by Sosie Frost
Maybe I was dreaming. I plunked down on the couch.
“You picked Rose up?”
“Yeah.”
“Carried her downstairs.”
“That’s right.”
“Made her breakfast.”
“Yep.”
Rose held out her hand. “Nanner.”
“And you did all this so I could sleep in?”
Cole shrugged and sipped his cereal’s milk. “I gotta go to the practice facility soon, and I won’t come back before we head to the hotel. Figured I’d say goodbye to the meatball first.”
That was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. He’d only be gone one night. Even for home games, the team hunkered down in a hotel near the stadium. He decided to spend his few hours of free time entertaining Rose while she smeared bananas all over herself, the couch, and him.
“So…” I stared at him. “Did you want to have filthy, animal s-e-x now or when you return?”
“Keep your panties on.” He jerked a thumb toward Rose. “She needs her diaper changed. That’s your department.”
“All right. Just a blow j-o-b then.”
“Better be sloppy.”
“You got it.”
Cole finished his cereal and stood. He handed me a wrapped present he’d hidden behind the couch with a wink.
I rattled the gift. “Hmm…there’s nothing left for you to buy for the nursery…”
“Don’t test me.”
I opened the box. A toddler-sized Monarch jersey was folded neatly in the tissue paper.
“A baby number ninety-two!” I showed Rose the tiny Hawthorne jersey. She got excited when I did and clapped. Chunks of banana flew everywhere. “Aw, Rosie. You’ll just love to make this super sticky! Tell Cole thank you.”
Rose scrunched her nose. “Ank you.”
“Figured she could wear it tomorrow.” Cole pulled two tickets from his pocket. “I pulled some strings and got you and her a space in one of our VIP suites. It’s probably time my agent attends a home game.”
I had a hard enough time watching Cole risk life and limb on the TV. I’d be a basket case at the stadium. I took the tickets and slapped them against his chest.
“Thank you…but this means you better play good, Hawthorne.”
“I think I’ll impress you.”
“You always do.”
He kissed me, quick and promising. “Don’t get any more beautiful before I get back.”
“And if I do?”
“Don’t get any sassier either.”
“Or else?”
“Just wait until Daddy gets home.”
My heart fluttered a little too quickly. “I’ll see you Sunday night, trouble-maker.”
Cole waved to Rose and waited until she said buh-bye before leaving for the practice facility. That meant I had an entire Saturday to plan how best to bring a toddler to a stadium.
Fortunately, it also gave me time to suppress the panicky, exciting tingles that made it so hard to breathe around Cole.
I had no idea what I was doing—spending the night in his room, sleeping in his arms, waking every morning under him. It was dangerous. It was irresponsible.
It had been one of the greatest weeks of my life.
And Rose thought so too, as evidenced by the newest additions to her vocabulary.
“Fooball!” She giggled. “Momarch.”
Close enough. I prevented her from stuffing the rest of the banana into the couch cushions and picked her up for a diaper change. She grinned like a fool, pointing into the hall.
“Back!” She ordered.
Even my baby wanted Cole to return.
“We’re both in a lot of trouble,” I said. “I think we’re competing for the same guy.”
Rose winkled her nose and blew a raspberry.
“He’d probably pick you over me.” I kissed her cheek. “But you’ll let momma have him, right?”
She nodded. “White.”
At least I could fake her approval. In reality, I had no idea what I was supposed to do. A relationship with Cole Hawthorne was risky enough, but it was wrong to mess around while I raised a baby. It was even worse to get involved with my client.
It would have been nice if my head, heart, and womanly parts conference-called and sorted their out their issues. I couldn’t make the call without it being unanimous.
By Sunday, I was still fluttery, even more nervous as I prepped to hit the stadium. I applied a fresh coat of Monarch blue nail polish to my hands and toes and styled my hair into puffy pigtails to match Rose—much to her delight. I snapped a quick selfie with Rose in her jersey. I sent it to Cole though I didn’t expect a response.
Game days were…intense. And this match-up was a big one.
Monarchs versus Knights.
Not only was it a heated rivalry, the game was a playoff rematch from last season. Tensions were high, and the media fed off the drama like vultures. Just meant everyone would be watching.
And Cole would be raging.
The stadium’s parking lot buzzed with tail-gaters, and the sweet smoke of their grills wafted over the lot. Football I never understood, but I did love a hamburger and hotdog. Fortunately, the VIP booth promised its own food as well as champagne, priority seating, two flat screen TVs, and a glass enclosure so as not to be disturbed by the “fans.”
The booth seated twenty, but I wasn’t sure the Monarch’s upper management, the owner’s wife and grown children, and the few lucky player wives appreciated the appearance of a toddler. While the stadium filled with fans and rocked with music, the booth was soundproofed, ritzy, and decorated with very expensive white leathers and rugs.
No juice for Rose then.
No one took the seat closest to the glass—like they didn’t care about the happenings on the field. All the better for me, especially with perfect seats right on the fifty.
Rose and I sat, and the blonde in the designer dress nearest to me coo’ed over her. She offered Rose a carrot stick and ordered me an iced-tea from the passing waiter.
She shook my hand with a charming politeness. Refined, like she expected a dozen cameras and even more journalists to pop out from under the seat. What could make a woman so concerned about her image?
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Annie Morgan. Tim’s wife.”
Oh. Poor woman. I hoped my eyes hadn’t bugged out of my head.
I knew Tim’s reputation. Somehow he had fixed his image since their marriage and birth of their baby, but those in the trenches knew he whored around much quieter now.
I gave her a sheepish shrug as I shook her hand. “I’m Piper Madison. I’m Cole Hawthorne’s…” What the hell were we? “Agent.”
Annie knew. “Heard our boys had a tussle a few weeks ago.”
“Yeah…Cole has a bit of a temper.”
Annie sipped her tea and focused her attention on the field. “Tim probably deserved it.”
Ouch. I didn’t think it was trouble in paradise—I doubted either Tim or Annie were ever happy with their marriage. And it made sense. Tim used her to clean up his reputation, even had a baby to do it.
What sort of an idiot thought that idea would work?
Fortunately, the stadium roared, and a song blared over the stands. The floors and walls of the booth vibrated as the home crowd burst to their feet for player introductions.
The other dozen people in the box paid little attention to the field and merely popped a bottle of champagne right before kickoff. They didn’t cheer for their players, didn’t even get excited when the Monarchs were called individually.
I didn’t care. I was going to have fun. I held Rose up just as the announcer introduced the defensive captain. My stomach twisted in excited and nervous and proud knots.
“From Ohio State, number ninety-two, Cole Hawthorne!”
“There’s Cole!” I said. “Cheer for him!”
Rose didn’t have a clue, but she liked the excitement. She clapped her hands and laughed.
At least we
could have some fun.
Rose entertained herself by dancing to the music before the game started, and I gave her a one of the Monarchs’ towels to wave while I snapped another picture. She lost interest a few minutes later, but I’d planned ahead and packed some blocks in the diaper bag for her.
It was prudent. She was entirely too young to watch the game.
It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t going to be clean.
The kickoff ended with a penalty as two of the Monarchs rushed after three of the Knights. The personal foul call forced us into the shadow of our goal posts. We ran the ball once with no problem, but on second down, Tim dropped back to pass. Unfortunately, his chosen target was manhandled along the sideline. The ball whizzed by the receiver and the defender launched at his head. The receiver tumbled into the Monarchs’ bench
A fight almost broke out.
More penalties.
Tim couldn’t get a pass off on third down and flipped out on his way to the sidelines.
Annie rubbed her temples. “I’m going to need a stronger drink for this.”
So was I. After a punt, the defense took the field.
And I knew right away it was going to be a bad game.
The Knights boasted the league’s best rushing game, built around All-Star running-back Jude Owens. The Monarchs were regarded as having the strongest defense in the league, and Cole acted as the lynchpin. It was the showdown of showdowns, made worse because I actually liked Jude.
Jude had been Dad’s biggest client for the past seven years, and he was one of the few players who had always treated me with respect.
“Wow.” Annie sucked in a breath. “That offensive guard is holding Cole. Bad.”
“He won’t take it well,” I said.
“Never does.”
Couldn’t deny the truth. The referees weren’t calling the Knights’ offensive linemen for holding penalties, and they cheated by grabbing Cole, illegally using their hands to twist his jersey and haul him around. He broke through as best he could, but even he could only do so much.
By the end of the first half, Cole was enraged. He slammed his helmet against the bench, nearly cracking it as he paced the sidelines.
I couldn’t handle this. I envied Rose, bouncing around the booth and regaling Annie with her rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She had no idea the score was tied and the time ticked away.
The third quarter went a little better. The Knights had decent field position, but they hadn’t progressed far. Third down and long sent the stadium into a frenzy, and even Rose looked around with wide-eyes and hands over her ears.
Everyone in the stadium stood as the Monarchs mounted their defense. The Knights went into shotgun formation.
Cole rushed the line but immediately backed off. The quarterback pointed at him. My gaze darted between the live action on the field and our television feed.
Cole read the play. I could feel it.
The ball snapped, and he was off, switching lanes and breaking through the weak side of the line. The quarterback pitched the ball to Jude.
But Jude didn’t see Cole.
He tucked the ball. Took a step.
And Cole obliterated him in a single, gruesome hit.
Jude hit the ground. Limp.
The ball tumbled from his arms. Cole fell with Jude, driving him into the grass. The defense recovered the fumble, but the whistles blew, the referees rushed in, and the stadium went silent.
Jude Owens didn’t move.
Cole leapt to his feet amid the penalty flags. He wasn’t celebrating the hit. He shouted to the Knights’ sidelines for help.
“Oh no…” I whispered.
Rose looked at me, nibbled her cookie, and muttered with me. “Uh-oh.”
The teams scattered off the field as trainers from both teams rushed to Jude’s aid.
It took a full minute before he moved. Even then, the trainers didn’t let him sit up. They rushed a cart onto the field to help, but after a long, tense ten minutes, they called for an ambulance instead.
And Cole watched them work, kneeling on the sidelines. Alone.
Jude Owens was rushed off the field and taken to a hospital. I didn’t need to hear the penalty or watch as Cole was escorted to the tunnels.
His ejection from the game was the least of our worries.
After a hit like that, I had no idea how I’d defend Cole from getting expelled from the league.
18
Piper
“He’s out.”
Frank Bennett didn’t bother looking at Cole. He didn’t speak to him, and he didn’t care for anything he might have said.
The words reigned like a final decree, and the conference room silenced.
It was rare enough for Frank Bennett to venture outside of the New York league headquarters, but to come specifically to Atwood for a meeting with the Monarchs?
It meant he wanted Cole expelled from the game.
The table creaked as the Monarchs’ management shifted in their seats. I stared at my water bottle—thirsty, but not willing to take a drink. A drip of condensation rolled down the side.
At least it could sweat with no consequence. I wasn’t so lucky.
I prepared Cole as best I could, but facing the Monarchs’ staff, representatives from the league’s legal affair division and union, and Frank Bennett was beyond anything I had seen working for the agency. They dressed in suits, scowls, and were eager for the dirty business to be done.
I thought Frank Bennett would be the leader of the mob. If I had known the Monarchs would invite Jude Owens’s representation to the meeting, I’d have left Cole at home.
My father, Jude’s agent, glowered from the opposite end of the table.
First Cole had left the agency, hurting Dad’s wallet. But Jude was concussion-prone, and this last hit might have spelled the end of his career. In the span of a couple months, Dad had lost millions.
He wasn’t looking to play nice anymore.
Cole stayed mercifully silent, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating, any less problematic in the middle of the meeting. He seethed, breathing with a fierce hiss and threatening grumble.
Only five minutes had passed, and already the discussion was a disaster.
“We’ve endured too much of Hawthorne’s behavior,” Frank Bennett said. He was even more repulsive in person. He sneered at Cole with fat lips, just as greasy as whatever gel he coated in his silver hair. “The league’s reputation is at stake. I will not allow the thirty-two teams in this organization to live in fear of a monster.”
I hid my trembling hands under the table. “My client has demonstrated a commitment to following the league’s rules and procedures. Perhaps we should focus on the issue at hand instead of citing past infractions.”
Dad didn’t look at me. “Jude Owens might not be hospitalized if we had taken some prior infractions into consideration.” He tapped a pen, methodically, intentionally, watching as Cole twitched with each rap against the table. “I’m not calling for anything drastic, but let’s remember who we’re dealing with.”
The hair on my neck rose. “And who is that?”
Frank Bennett answered for everyone. “He is a man who has no control over himself, on the field or off.”
Cole clenched his fists. I wished I might have reached for him, whispered to him, brushed my fingers through his hair to ease the fury coursing through him. But he was my client. I had to protect him from the league before I could save him from himself.
“My client is in control of himself,” I said. “Coach Scott, Mr. Hawthorne plays an integral role in your defense, doesn’t he?”
Coach Scott spoke slowly. “We have ten other players on the field, Ms. Madison.”
He actually flashed his fingers for me to count.
Did he think it’d make me angry? He didn’t realize I was raising a toddler. I lived and breathed patience. I’d survived colic, teething, and ear infections without breaking. A head football coach wasn’
t getting under my skin.
“Of those eleven men,” I said. “Only one of them relays the plays to the defense, right?”
“Yes.”
“And is that player not Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Yes, but traditionally, a middle or inside linebacker acts as defensive captain and calls the plays.”
“So, I would think, of those…” I counted on my fingers. “Eleven players on the field, Mr. Hawthorne demonstrates the intelligence and capability to control himself while he calls the defensive strategy. Am I correct?”
“He’s repeating the plays our defensive coordinator tells him to run,” Coach Scott said. “A parrot could play middle linebacker.”
“Fortunately for the Monarchs, you signed an all-star, gifted athlete instead of a bird.”
“Your point?”
I gestured over the table. “This is a physical sport. My client plays hard. If the league wishes to amend their rulebook to make protections against aggressive or dangerous behaviors on the field, that’s their prerogative. But any change to the existing rules must be decided in the off-season. Either my client has broken the rules previously established, or he’s done nothing wrong except accidentally hurt a player with a clean hit.”
Dad frowned. “And what happens if another player gets hurt while we wait for the off-season?”
“What happens if a center rolls over a quarterback’s ankle? If a receiver falls on his shoulder incorrectly? If a defensive end breaks a thumb on a helmet?” I held his gaze. “I remember you warning us not to confuse enthusiasm for sadism.”
“And I remember the league specifically warning your client to avoid any unnecessary penalties or harm to other players.”
“This is football, Da—Mr. Madison. Accidents happen. My client did not intentionally harm Jude Owens.”
“How would you know?”
I stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“How do you know your client’s intentions?”
Dangerous ground. “I’m his agent. It’s my job to represent his wishes.”
“His agent.” He exhaled. “Miss Madison, maybe you should disclose the nature of your relationship with Mr. Hawthorne.”
