Page 7 of Roughing the Player
“No. Too busy with school and . . . other things.”
When he wiggles his big body some more, I struggle to keep my eyes on the road and not where they’d love to stray.
“Marty said you guys leased me a place?”
A safe topic. Thank God. “Yes, a two-bedroom condo in a very nice building, close to the Outlaws’ facility.”
“Butch hates apartments. I’ll need a house.”
“Not a problem. Once you’re done with training camp, we can find houses for you to look at. We didn’t want to make that decision for you.”
“I’ll need a big backyard with a fence so Butch can run free.” He stretches his arm and the scent of his woodsy cologne sets something loose within me. Some primal need dormant too long.
But giving in to that hunger is not an option. I have to do something fast. “Would you like me to stop so you can stretch your legs?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
That makes one of us. Better focus on something else. Quick. “About Butch. Some jurisdictions prohibit pit bulls. North Chicago being one.”
His head swivels toward me. “That’s bullshit. Butch’s perfectly well-behaved. He’s never even thought about biting anyone.”
“You’re a responsible pet owner. Other pit bull owners are not. Some people breed them to be aggressive. But don’t worry; lots of communities allow them. We’ll help you find a place.”
“I’ll need a big house.”
“For Butch?”
“For parties.”
I glare at him. “No parties. No free-flowing fountains of alcohol. And definitely no photos of skimpily clad women in your bed.” Last year, salacious images had hit the internet of aménage a quattre—Brock and three sex partners—on a huge mattress fitted with red silk sheets. He’d laughed it off at the time. But more than likely, that had been the main reason he’d been traded away by the owner of the San Diego Missionaries.
He leans over to whisper in my ear. “Can I help it if the ladies want a piece of me?”
Every cell in my body comes to life, but I’ll be damned if I let him know it, cocky bastard that he is. “Honestly, Brock. You’re not seventeen anymore. You’re thirty years old. You have maybe five good years left in your career. Do you really want to be remembered as a player who can’t keep it in his pants? Or as NFL glory?”
He shifts to his side of the car, and the temperature inside the car plummets to a deep freeze.
God. Marty may have asked me to remind him of the rules, but do I have to act like such a bitch? “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You’re right.”
“Then why—Never mind.” Better quit while I’m ahead. Except I can’t. He has to understand how easily he could lose it all. And this time, it might be for good. “Have you met Oliver Lyons?”
“The owner of the Outlaws? No. Not yet.”
I need to be tactful and not lash out at him. So, I have to be careful of what I say. “He hates scandals. It’s rooted in his personal history. Something happened that caused a lot of bad blood in his family. That’s why he can’t stand notoriety, especially the kind that shines a bad light on his team. Don’t give him a reason to call you out. You might not like where you end up.”
For a second, his jaw juts once more. But then it settles down. “Understood.”
I take the off-ramp while he stares out the window in stone-cold silence. Well, at least it stopped his charm offensive. Last time he did that, it almost derailed my life.
The car’s guidance system announces a turn into the Outlaws’ training camp compound. Good. Last thing I want is to dwell on my past. Something I’m finding hard to avoid. Brock’s nearness has awakened deep memories I’d thought long dead and buried.
Once we’re through security, I park in a visitor’s spot and pop open the trunk so he can retrieve his things.
Trying hard not to tremble, I hand him my business card. “My number. In case you need to reach me. Is there anything you want me to do while you’re here?”
“Yeah.” When he heaves his duffel bag over one shoulder and the bicep on his arm bulks, I forget to breathe. I knew he’d have this effect on me, and yet I agreed to drive him to camp anyway.
“Check on Butch. Let me know he’s all right.” Sadly, he’s all business now.
I curse myself for missing his easy charm, his sexy smile. When will I learn? “Will do.”
He walks away without saying another word. But then, there’s really nothing more to say.
