Page 64 of Bae

One minute I was throwing passes into the end zone, and the next I was rushing the stands because my girl was taking on a pack of mangy wolves.

Here’s the thing: when you back a wounded dog into a corner, it’s going to come out fighting.

Rimmel was starting to fight, ignited by a most surprising source.

Jealousy.

Ah, the sweet taste of watching her get all riled up because some ho thought holding up a sign would make me notice her.

While I might be hella amused she was riled up over skanky women I wouldn’t even think twice about, I knew it went deeper than that. She’d seen the media coverage and was likely also subjected to the press when she pulled into the parking lot.

I appreciated her scrappy will. I did.

But seeing her being pushed around, stumbling into someone’s lap, while the paparazzi circled like buzzards wasn’t something I found entertaining.

It was one of those moments I saw her vulnerability. I’d be damned if some bitches would break her.

No onewas going to break her while I was around.

It was pretty much unheard of to pull a wife or anyone down on the sidelines during a game. Didn’t stop me from doing it.

Ron Gamble wanted higher ratings. He liked that Rim was a draw for a new kind of crowd. Well. He got what the fuck he paid for tonight.

I didn’t do it for that, though. I did it for her. It was a public display ofI’m with her.Didn’t think I could get much clearer than that.

When the game was over (we smashed it and took home the win) I had post-game shit to do, and she couldn’t come hang around the locker room. If she did, she’d likely be scarred for life.

Seriously. Some of the dudes were akin to wild animals.

I escorted her back to the box, then had security accompany them all to the cars. I went to the locker room, where I was ribbed mercilessly for the stunt I pulled. I was a big boy; I could take it.

Anything for Rim.

By the time B and I arrived at the hotel, I was pretty fucking spent. Done with the press, the game, the people. I just wanted my wife and a quiet room.

B and I were on the same floor. Ivy and Nova were waiting for him, so the second we stepped off the elevator, we pounded it out and separated.

“Tell my sis I think she’s a badass,” B called over his shoulder as I moved on down the hall.

I laughed.

She was sitting in the center of the bed when I walked in. She glanced up, a red licorice twist falling from her lips. Behind her black-rimmed glasses, her brown eyes went wide, and she tugged on the neck of the T-shirt she wore because it exposed more than it covered.

I dropped my duffle at my feet and leaned against the door, crossing my arms over my chest.

Her hair was down in a waterfall of dark silk. It looked like she brushed it out about a thousand times, which was a thousand more than she usually did. She was nervous, likely fidgety in that clumsy way of hers, probably wondering just what I’d say when I stepped into this room.

I was hot all over, flushed from toe to head. My body was lethargic from the physical demands the hours of football had extracted. I didn’t feel tired, just lethargic. Heavy.

My veins were thick with desire, need almost overwhelming.

Almost. Not quite.

Rimmel sensed my mood, the prowess with which I watched her from my steadfast position against the door. The room hummed with silence, with singular energy.

Her stillness was overcome by the aforementioned restlessness, and I watched with sharp attention as she wiped her palms over the caps of her bent, bare knees. Beneath the thick fabric of the T-shirt she stole from my bag, her chest rose and fell with uneven movement, and I knew with certainty the rhythm of her heart was madly irregular.

She was small in the center of the king-size bed, but her presence was anything but. She filled this room like she filled my chest. Absolutely. Undeniably.

---