Breaking Cage

by A. J. Pryor

  Surrounded by his people, Derek fidgets with his hands, bored, as if he’s alone in this crowded room. Reggie called this press conference. Announced it would be one of the only ones Derek would give this season and to have our most important questions ready. They’d only be choosing a select few.

  “Mr. Cage,” I say again. Courage and determination settle like a rock inside my soul.

  His head lifts, and his eyes, darker than sapphires, gaze around the room until he spots me. A twitch of his lips fuels my prowess and sends my pulse racing. I take a step forward, and his brow rises in a challenge. I take another, and the magnetism of his stare is overpowering. He watches me, looking at my lips, then scanning the length of my body, openly studying me.

  He locks his gaze with mine, his eyes blazing with a burning fire, his slight grin turning devilish. Arousal flickers in my blood, my heart racing.

  Tightening my sweaty grip on the recorder, I clear my throat and ignore my raging hormones. “Mr. Cage . . .”

  “Randy, what’s your question?” Derek shifts his focus to the right.

  Randy?

  I zero in on a man who must be Randy. He’s old. Well, my father’s age, and he’s speaking into a microphone. He’d better be Randy. My attention filters back to Derek. His tightened jaw and hard eyes are boring into Randy, my presence forgotten.

  Randy’s lips are moving, asking his question. I’m not listening. He has awoken a beast, a determination to get Derek’s attention back on me.

  I won’t be brushed off easily.

  “Mr. Cage, would you say this season is your most important, and if so, why?” unoriginal Randy asks.

  Derek nods his response, and the crowd groans. Scanning the reporters in front of him, he silently picks them off like lint, mentally throwing them aside like the nuisances they are, searching for his next victim.

  “Collin, you’re up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cage. You threw an almost perfect game today. Would you say you’ve gelled with your new team? Thank you, Mr. Cage.” Grow some balls, Collin.

  “Seems like it. Anderson hit me.”

  The questions go on and on. They’re lame and uninformative, and Derek answers them all the same way, with a nod or a vague yes or no. It’s ridiculous.

  “Mr. Cage,” I say impatiently, more annoyed than desperate. Looking past me, like I’m a ghost in a sea of vibrant colors, he calls on Travis McCoy who is standing right beside me.

  “Seriously?” All heads dart in my direction at the outburst I’d meant to whisper.

  Derek fights a grin and calls for Travis to keep going. I tap my foot, keep my gaze on Derek, and mentally strangle him.

  Travis asks if Derek plans to retire in Chicago. Derek shrugs, and someone calls an end to the press conference. My blood is boiling. I’ve got nothing.

  “Guess you need to work a little harder for that story, Freckles.” I stare open mouthed at Travis as he lobs Derek’s nickname at me.

  “Who do you think—” Cutting me off, Travis turns and blends in with the retreating crowd. Asshole.

  Gathering my belongings, I begin to follow the masses toward the exit when someone grabs hold of my elbow. I pull my arm, but the person squeezes harder, gripping me with force. I turn to whoever thinks they can touch me, coming face to face with Reggie Maddox.

  “Derek wants to talk to you.” He’s still holding my arm, his fingers digging into my muscles, his eyes glaring at me. I get the sense he’s not happy about this unscheduled meeting.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, Ms. Black. Now.”

  Reggie finally releases his grip and leads me into another room. Men in suits are in whispered conversation with Derek. He seems unaffected by whatever they’re saying, his hands on his hips, his head bent to catch their every word. The door clicks shut, and all eyes turn at the interruption. When he spots me, the hard lines of his face fade away, the tight pinch of his lips soften, and the hint of a smile begins to appear. Something inside me shifts. I haven’t seen that face before. It’s genuine . . . gentle, and the rejection I felt earlier fades as the realization that I may be breaking through his armor begins to blossom inside my chest.

  He leaves the group and walks up to me.

  “Hi,” he says as though the last thirty minutes never happened.

  “Hi,” I respond with force.

  “What was your question, Hannah?” His husky voice holds an air of affection.

  “Why did you bring me back here?” I ask.

  “You only get one, Hannah. You sure you want to waste it on that question?”

  “Yes. Why the special treatment?”

  “As we’ve talked about, you don’t understand the game. I wasn’t sure what you’d ask in that room, and I don’t want those guys thinking you’re as green as you are.”

  “Why do you care?”

  His hands are on his hips, and his eyes travel across my face with kindness. I want to reach out and touch his skin again, trail a finger along the rough stubble on his jaw, trace the outline of his brow, feel the heat of his body, the hard lines of his muscles. I want so much more than this impersonal question and answer. I want to know who this man in front of me is, what gets his blood racing, why they call him The Rage.

  “I just do. Does the reason matter?” he asks.

  “No. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  He reaches out and takes my hand, holding it gently in his own. There’s a faint scent of fresh paint and the chattering of men in the background, but nothing feels entirely real except this: Derek’s hand in mine.

  “What were you going to ask me in the press room?”

  I swallow, finding it hard to remember my name, let alone the questions I’d prepared. My blood is humming like a live wire, my senses on overdrive. “What team are you dreading playing this season?”

  He lets out a small chuckle. “If you’d asked me that in front of all those other reporters, I’d tell you none of them. I’m not afraid of anyone or anything.”

  “But that’s not the truth, is it?” I ask.

  “Everyone has fears, Hannah. Even me.”

  “Which team is it?”

  “The 49ers.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “I can’t answer that.”

  Meaning he won’t answer that.

  “What did you eat for breakfast?”

  He laughs. “Scrambled eggs with cheese, avocado, and toast. What about you?”

  “Bacon and coffee.”

  “Seriously? That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s delicious; you should try it. Do you wear boxers or briefs?”

  He fights a grin. “Neither.”

  “Ever?”

  He shakes his head. “Not even when you’re playing?”

  His lips tilt up. ”Do you consider a jock strap underwear?”

  My cheeks begin to burn, but I soldier on.

  “Favorite movie?”

  “Gladiator.”

  I roll my eyes, and he laughs. “What’s yours, Hannah?”

  “Crazy, Stupid, Love.”

  He tosses his head back and groans. “You are so not a sports reporter.”

  “Why do they call you The Rage?”

  Derek lazily scans my face, his gaze thoughtful and kind. He releases my hand and tucks a loose curl behind my ear, surprising me. I take a step back.

  “Does it have to do with Lily Harold?”

  Color drains from his face and he exhales as if punched in the gut. His brows knits as though in pain. I’ve hit a target.

  “Reggie!” Derek calls. “Please walk Ms. Black outside. Make sure she gets to her car safely.” Without a second glance, Derek leaves, taking all of the answers with him. Fuck.

  “Who is Lily Harold?” I’m seated in Larry’s corner office, surrounded by what my mother would call an organized mess.

  “Where did you hear that name?”

  “People were talking about her before the press conference.”

  Larry takes a moment b
efore he begins to speak.

  “Have you ever noticed the elite in our society suffer the greatest tragedies? Their wealth, their power—it all comes at a price.” He’s quiet for a minute, choosing his words carefully.

  “Lily Harold was Derek Cage’s high school sweetheart. Someone murdered her eleven years ago, and Derek was the last person to see her alive.”

  “In all the research I’ve done on this man, I’ve never seen her name.”

  “You won’t. You’ll never find Derek Cage’s name mentioned beside Lily’s. No publication has the balls to cross that line.”

  I catch myself leaning forward, my curiosity growing with each passing second. “Why?”

  “Because Tom Cage would ruin anyone who attempted to link Derek with Lily, and everyone in this town knows that.”

  “Except me.” The dots are beginning to connect. “I wouldn’t know that.”

  “No. You wouldn’t have a clue.”

  “Century in Rewind isn’t the only publication going after Derek, is it?”

  A smug smile appears on his thin face. “This is Chicago, Hannah, new faces come and go on a daily basis, but I’ve been in this business a long time. It was going to take more than a fresh face to break down the Cage wall. You needed a job, and I needed you.”

  I was handpicked, not the other way around. Larry wanted the best, and he went for it. Now it’s my job to prove him right.

  “Did Derek kill her?”

  Larry gives a noncommittal shrug. “One day it was all over the news. Derek’s case tried in the press; his guilt was determined before he’d even been named a suspect. The next, gone, disappeared, as though nothing happened at all. The girl, the story, Derek, all gone.” He flashes his hands as though he’s poof’ing it all away.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

  “Not to us, no. But he’s a Cage. His family has a lot of power. They found a loophole, and they used it.”

  “What about her family? Did they stay silent?”

  He nods. “Not at first. When it looked as though the police had their killer, they crucified Derek in the press, but then suspicion fell on Lily’s father and just like the story, the Harolds’ voices fell flat.”

  “So her father killed her?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a cold case, Hannah. Most people think it was Derek, Mr. Harold was cleared a few weeks later, but the accusations had caused enough stress on both families, that the case had been tarnished.”

  “Was there any proof linking Derek to the crime?”

  “Not that I know of. But Derek always had a temper, on and off the football field. He’d lash out at players. Sometimes the referees would get the brunt of his fury. How to control the anger in that young man was an obvious concern for coaches and teachers. Placing the blame for this girl’s death on Derek was easy. Breaking through his Cage ties became the challenge. Derek earned his nickname that year, beating the crap out of anyone who crossed him, and he wears it like a badge of honor.”

  Murder?

  A knot of fear, stark and vivid, settles in my chest. With sweaty palms, I grip the edge of his desk.

  My skin prickles with unease. Something is off. One mention of Lily Harold’s name, and I was exiled from Derek’s presence. I need to dig up anything I can on this story. Search through old newspapers. Talk to her family. I need to know more.

  “What do you know about Lily?”

  “Derek grew up with her, was in love with her. The water-cooler talk says Lily confronted him about another girl that night; he went ballistic, and oops, Derek smashed her head in.”

  “Do you believe Derek killed her?” I ask, concerned.

  He leans forward, his expression serious. “Probably. Rumors swirled that she caught him with another girl and was going to the press with some scandalous family secret. He had a motive, and he was at the scene. But you won’t find any information on this, Hannah. Tom Cage’s image is too big to touch. It’s not only his senator title, but he’s a Cage. The name alone has people bowing to his every need. No reporter ever had the guts to move forward with the story. Once the police took Derek’s name off the suspect list, he became off-limits. You’ll find out about Lily’s death, but that’s as far as you’ll get. It’s a dead end.”

  “If I found the truth, would you let me publish it?”

  His brows rise. “If you discover the truth, Hannah, I’ll double your salary.”

  I leave work for the day, my focus clear, my path forged. The parking lot is empty as I head to my car, most people gone for the day. A shuffled foot echoes off the concrete walls. I jerk my head for the source, but I’m eerily alone.

  I pick up my pace, my heels drowning out the sound of anything but the urgency to get out of this building. A car door shuts and relief that I’m not alone settles my muscles. I slow my stride and instantly wish I hadn’t. I’m being mimicked, step for step the echoing sound follows behind me. I stop and turn. Nothing. My heart races, my throat constricts.

  I kick off my heels and begin to run. The sound intensifies, the perpetrator getting closer. A scream is seconds from unleashing from my throat when I hear my name.

  I run faster and am about to reach my car when a hand grasps my shoulder. I spin around to find Chandler, out of breath, and his forehead pebbled with sweat.

  “Dear God, Sunshine, get your workout in a gym. Why the hell were you running like that?”

  My heavy breaths are hard to slow, my heart loud between my ears.

  “Why are you sneaking up on me, Chandler? I thought you were a crazy out to get me.”

  “You found out about Lily Harold?”

  “What?”

  “Solomon told me about your meeting. Scary shit, right?”

  “I’m not going to stop, Chandler. I’m going to find out if Derek killed that girl.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “I know you are, Sunshine. Just don’t get killed trying. Here, you left this folder on Larry’s desk. He asked me to deliver it to you.”

  All my research on Derek and his family is in that folder. I can’t believe I left it behind.

  “Thanks.”

  Chandler winks. “No problem. I’ll help you. On the down-low of course. If you have a question, ask me. If I can help you find the answer, I will. Just keep my name out of it.” He shivers as if the thought alone frightens him. “See you tomorrow, Sunshine.”

  I lean back against my car, my pulse stabilizing. If I’m planning to dig up a decade-old murder, I can’t be afraid of the truth. I can’t be afraid of what might be lurking in the dark.

  The Bears head into the season as underdogs with Derek Cage taking center stage. Will he be the comeback kid or just another pretty face?

  The Rage is unleashed. Will he or won’t he bring the Bears a much-needed win?

  All eyes are watching Derek Cage, known for his ruthlessness on and off the field. The last two seasons, we’ve seen a steady decline in the performance of this superstar athlete. Let’s see if the Bears can bring The Rage back.

  Our season is starting with a bang, our win against the Packers last Sunday a relief. In one week, I’ll be on the road, my focus razor sharp, finally proving I’m more than just a Cage.

  I enter Bryson’s Realm, a park only blocks from my home where a fundraiser benefiting handicapped children is taking place. Rainbow-colored balloons bunch together like grapes suspended in the sky, a DJ is playing some sort of kid bop, and children’s games and pony rides make it feel as though we’ve just entered any kid’s heaven.

  “Derek Cage has entered the park. Looks like he’s got something special there.”

  I smile and wave to the Channel 4 reporter who’s talking about me like I’m not here. A smart woman knows not to approach a man with a purpose.

  Due to Reggie’s insistence that I needed to be seen with the people of Chicago if I wanted to make a comeback, I attended this event last year. I’d met a little girl named Mariah Jones, who’d been silenced by Angelman Syndrome, a rar
e genetic disease that affects the nervous system. She was seven and smiled at everything, most notably a dog that kept chasing its tail.

  I kept in touch with Mariah and her parents. She’s learning sign language and has entered the third grade in a school for kids with special needs. But she still doesn’t have a dog. Today, I’m going to change that.

  “Derek.”

  I turn toward the soft, gentle voice. The park is crowded with people, celebrities, businessmen . . . my father. God, I hope I don’t bump into him today.

  “Derek, over here.” I keep searching until I land on the voice that brings an odd sensation to my chest.

  “Ms. Black.” My grin is immediate, my pulse quickening. I should walk away. Her questions are invasive, out of line, and inappropriate. She asked about Lily, a name that still haunts me. She must have a death wish. My father would do whatever he could to make sure that name is never mentioned aloud again.

  Hannah trots over to me. “What are you wearing?” I blurt.

  She looks at her thick pink sweater and jeans in confusion and shrugs. “My boss said to dress casually.”

  Shaking my head, I move closer. She’s slender but tall enough that I’m not towering over her. “It’s a nice day. Why are you bundled up?”

  Wide brown eyes stare back at me. “It’s warm now, but this morning was freezing.” She hugs her herself, and I realize she’s serious.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I flash the weather onto the screen. “Brrr, seventy degrees. Freezing.”

  Reaching out to pet Scout, who is secured under my right arm, she cups his face in both hands and scratches behind his ears.

  Lucky dog.

  Close enough to smell her sweet feminine scent, her arm brushes against mine, and an unexpected sense of protectiveness makes me want to wrap her in my arms and keep her warm.

  “Easy for you to say,” she says. “You have this little guy to keep you toasty.” Scout licks her hand, and her contagious smile turns my lips turn up in a grin.

  “How long have you lived in Chicago?” I ask.

  “Two weeks. I’m from Los Angeles.” Stepping back, she scans the park, hugging herself again.