.
His hands slid over her back, to her butt, and rested there for a second. She pressed tighter against him, taking the kiss deeper. The energy shift between them was seamless, from comforting and pained to needy and lustful. The adrenaline that had fueled her flight to his place returned in a vengeance, channeled into lust. He pulled away to speak. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“We don’t have to think.” Better to think later. Putting her brain on a small time-out was necessary right now.
Let the anger and fear transform into mutual greed.
“I like that plan,” he muttered.
Her clothes were easy to remove. She only had to slide her yoga pants down her legs and yank off her hoodie and shirt. One of the plus sides of athleisure.
When she was naked, he surveyed her. She hadn’t worn a bra today, and her nipples peaked when he ran his gaze over them. His big hands reached up to cup her breasts and they both shuddered.
He was far too overdressed. She attacked the button on his jeans, struggling with the stiff denim. He tried to help, but his hands were more in the way than anything else. “You do your shirt,” she ordered, trying to concentrate.
She had to stop when his T-shirt cleared his head. Their hurried interludes in her car hadn’t given her enough time to appreciate his body. Not at all. His chest was so wide, the perfect size to curl up on and take a nap or pet or bite or lick...
Bottom line, she could do a lot to that chest.
