Chapter Six

T read softly. Cutter wanted to do exactly that. It wasn’t easy, though, because at the same time, he wanted to confront Rye. He wanted to confront him with his suspicions that the kicker’s amazing, supermodel fiancée, the one he trotted out as an example of his perfect life, was abusing him.

Better yet, Cutter wanted to confront Rye about the way the football God’s body responded to his touch the way it did. Because Cutter knew he hadn’t imagined that. No way, now how. That was real. It seemed the sexy kicker might be keeping not just one deep, dark secret, but two.

“You should have brought a date,” Leticia said as Cutter eased his car to a stop in the driveway of their parents’ modest house. “Even if it was a fake one.”

“Shut up,” he muttered as he turned off the engine, already regretting that he’d offered to drive his sister and her boyfriend to the party. “I’m not doing fake dates right now.” He opened the car door.

“Or real ones, obviously.”

“Nope. Not right now,” Cutter said. “And I’m good with that.”

“I don’t believe you.” Leticia looked at him. “You know what I said.”

“Yep.” He rang the doorbell. It might be his parents’ house, but that didn’t mean he would barge on in. “When it’s time, it’ll be time. Now is not time.”

Right then, Mami pulled the door open. “Not time for what? And since when do you have to ring the doorbell at your home, Caesar?”

As usual, her timing was perfect. Or perfectly awkward. “I don’t live here anymore,” he said. “And it’s not time for anything other than wishing my favorite abuela a happy birthday.” Cutter pulled his mother into an embrace. “I love you, Mami, but where’s the birthday girl?”

His sister’s gaze met his over their mother’s shoulder, and Cutter could see Leticia mouthing the words, ‘Nice recovery. Smooth.’

He winked at her as the star of the show, eighty-five-year-old Maria Espinoza Gonzalez appeared in the entryway, maneuvering her walker as fast as she could.

“I’m here. Moving as fast as my old legs will allow.”

“Oh, you’re not old, abuela ,” Leticia said.

“You sweet talk your old grandmother. I like it,” she said, “and who is the young man?”

“This is my boyfriend, Esteban,” Leticia said, blushing a little.

It was good that they all arrived together, Cutter decided. Less attention on him.

“Esteban Cardoso.” He extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Leti has told me so much about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Maria said, eliciting laughter from the group.

“Definitely,” Esteban said. “I doubt there’s anything bad she could say.”

“Ah, you’re a smooth one,” Mami said. “I’m Juanita Hernandez, Leticia’s mother.”

“Another pleasure,” Esteban said. “Thank you for having me in your home.”

“We’re all excited. Leticia doesn’t often bring dates home,” Mami said. “And Caesar never does,” she added, with a look in his direction.

Gee, thanks, Mami . “There’s no one to bring home,” he said. “I don’t have time to date right now. Work keeps me too busy.” Along with fantasizing about the players I treat.

“You can’t work all the time, Caesar,” Mami said.

“Listen to your mother,” Maria said. “You need to find a woman and settle down. I’m not going to live forever, and I want great grandchildren.” She looked to Leticia. “That goes for you, too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, abuela . Thanks.” Leticia looked over their petite grandmother’s head at Cutter and rolled her eyes.

Cutter stifled a groan and nodded. It was going to be a long night of prying questions from his family, but he could handle it. After all, abuela only turned eighty-five once.

~&~

Rye drove around aimlessly after he left the training facility, again in no hurry to get home. Once upon a time, he’d rushed home after practice, anxious to be with Kristen. Where had things gone so wrong that now he sought to avoid her?

The drugs were part of it, obviously, but not the only thing. Sure, it was the drugs that turned Kristen into a person he barely recognized and didn’t like very much, but there was more to it than that. Even if she went to rehab, actually investing in and completing it this time, and got sober, Rye questioned whether the relationship could be repaired. There was a part of him that still loved her, he didn’t doubt that. Sometimes love wasn’t enough, though, especially with the like gone, along with the trust and the security.

He knew a therapist would have a field day with him, if he ever went to therapy. He had no plans to do that, though. Why would he when he wasn’t sure he wanted to save the relationship in the first place?

Kristen’s Lexus SUV was in the garage when Rye got home, and he braced himself for what he might find. He just hoped to hell she was sober thus time, because if she wasn’t, he might have to leave until things calmed down a bit.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” he heard Kristen say as he came through the mudroom to the kitchen. “I just put dinner in the oven. I set it on low, because I wasn’t sure when you’d get home.”

“You’re cooking?” Rye looked at her with surprise. Sure enough, she was dressed in casual leggings and T-shirt, with an apron tied around her waist, and the countertop and sink were filled with dishes. “Since when does that happen these days?”

When she was younger, when they first lived together after college when he played for Los Angeles, Kristen used to cook quite a bit, and she wasn’t too bad at it. Granted, he’d been a rookie kicker playing for the league minimum, and Kristen’s modeling career hadn’t taken off. They didn’t have the money to go out every night, much less hire personal cooks. “What about Graciela?” he asked, referring to the lady who came on Mondays and prepared meals for them for the week.

“I gave her the day off,” Kristen said. “I might give her tomorrow off, too. If I don’t have jobs to go to, I can handle some basic meal prep. I used to do it all the time, you know.”

“You did, yes, and it was great,” Rye assured her. “That’s fine, and I’m sure Graciela will welcome a couple days off.”

“I thought we could benefit from some time alone,” Kristen said. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

Rye saw that there was a bottle of Tempranillo on the counter. It didn’t appear to have been opened, and he saw only one glass beside it.

“I’ll stick to water,” Kristen said, noticing that he looked in the direction of the glass. “And I promise I haven’t used today.”

“I believe you.” Her eyes appeared normal, and her mood was, well, almost pleasant. Almost like the old Kristen. “I’ll open the wine,” he said, getting the corkscrew out of the drawer, “and I don’t mind if you have a glass.”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s when you mix alcohol with the drugs that I worry. That’s a good way to kill yourself, Kris, and I’m not going to sit around and watch that happen.”

“I know. I won’t do that anymore.” She got another wine glass from the cabinet, and he poured.

“Did you look into rehab today?”

A flicker of hesitation flashed in her eyes, and knew the answer was ‘no.’ The question was whether she’d lie or tell him the truth.

After a second, Kristen shook her head. “Not yet. I didn’t get the chance. I will tomorrow, though.”

Tomorrow. Rye didn’t entirely believe her, but at the same time, at least she was being honest. No, he wouldn’t confront her about that now. “I hope so.” He raised the glass of wine to his lips and took a drink. “This is good,” he said. “What’s for dinner?”

“Eggplant parmesan.”

“Sounds delicious,” Rye said, meaning it.

“How’s your back feel today?” Kristen asked.

“It’ll be fine.”

“I’m so sorry about last night, baby. You know that, right?”

Rye nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” She put a hand on his chest and drew it down to his waistband. “Dinner’s going to take a while, if you want to go upstairs?” Her breath was hot against his as she lowered her hand over his crotch, stroking him through his clothes.

Nope. Nothing. Yet he’d been hard as a rock when Cutter touched him earlier. Jesus. What the hell was happening to him? “Sure. Let me just take a quick shower first.”