What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 8)

by Sabrina York

  “I have to play,” he said, not in any firm way. “I don’t know…anything else.”

  She understood that he meant it. But instead of arguing, she stayed quiet while he devoured a meal and sucked back a gallon of water. The words not good swirled around in her tired brain. Finally falling asleep in the recliner, she woke only when a nurse draped a blanket over her.

  The morning brought news she didn’t expect. The doctors declared that while Brody’s brain showed signs of significant trauma, it did not appear to be swelling at all. They had no explanation for his loss of consciousness but advised strongly against playing, taking any risk that he might jar his spine or neck or skull for the next…oh…year or so. He had burst out laughing, got out of bed, and asked for his clothes. Her heart sank but she handed him the jeans and shirt she’d brought and drove him home.

  “Coming up?” he asked mildly as she sat, the car still running, in the parking lot under his condo building.

  She glanced at him, her heart shredded by the whole thing, and her ingrained self-preservation tendencies kicking in, big time. “No.” She kept it light. “I have a doctor’s appointment in Ann Arbor tomorrow. So I’ll be late getting in. You should get a shower and get some rest.”

  Patting his arm, she tried hard not to put much behind the gesture. Despite her gut deep need to stay with him, there, anywhere, she forced a smile, gritting her teeth. He gave her an odd look then climbed out of her car and came around to the driver’s side window. Lowering it, she sighed at his handsome face. She loved him. She knew it. But the whole medical thing freaked her out. How could she love this man only to get bitch-slapped by karma, again?

  He touched a fingertip to her nose, and then walked to the elevator, leaving her to stew, steam, worry, fret, and freak out all in the space of about ten seconds. Throwing the car in reverse, she left. She did have an appointment, a routine check-up, and thought a night away from him might settle her nerves a little—until she got home and touched her face, surprised to find she’d been crying.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brody sat in the trainer’s room after his first practice back. The man worked his sore shoulder, chattering away about some BS gossip he barely heard. His fucking head hurt so badly, it consumed him, as if nothing in the world existed but pain. He literally, at that moment could see stars, stripes, birdies, and everything in between, like a cartoon character after getting whomped with an anvil.

  But he’d be fine. He had to be fine—had to play. They had their final stretch of fall season friendlies coming up and the team was on the verge of breaking through in a big way. As the only goalkeeper available, he simply had no choice. His innate competitiveness served him well. No one would replace him.

  He must have made a sound. The trainer stood in front of him as he tried to focus, and failed. Shit. He listed to the left and dropped onto the hard table. By the time the trainer had brought Metin running, he’d bounced back up, standing, stretching, and ignoring the way sounds became sort of echo-like between his ears. Fuck it. He just needed food and some painkillers.

  The coach had a vise grip on his arm, his dark face stuck up close to Brody’s. “Vaughn,” the man ground out, “you are not okay. I can tell. I have to call in a transfer.”

  “No.” He yanked out of Metin’s grasp. “I’m fine. Just want some food and…painkillers.” The trainer raised an eyebrow at the coach. Brody’s ears burned. “Cut the crap, you guys. I’m fine. No transfers,” he said to Metin. “I mean it. This is my goddamn spot. I earned it.”

  Metin nodded and walked out. Another goalie had been brought in, costing the club a fortune, during the spring-trade season. And that replacement asshole would not be getting anywhere near Brody’s goal, no fucking way. The room did a sudden alarming tilt, and he gripped the wall. He grimaced, thinking about Sophie, how much he needed her. But she’d been busy a lot lately, sorting out getting her stupid Dominatrix replacement or whatever, all the while ignoring the shit out of him. He didn’t get it, especially her we-don’t-argue-enough thing. What a crazy thing to claim. They were happy together. And he was within a hairsbreadth of asking her to marry him—something he never in a zillion years pictured doing with anyone.

  Her slow, determined thawing of his inner submissive helped him, brought out a side of him he never realized he possessed. They now embraced their mutual fetish without shame or fear. He’d even turned the tables on her once or twice, to their mutual satisfaction.

  No Dominant existed in their relationship. But things were capital H-O-T. Full of the kind of kinky bondage and ass-smacking they both appreciated without it going too far in either direction. He loved it. And her. So her current, chilly silence drove him insane, even though he was determined to respect it.

  He stumbled to his locker and then to the showers, the eerie echo of the sounds magnified by the large, tiled room. Nicco and Parker were talking to Metin when he emerged, the rest of the team having mostly faded after the arduous practice. The thump-thump of his heartbeat reverberated in his skull so loudly he had to sit and take long breaths to avoid throwing up. His mantra repeated in a loop: nausea? Not good. Constant headaches? Not good. Dizziness and echoes in your ears? Not good. Not good. Not. Fucking. Good.

  His phone screen showed a number of messages, texts, team updates, and other random shit. But nothing from Sophie. He drove home in a daze, determined not to call her. The way she forced him to be without her on occasion stood him in good stead. He didn’t like it but he humored her. He never tired of her company, but he had to face his own demons—the ones that made him antsy and unhappy when they were apart. He would stay with her as much as she allowed, and she’d stayed at his place a few times. But always withdrew to her private space, forcing him to cope with the fact that she had not left him. She just needed time alone.

  He parked, walked to the elevator, and hit the up button. There was no food in his fridge, and he should have stopped, but that would have taken way too much energy. Maybe he could scrounge something before sleeping, one thing he did a lot lately. He held onto the wall of the lift, ignoring the mantra.

  Opening his door, he dropped the keys on a side table and smelled the most glorious scent imaginable. His mouth immediately watered. As a professional athlete, he put away a lot of calories in a day. He required them to match his daily output of energy but seemed to have lost his taste for food since the last trip to the hospital, which really sucked because he loved to eat.

  “Hey,” he called out, relieved beyond measure that someone had thought to make dinner for him. At the sight of Sophie, dressed in dark jeans and a team-labeled sweatshirt, he smiled, stepped up to her, and picked her all the way up, kissing her the entire time.

  She spluttered and protested, “Get off me, I’m cooking.”

  “Cook later. Fuck now,” he declared, carrying her out of the kitchen, grunting like a caveman. He tossed her on the bed, yanked his and her clothes off, and fell on her, kissing, grasping, touching, stroking, and trying like hell to get his fill as if it were the last chance he had.

  “Whoa, baby, slow down,” she said at one point, until he grinned and dropped between her legs, using his lips and tongue to make her sing a different tune.

  Once she’d finished, he licked his way up her torso, hitting both lush, hard nipples, then nibbling her neck until he found her mouth.

  “Okay, you don’t have to slow down now.” And together they rocked in unison until the room filled with their mutual cries of satisfaction.

  “I love you, Sophie,” he said, remaining connected with her. “I want you to be with me…forever.”

  She stared hard at him, as if trying to sort out a puzzle, then kissed him lightly. “I know. I…I love you, too. But….”

  He sighed and rolled off her, resigned to wait it out as long as necessary. He’d said his piece. No more hiding for him. He knew what he wanted. She just had to admit it, too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sophie observed him as he ate, am
used and pleased by his boyish energy at the task. Her own head spun, her gut too topsy-turvy to even consider consuming food. How in god’s name had she landed here? With this incredible man—a near perfect combination of strong and weak, of commanding and vulnerable, with a mature self-awareness now after a few months with her.

  She sipped water, willing her face not to reveal her news. She still didn’t know how to process it. Figuring she’d been living with it for nearly two weeks, she could keep it to herself awhile longer. They chatted about the team. She filled him in on the good news that Frank had been sent to jail to await trial, unable to make the bail the judge set, thank god. All the while the Huge Unspoken Elephant in the Room sat on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

  “So,” she touched his arm as he sipped a beer and scanned the Internet for soccer news, “how are you guys handling your injury?”

  He glared at her. “I’m playing. You know that. What else is there to handle?”

  “It’s not safe, Robert.” She got to her feet, straddled his lap, loving the warmth of his torso. “You know that.” Kissing his forehead, running her palms across his broad shoulders, she. lifted his shirt, relishing the landscape of him. Amazed all over again that she had, right under her, this amazing man. “Please. Don’t take the chance.” She tried to pour all she had into the plea. To make him grasp how important it was, now, especially.

  Tell him. You owe it to him.

  “Listen.” He grasped her hips and stared straight into her soul. Her Brody. Her savior. Her project. Her man. “You don’t understand. It’s….” He looked up at the ceiling, but her ire rose, unstoppable, like an onrushing wind, filling her ears with noise. “Babe, I spent too many years of my life preparing for this, this moment, this fucking job. I’m not gonna throw it aside because I got bonked on the back of the head. I’m fine,” he insisted, running large, warm hands up her arms, to her neck and into her hair. He shot her a wicked grin at the distinct movement under his shorts beneath her. “I’m more than fine. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  Holding him close, and with her already enervated body on high alert, she kept the threatening tears at bay. He moved his shorts aside enough and again they were connected, the most beautiful moment ever. Groaning low in his throat, he brought her body to a pulsing response.

  “Brody,” she whispered. “I have to tell you something.” She dug her fingers into his bare shoulders, into the ink covering his biceps.

  “Mmmm hmmm…,” he muttered into her breasts. “Okay. Tell me.”

  She rose up slightly, then lowered down onto him, staring into his eyes, loving him more than she had ever imagined loving another human in her life. The chair moved across the kitchen floor as she changed her angle, wanting him deeper. The orgasm surprised her, blinding her. He grunted and tensed beneath her, his heat, inside and out, making her want to weep with pleasure and now, fear.

  This is not the time.

  Not until she sorted out how she felt about it first.

  He clutched her, his breathing calming. “You never told me….” Lifting his lips to hers, he kissed her, dizzying her. “What is it, Sophie Lynn? My love,” he murmured into her neck.

  “Nothing,” she released him and stood up. Fastening her robe, she cradled his rough cheek, memorizing his face. “I’ve got ice cream.”

  He smacked her ass as she walked away. “That’s my girl,” he said, grabbing his tablet computer again.

  Brody played three games with no incident. She observed from her perch in the executive suite, sipping water and glad-handing investors and fat cat corporate box owners. Trying not to hyperventilate every time a fast break headed toward the goal. The blogs had recently snagged a photo of them together at a nondescript Ann Arbor dive bar, kissing in a pretty obvious way. So they’d been outed. Now officially a G in the WAGs brigade, she didn’t mind as much as she thought she might. She had other, bigger issues to consider. She’d even gone to a very public event with him, officially, where there had been plenty of photos of them all dressed up and together as a couple.

  He stayed alone at his condo during long stretches of matches, and she respected his space. But by then, at the fourth game in six days on their home field, her loneliness and pent-up sexual energy had her beyond anxious. She bit her lip, watching the clock, willing it to hurry the fuck up and be over so he would be safe. The match had been a near blow-out for the Black Jacks, 4-0 at the seventieth minute. The teams were jostling a lot though, which worried her. She made small talk with some big shot auto guys, sipping her water some more and stressing.

  Ten weeks, Sophie, the doctor had said. You have to make the call soon. I won’t do it after twelve.

  She closed her eyes. She had zero pregnancy symptoms. No nausea, no dizziness or tiredness. Horny as hell, but that should be expected, considering she had not been around her man for over a week. She didn’t even want to admit the hard truth, spent hours each day in big-time denial. What did it matter? The fact remained that she, well into her forties, had no business whatsoever having a kid…his kid.

  Chancing a glance out onto the field, she touched the glass separating them from the general public at the sight of a fast break headed at full speed toward him. “Move. You idiot,” she whispered. “Oh, Brody, please.” She leaned in, willing the stubborn man to get the hell out of the way.

  The epic collision inside goal got replayed over and over on every sports channel the next day. Arms, cleated feet, knees, skulls collided. She couldn’t even tell who hit whom, and who went down. Until they all got up, including Brody. Blowing out a breath, she turned. Jack was there, smiling at her.

  “He’s fine, see?” He pointed as the object of their mutual interest kicked the ball he’d saved almost all the way into the opposing goal. “Nice pick, sister.”

  “Go to hell, Gordon,” she said, but couldn’t resist a huge grin.

  She met Brody afterward, waiting at his car, fiddling with her smart phone. The third woman she’d interviewed to be the new, improved, and non-pregnant Madame Katrina seemed very promising. She had a trial run that night with a new client. Lance sent her encouraging updates via text. Brody snuck up on her as she paced around, having her text chat with her business partner.

  “Put the phone away. I require your undivided attention.” His low voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Goddamn, I am horny,” he said, burying his nose in her neck. The words, ten weeks, rolled around in her brain.

  “Okay, I can accommodate the superstar goalie, I suppose.”

  He gripped her ass, pressing an unmistakable erection into her hip her, and she had a strange urge to giggle. “Feels like a play night to me,” she said, almost breathless with anticipation already.

  “Yeah, I’m thinking so….” Opening her door, he helped her in, and got behind the wheel. Then he sat a minute, staring out the windshield. Busy putting her phone in her purse and buckling her seatbelt, Sophie finally figured out he hadn’t moved for several seconds.

  “You okay?” She put a hand on his arm, a small lick of panic tickling her nerves.

  He shook his head, seemed to snap out of his trance, then blinked at her. “Sorry.” he said, wiping his face. “Zoned out a second. I’m all about getting home now. Your place or mine?”

  She leaned into him and put her palm on his zipper. “Your call, stud, but I’m guessing the closer the better.” She kissed his neck. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Condo it is,” he claimed, still grinning. Her heart turned over, realizing this as her moment, when she finally owned her happiness.

  He drove in silence. When they pulled into his underground parking, she sensed something had gone horribly wrong as he parked and stared into the middle distance in silence. “Brody.” She shook him. “Honey. What is it?”

  His smile looked strange as he stumbled around to her side of the car. She got out and grabbed onto his arm.

  “Goddamn it, Robert, you are not right. Talk to me. Do you know where you are? What day is i
t? What’s your full name?” The concussion test questions fell from her lips, and he answered them correctly.

  They got in the elevator, hit his number, and she stared in horror as both his pupils dilated quickly. He put his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Her heart pounded as the lift rose, and she smacked the first floor button again, determined to get him back in the car and to the hospital.

  The doors opened, but he remained still, hanging onto the railing, his eyes wild and full of fear. “Sophie,” he whispered then slid to the floor.

  The room swam into view. Images crisscrossed his brain. Soccer balls. Teammates. Strange homes, indifferent, drunk parents, lonely nights spent scrounging for Campbell’s Soup dinners and doing homework alone. A set of handcuffs, and with it, pain so exquisite, he grunted and sat up.

  He struggled to stay seated, woozy and sick, weak in body and mind. Where in god’s name was he? Dear Christ, had he blown his knee out? He touched them both, reassured by the lack of bulkiness under the covers.

  “Thank god,” he muttered. He had to be able to play. All he could ever count on boiled down to one word—soccer. The field, the pitch, was the one place he was happy, needed, counted on, loved even, by various sets of coaches and teammates for his fierce dedication to the sport.

  His fingers met thick bandages when he touched them to his forehead. What the…? Why did his damn head feel like it weighed a thousand pounds? Groaning, he hit the nurse button. Where was everybody? He called out, or tried to, but his cracked and dry lips didn’t want to cooperate.

  “Hey, anybody…can I get some water over here,” he croaked, but it came out sounding drunk. His tongue filled his mouth like a dry cotton ball.

  A slow, rolling anger gained ground in his brain. It was a fury and frustration the likes of which he had never experienced…or had he? His skin was hot, and his eyes burned. Both of his hands were curled into tight fists. Shaking, he shifted his legs to the side of the bed. The dark room pissed him off. The lack of human response made it worse.