Beauty and the Blitz (10 page)

S
weat stung my eyes
. My legs and back
ached
. My body pumped on pure adrenaline.

It was fourth and goal with three seconds remaining. We held the lead, but only by four points.

The Gainsville Cougars’ offense lined up to take their final snap. They needed a touchdown for the win.

I’d never let it happen.

I lived for this moment. The tension. The roar of the crowd cheering on their home team. I always played better with my back to a wall—or, in this case, the goal line.

I got into position, my vision dead-set on the quarterback sitting under his center.

His eyes passed over me.
Twice
. Checking for a blitz. It was coming. He barked a hard cadence to draw me offside, but it took more than a cheap trick to burn me. But the seconds on the play clock ticked down, and no audible would save him.

I’d deliver his complete and utter destruction.

The ball snapped.

I anticipated the count correctly and bounded to my feet, plowing through the line before the offense was ready. I battled an offensive guard, too slow, too tired to beat me. He held me, but I twisted under his arms and broke free.

The quarterback saw me, but it was too late. He reared back to throw but didn’t have an opening. He panicked and spun, but he wasn’t scrambling anywhere.

I dove before he found a lane, wrapping him in my arms and slamming him into the grass. The ball popped out. One of my teammates recovered the fumble and fell onto the field.

The whistles blew. The play was dead, and the game over.

Or it
should
have ended.

I didn’t get a chance to celebrate. The quarterback shoved his fat hands against my facemask and jerked, nearly ripping my head off.

I heard nothing over the roar of blood in my ears. I blinked, but the white-hot fury blinded me to everything but pure self-preservation. I blocked his hands before he broke my neck. Unfortunately, my forearm clocked his helmet.

The crowd
cheered
.

Shit
.

A yellow flag dropped at my side.

Jesus Christ. The referees thought brushing his helmet was a penalty? If they wanted a reason to throw the flag, I’d give them a bloody one.

My teammates hauled me off the bastard before I roared and tore him limb from limb. The asshole grinned at me as the referees lined up to make the call.

“
Unnecessary roughness on the defense, number ninety-two
—”

I shouted, but my team forced me to the sidelines. Bullshit penalty.
I
was the one who got hit. I was trying to defend myself!

“Locker room!” Coach Scott whipped his headset off. “Get off the field before you get ejected!”

Not like it mattered. The penalty occurred after time expired. Because of me, the offense was given one more snap. I didn’t watch the play.

The stadium erupted in frantic cheers as the Cougars scored their winning touchdown.

I headed to the locker room, swearing as a fan chucked his beer at my head from the stands.

And the coaching staff told
me
to
calm down.

What the hell was I supposed to do? Count heartbeats? Repeat a relaxing word? I had a pint of cheap beer dripping over my face and a shit call blamed on me that led to our defeat.

Nothing
could ease this rage.

Tim Morgan was the first in the locker room. He sneered at me, pitching his helmet and pads into the laundry cart.

“You had one job,” he said. “Do we have to fit you for a fucking muzzle?”

He didn’t want to fuck with me. “Stay out of my face, Tim.”

“I can throw the damn touchdowns all day, but I need some control over this shitty ass defense to get a win for this team!”

Our tight-end, Javon, stepped between us. He pointed me to the showers.

“Tim, shut the fuck up. Cole, get in the water,” he said. “Game’s done. Can’t do anything about it now. Let it go.”

Easier said than done. We only had an hour to shower and conduct interviews. I refused each one and was the first man on the bus heading back to the airport.

I wore my headphones and cranked pure static—just mindless white noise. It usually silenced everyone and everything and let me
exist
without that constant emotional bombardment.

Not today.

Every bump in the road, every profanity, every moment of sullen silence from the team was a frustration that suffocated me in blinding anger. I listened to the radio instead, hoping for
something
that would distract me.

Instead, Ainsley Ruport sang on Sports Nation Radio like the puffed, little canary he was. The turn of events tonight thrilled him, as if a blown call was all the evidence he needed to urge the league for my expulsion.

“
Hawthorne consistently displays terrible judgment. This isn’t his first unnecessary roughness call, and it won’t be his last.”
Ainsley’s chortled voice disgusted me, thick with the saliva of a man too fat and excited to bother swallowing. “
The league had better deal with his behavior soon, and the Monarchs need to find a solid replacement. Too many games are decided by Hawthorne’s temper—”

I didn’t realize how hard I gripped my phone. The case splintered from the screen and the sound cut out. Broken.

Fuck me.

It took two hours to get to the airport and on the plane, and another two and a half hours in flight before we made it home. It should have been enough time to ease my spiking blood pressure. Instead, I ached more than ever.

I wished for a shot of whiskey, something to eat, and some sleep. Not that it’d be restful. My body hurt too much from the game, and I couldn’t focus on anything but the few mistakes I made on the field. It’d be a rough night.

Especially since this time…I wasn’t returning to an empty mansion.

Inviting Piper to stay with me was a fucking stupid idea, but it was my fault she got fired. I didn’t do apologies—I took action. I promised her I’d fix it, and I did. New job. New home. The movers sent most of her shit over, but she waited for the baby-proofing before moving in. I left her to deal with it. She texted me Saturday night and said it was done.

And she included a winky-face emoji.

I had no fucking clue what that meant, but I probably should have slept in the car, especially after the rotten fucking game poisoned my mind.

I headed into the house. Made it five steps before I collided with a thigh-high gate. It gave before I did and crashed to the ground, but I was tangled in the wood frame and plastic mesh. I stumbled, striking the floor and accidentally jamming the gate into every sore spot on my body.

“What the fuck?”

I tossed the reinforced plastic fence away from me, swearing again as it pinched my finger just above the nail. Nothing like a jarring slam onto hardwood to wake a motherfucker up.

I had collided with a baby gate. That made sense. But how the hell was I supposed to put it back?

I set it against the stairwell. The damn thing was spring loaded or something—too loose to fit into the stairs when I squeezed it, too big to fit into place. I considered ignoring it, but the last thing I wanted was the kid to use it as a toboggan into the garage.

“How the hell…”

I flipped on the light. Was it upside down? Jesus Christ, I was too exhausted to figure it out.

Fuck it.

I slammed the gate into the hallway, gouging a deep scratch into my drywall. The crash echoed through the house, and the plastic groaned, but it locked in place.
Nothing
would remove it from the goddamned hallway. I ignored the four-inch gap over the floor. The gate was about to pop, and I wasn’t fiddling with it anymore. Unless Piper’s baby was part octopus, she wasn’t squeezing through the hole.

I tripped over a second gate by the entry to the kitchen. Christ, were we keeping Rose in or a goddamned velociraptor out?

This gate stayed upright. I dropped my duffle bag by the kitchen island and headed for the fridge. I needed a stronger drink than what I kept up here, but my legs ached too much from the game and Piper’s Alcatraz set-up to get to the bar in the basement.

I tugged on the fridge’s door.

Nothing
. The door stuck.

I yanked again.

The door didn’t move but the entire fucking refrigerator shimmied, teetered, and nearly rocked over on me. I shouted and braced myself, catching the fridge before it tipped. I slammed it back in place as my heart wrenched out of my chest.

What in the ever-loving fuck was happening here?

Some goddamned voodoo locked the door to my fridge, and it Indiana Jones boulder style
rolled
when I tried to open it.

A lock was tethered to the frame. Was that supposed to keep a kid out? Sure, it prevented little baby Rose from opening the door and getting into the roast for dinner, but who the fuck were they protecting when they turned the appliance into some Acme-grade Wile E. Coyote
deadfall
trap?

Great. The
baby
was safe, but the linebacker was nearly a pancake. The house wasn’t baby-proofed. It was booby-trapped.

That devious, conniving woman.

I knew Piper accepted the invitation a little too easily. She was salty enough about getting fired.
This
was her revenge. Spontaneous snares set around the house to inconvenience me. Gates in the hallway. Locks on the fridge. I’d probably find a bear traps in my bed.

Fine. I didn’t need a beer. I aimed for the cabinet housing my cups instead.

I tugged on the door.

Nothing.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

How in the ever-loving fuck did she manage to seal
every one of my cabinets
? I went down the line of cabinets, tugging on the tops, the bottoms, even the little ones over the stove.

Was she a mother or a magician? What sort of curse did she cast while I was gone?

“Need some help?”

I turned, fuming. Piper grinned, all cozy in a pink pajama set with a mug of cocoa snuggled in her hands.

“Hiya, roomie,” she said.

I growled and pointed to my kitchen. “What did you do?”

“The baby-proofing is all in place. Want me to show you how it works?”

“No. I want you to take it off my fucking things!”

“You said to baby-proof the mansion. I couldn’t have Rosie running around such a big house without any precautions.”

She claimed one of the island’s stools and set her baby monitor on the counter. Was it like a two-way radio? Couldn’t risk swearing. I bit down on my tongue. Better to bite it off than to subliminally corrupt the kid.

“I can help…if you ask nicely.” Piper enjoyed this too much. “I know cabinets can be tricky.”

“You…you locked everything up.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

“Am I being punished?”

“The bill is on the sink.”

“Do I even want to look?”

“The company said it was a
delight
to work here.” Piper smiled. “Said he could put his son through college on it.”

Fantastic. Was this what happened to all good guys when they tried to help?

Screw it, I was sticking to villainy from now on. It’d save me a couple grand and cause a lot less stress.

I had no way to get a damn drink of water, but I wasn’t playing into Piper’s hands. Screw the glasses and cups. I angled the sprayer on the sink and flipped on the water.

Close enough.

Piper wove some sort of plastic device in front of the cabinet door. It opened, and she showed me the locking contraption drilled into my beautiful, custom made cherry cabinets.

“It’s a mag-lock.” She winked. “Gotta have the magnetic key to open it.”

Magnets
? Holy shit, I had a safe in the basement that was now less protected than my
cutlery
drawer.

I said nothing and headed to the nearest bathroom. Life wasn’t looking any better in there.

I nearly cracked the toilet lid before I spotted the plastic lock preventing me from getting
anything
done. I kicked it. It was solid.

What kind of baby-proofing company reinforced
their product so strongly a
linebacker
couldn’t even piss in his own house?

I could go hungry. I could go thirsty. But I wasn’t pissing in my own damn sink.

Piper looked up from her phone as I slammed the bathroom door shut behind me. “Oh, I should have mentioned that. There’s a little button you push…”

“No.” I pointed a rage-trembling finger at her. “No. No buttons. No locks.
No one
takes a man’s bathroom away from him. I’m not religious, but even I recognize
blasphemy
when I see it.”

“Sorry to have…dethroned you.”

This woman. She loved every second of my torment.

I groaned. “Are they all like that?”

“They had a BOGO deal.”

“Great. So I’ll see the charges on
your
credit card bill?”

Piper hummed. “I
would
have paid for it, but you got me fired…”

Touché
.

I stormed to the door.

“Where are you going?” Piper asked.

“Outside.”

“Why?”

“Fucking
guess
.”

I stomped to my garden and picked a leafy and unassuming bush. Somehow, pissing alone in the dark, quiet, and outdoors was the best goddamned part of my day.

I felt better after, but my hands still shook. Angry. Exhausted. Frustrated.

The night air used to soothe me. Not now. Not for a while. It never used to be this hard to recover from a game and calm my temper.

It wasn’t safe to take the game home with me, to treat it like a life instead of a job, but the worst parts of me bled into the best with each and every bruise, scrape, and tackle on the field.

The delineation between Cole Hawthorne and
The Beast
faded. The rage was dangerous enough on the field. I never wanted it in my home.

But how was I supposed to get rid of it?

I headed inside only once my head pounded with fatigue. Piper stopped me before I climbed the stairs for bed.

“Here.”

She handed me a bottle of water and served a ham and cheese sandwich on a plate with a tiny handful of potato chips. I could go through and entire bag when I hankered for something with a crunch. Ten little chips was a joke.