11. Jase

Lucas glares at me, so heated right now, like the blood in his veins is at the boiling point and ready to spew out of him like scorching hot lava. His eyes are fiery green flames, his lips red from being pressed together so tightly.

He's completely strung out and ready to erupt.

I did that.

At least I know that I'm a damn good actor. Maybe that should be my fallback if this football thing doesn't work out. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Hoffman and his son staring daggers at me from across the hallway.

That time might come sooner than I thought.

I use the asshat fa?ade to keep people at arm's length, and it looks like it's finally worked on Bentley. It took a little time because he's been so damn intent to see what lies beyond the smart-ass jock exterior. But I think I've just sealed the deal.

He hates me.

Good.

Sometimes I hate me, too.

"Why couldn't you just apologize?"

I shrug. "Look, I acknowledged what I did was bad. I wasn't gonna throw myself to the wolves, though. I was honest, they weren't. And not for nothing, but those schmucks didn't say they were sorry. They're the ones who started shit. Ignorant jerkoffs who think they can say whatever they want, whenever they want without consequences. Fuck that. I gave them consequences."

My arm picks that time to thrum with pain. I wince and hold it against me.

Lucas furrows his brow. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you holding your arm?"

"I said it's nothing." I grit my teeth, the throbbing so intense I want to scream. Fuck me, is this karma?

"Did you ever go to the hospital to get it checked out after you got hit with the bat?"

I roll my eyes. Why does he have to be so doting? I just shut him down and here he is again, all concerned that I'm a sinking ship, a one-man show of destruction and utter devastation.

"I didn't go. I went home and iced it. I'm not some pussy. I can handle a little bit of pain."

"Let me see it."

"Are you fucking kidding? I'm not showing it to you, especially with all these people around."

"Why?" He leans closer, his eyes taunting me. "Because you're afraid it'll make you look weak?"

My nostrils flare. "Get the fuck away from me before I smash your face in with my good hand."

"Ah, so you're thinking another display of violence is a smart move right now?" Lucas lets out a snort and folds his thick arms over his chest. I try to keep my eyes on his face, but they insist on sneaking a peek of his godlike body wrapped in steel-gray Armani.

My mind trips back to the other night, the way his body pressed against me. He used the excuse of protection, but at that second, I didn't give a damn what the excuse was. I just wanted to feel his warmth and admitting that to myself was probably the hardest thing I've ever done. I've been a liar for most of my life, but after that kiss, there was no way I could deny the fact that I'm completely taken by Lucas Bentley.

A small part of me hoped that my bullshit statement would force me into a rabbit hole of my own, away from him since being around him hurts way worse than this fucking arm pain.

Because I can never have him the way I desperately want him.

My secret is too deep, too dangerous to let out. It threatens everything and needs to stay buried.

Problem is, when he's around, too many emotions flare up, corrupting my mind and heart. I've been able to squelch attraction over the years by fucking hot women and fantasizing about the guys I'd rather be on top of. But Lucas is persistent and fucking perceptive as all hell. He sees something, and I'm convinced that's why he won't leave me alone.

I can't let him get too close or he'll strip me of my secret.

And then I'm afraid I'll let him strip me of everything else.

"I'm thinking that you just don't know when to quit. So maybe I need to teach you that lesson."

"I get paid a lot of money to never quit." A smile plays at his lips. "So do you, but clearly, you don't know how to deliver."

I don't get this guy. He comes over here, all pissed off that I screwed up the statement and worried about the impact on him. Now he's flirting with me? After I basically told him to fuck off?

Can't he see the flashing red sign on my forehead?

And why the fuck does he think I need saving?

I'm fine on my own, dammit.

But I don't get a chance to respond to his comment. The groan slips from my mouth when Trevor stalks over to us. Lucas turns, his eyes widening. He steps backward, toward me, obviously on the defensive.

Not a shocker. Trevor is a total cocksucker—literally and figuratively.

He gives Lucas a long, appraising look that makes my skin crawl, then turns his attention in my direction.

"Did you really think that was a smart move, Maxwell?" Trevor hisses. "Do you know what I could do to your career… what I will do if you forget your place again?"

Oh, fuck. That smug look definitely needs to be knocked off his clean-shaven face. Sniveling piece of shit. He walks around here like he owns the fucking world when everyone knows he couldn't hack it at Princeton and came home so his dad could groom him to take over the team once he retires in like, I don't know, thirty years. It's a fucking joke, and Hoffman puts him on special assignment like this one to keep him busy but still relevant.

I guess the relevant thing is relative, though. Nobody around here wants to be bothered with him and his entitled prick ass.

"Last I heard, my place was on the field, making a shit ton of money because I have a skill that people pay a lot for."

It's a stupid move, speaking out against this guy, but I can't help it. I know my play has been crap lately, but I'm still one of the best tackles in the league. And I also know the beatdown won't be the end of me. Hell, guys get away with a hell of a lot more, way worse stuff, and they're still hailed as football gods.

My leg injury, on the other hand? That can fuck me hard.

"If you want to stay on the payroll, you'd better do as you're told. Nobody is going to stand for your arrogance, do you get that? There are plenty of other good tackles out there whom we can draft. And so we're clear, that's not a threat. It's a guarantee. We don't need you, and if you push us, we will kick your ass to the curb."

"I didn't realize Daddy gave you hiring and firing power, Trevor." I smirk. "I thought you were just his pretty little assistant."

I know I'm getting myself deeper and deeper into trouble, but I can't resist the look of shock on Trevor's fake-tanned face. He talks about my arrogance but the air of pomposity around him is so thick, it can choke an entire building full of people.

"If you want to secure your spot, then you will do exactly as you're instructed. You only get one more chance." He turns a different gaze on Lucas, and I don't miss the flash of regret in Lucas's eyes or the stiffening of his spine. "Rex and Greg will be in touch with the details. Take every opportunity to keep your spot. Every single one." The corners of his lips curl upward. "Or you know what'll go into my report."

Lucas's jaw tightens. "We'll be where we need to be." His voice is tight, strained like his throat is being clutched.

Why the fuck does he give a shit about this guy? He's a glorified pencil pusher in BOSS Black.

Trevor lances me with a final glare. "Tomorrow."

I decide to keep my mouth shut this time because I just want him to leave so I can get the hell out of here. Antagonizing him is only going to keep him—and me—here longer.

"Come on," Lucas mutters. "Let's go to the hospital and get that arm checked out before any of those press vultures swoop down on us."

"Why are we going to the hospital? It's lunchtime."

"It's almost four o'clock. When the hell is dinnertime?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Six? Lunch stretches out for a while."

"Do you just eat all day?"

"Pretty much. You don't?"

"I try to keep my meals spaced apart."

I crack a smile. "Lemme guess. You're a grilled chicken, lettuce, and bean sprout kinda guy, yeah?"

Tiny spots of color splash into his cheeks. "I work with a nutritionist but yeah, I keep it clean."

"Always?"

Uh-oh. That just slipped out. Kind of.

His eyes darken to a deep green. "Mostly. But you've made it clear that you don't want to hear about that stuff."

"I don't."

"Many a true word are spoken in jest."

I shake my head. "No clue what the hell that means."

He closes the space between us, his voice dropping to a husky tone that deliciously grates against my skin. "Bullshit. You're part-Neanderthal, but I know you know exactly what it means."

I can't help the chuckle that slips from my lips. "I'm going to get a burger. Maybe two. Nice and dirty."

"After the hospital."

"I don't want to go."

"Are you six, for fuck's sake? What if it's a fracture?"

"Why do you even care? Save yourself, Bentley. I'm good."

I ignore his stricken look, push back my hair, and turn away from him. There's an empty corridor to my right so I duck around the corner and walk quickly before I'm spotted by anyone stupid enough to look for another statement. I pull open the door to a nearby stairwell and jog down to the main level of the stadium.

I manage to escape the people hanging around outside by heading out through a private doorway. But because I parked on the opposite side of the building, I have to walk in a circle to get to my car. Squaring my shoulders, I begin the long trek around the stadium.

The sun beats bright on my face, a wicked chill in the air. I didn't bother with a coat even though it's January in Ohio. Sometimes the frigid cold is a good distraction because it freezes out my brain and the frenzied thoughts that usually bang around like a fierce game of pinball.

"Jase!"

I stop short. Sounds like a kid.

Turning to my left, I see a little boy, probably around ten, standing with a man who looks exactly like him but older. The kid holds a poster with my name in orange and black glitter, my number, and my picture on it.

The dad holds up his hand in a tentative wave. The boy jumps up and down, the snowball on the top of his orange and black hat bouncing with excitement.

I walk toward them and smile down at the boy. "Hey, how's it going? You waiting here for someone?"

The boy laughs. "Yes, you! We read in the paper that you'd be here today."

"So, you did all this for me? You waited out here in the freezing cold?" I tap a finger to my chin. "Am I that worth it?"

The dad laughs as his son nods furiously. "We've been here awhile, hoping you'd show up."

"You're lucky because if I went out the right way, I'd be on the other side of the building."

"Can you sign my football?" the kid asks. I can't help the grin from spreading across my face. His face is bright red, his dark eyes open wide like he's in shock that this is his reality right now.

"You bet." I pull the cap off the black Sharpie he hands me and scribble my name on it.

"You're my favorite player. I don't believe you did anything wrong. If you hit that guy, it was because he did something wrong."

I laugh. "I wish you were a little older. I'd hire you to be my spokesperson."

"Yeah, with the suspension, you're kind of messing up my fantasy team," the dad says with a snicker.

"Sorry about that." I cap the marker and hand it back to the kid.

"Things will blow over," the dad says. "Your core fans will always stand behind you. And this guy will be first in line."

"That means a lot to me." And I'm not lying. It really does. Fans like this kid remind me of myself when I was his age, how I ate, slept, and breathed football. How much I'd defend my favorite players even if they slumped. How I'd have done anything to come face-to-face with them and get an autograph.

"What's your name?"

"It's Josh Everett." The kid's smile makes my heart warm, even in this bitter cold.

"Nice to meet ya, Josh Everett." I flick the snowball on the top of his winter hat, then take out a business card from my pocket before handing it to the dad.

"This is my agent's name and number. You ever want to come to a game, I'll make sure you get in, and then I can introduce you to some guys on the team. Would you like that?"

The kid's face might just crack from the huge smile that spreads across it. "Thank you so much! You're the best, Jase!"

I wave as they walk back toward the front parking lot. The smile stays in place when I turn to head in the opposite direction… and when I see Lucas standing on the path, disbelief etched into his expression.

"I'll be damned. Your face isn't a permanent scowl." He takes a few steps toward me, gold flecks in his light-brown hair glinting in the afternoon sunlight. His eyes look like molten emeralds in the daylight, deep enough to swallow me whole. "And you're not the raging dickhead you pretend to be."

My breath hitches. He's close enough that the spicy scent of his cologne wafts under my nose, inspiring very bad thoughts… thoughts that have been choking my conscious and unconscious mind over the last few months.

Lucas stops when he's right in front of me, his forehead practically pressed to mine. "So why the hell do you keep trying to convince people you are? What are you so afraid that they'll see?"