Huddle with Me Tonight (Kimani Romance)

by Farrah Rochon

  “Theo said you attacked first.”

  Torrian popped up. “The hell I did.”

  “Put your chin back in that cradle,” Latoya admonished.

  Torrian settled back into his seat and leaned forward. “I especially need New York readers to be behind the book, since they’re the ones who will support the restaurant,” Torrian continued. “What I don’t need is this negative publicity from Paige Turner.”

  “It’s not necessarily negative publicity. I’ve bought books she’s been heavily critical of just to see if they were really as bad as she thought they were. She’s usually right,” Latoya tacked on.

  “Thanks a lot,” Torrian snorted.

  “I’m sure your book is an exception.” She laughed. The machine let out several beeps. “Okay, we’re done.”

  “How much worse is it?” Torrian sighed.

  “Just a little,” she confirmed. She took a deep breath, and Torrian’s own breath clogged in his throat. “What has me concerned is that we’ve seen deterioration over your last three visits. Although it is extremely slight, the fact that there is a steady decline isn’t the best news.”

  “How much longer until I’m completely blind?” Torrian asked, knowing he wouldn’t get a straight answer. It’s not as if it mattered anyway. He would be kicked out of the league long before he reached the state of legal blindness.

  “You know I can’t answer that question,” Latoya said. “Retinitis pigmentosa develops differently in different people. It’s not as bad as you’re probably thinking, Torrian. At the rate the disease is progressing, you still have many years of very good sight ahead of you.”

  “Won’t matter to the NFL,” he said.

  Latoya patted his shoulder. “I know, honey.”

  Torrian covered the hand she held on his shoulder. It was too bad Latoya was gay. They got along better than he ever had with any of the women he’d dated over the years.

  Theo burst through the door. “You finished?” he asked Torrian.

  “Yeah, we’re done,” Latoya said. “I’ll see you back here in another couple of months. Good luck in the game this weekend.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Torrian kissed her goodbye and followed Theo out of the office.

  “Okay, what’s up?” Torrian asked as they headed up the corridor.

  Theo pressed the button for the elevator. “The Sabers just made a counteroffer.”

  Torrian’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?” The elevator’s door opened and they stepped in.

  “Yep,” Theo said once the doors shut. “One year, seven million.”

  Torrian nearly swallowed his tongue. “Is that even an option? You playing another year?”

  The elevator door opened. “I don’t know, man. That’s a lot of money.” Theo shrugged. “Of course, I’ve already got a lot of money.”

  “It’s a tough decision, Theo. You gotta figure this one out on your own. Good luck.”

  “You, too, Dawg. Hope you can get this thing with Paige Turner squared away.”

  “I’m working on it,” Torrian said.

  Torrian knew there was only one way to put this mess with Paige Turner to rest. He had to talk to her face to face.

  His mind made up, he skimmed through the numbers in his phone’s directory until he found the one he needed. Then he called in another favor.

  “What do you think this injury will mean for the rest of the Sabers team?”

  Torrian ran the towel over his face again before slinging it around his neck. He shifted on the bench in front of his locker, making sure the towel covering his groin didn’t flap open. It was too much to ask to get dressed before the reporters barged into the locker room for their post-game interviews.

  “The Sabers will be just fine,” Torrian answered. “Losing one wide receiver for a few games won’t hurt.”

  “Even if that wide receiver is the great Torrian Smallwood?” a nasally voice drawled.

  Torrian ignored Barry Stein’s sarcastic nonquestion. The reporter wasn’t looking for an answer. He was much more concerned with getting under Torrian’s skin. It had been that way since the day the sports writer had accused him of reneging on an exclusive Torrian had never promised him in the first place.

  “Melanie?” Torrian pointed to the lone female reporter from the New Jersey ABC affiliate.

  “Do you think the injury will require surgery?” Melanie Thomlison asked.

  “Johnson’s hit wasn’t as bad as it looked. I mean, really, do you think that little guy can do that much damage?” He paused for the flurry of chuckles. “The only reason doc wants me to sit out is so I can rest up before the playoffs. The team is in solid position for the NFC North’s top spot. There’s no need to risk me getting further injured.”

  Torrian fielded a few more questions, many of which were just a restatement of the questions he’d already answered. Just as he was about to excuse himself, Barry Stein asked, “What do you have to say about your attack on Paige Turner?”

  The rest of the reporters turned to Torrian with eyes wide and gleaming, as if they’d been wanting to ask about the Paige Turner situation but hadn’t had the balls. Of course, that bastard Stein wouldn’t shy away from it.

  Torrian summoned his most charming smile. “If I can face what all of you throw at me without losing my cool, why on Earth would I attack an Internet blogger for a few innocent statements?” Torrian answered.

  “I think Ms. Turner would resent you calling her a mere Internet blogger. She’s a respected columnist and one of the most influential and opinionated people in New York’s entertainment world.”

  “I don’t mean to downplay Ms. Turner’s influence,” he backtracked. “I just want to make it clear that I have not attacked her.”

  “I doubt she would agree with your assessment,” Stein retorted.

  Torrian tried to keep the irritation from showing on his face. “This entire thing has been blown out of proportion. Paige Turner didn’t enjoy my book. She has a right to her opinion. Case closed.” Torrian turned toward his locker.

  “If that’s the case, why did you get so upset? Is it because deep down there’s some truth to some of the things Paige Turner has accused you of?”

  Torrian turned around. “What has she accused me of? Not knowing how to cook? If Paige Turner has any doubts about my cooking ability, I’d be happy to show her. Point me to any kitchen and I’ll meet her there, then we can see who knows their way around a stove and who’s just talk. That’s all I’m saying about this. Now get the hell out of my locker room.”

  As soon as he said it, Torrian knew he’d played directly into Stein’s hands. The reporter wanted him to go off half-cocked, and like an ass, that’s exactly what he’d done. When would he ever learn?

  Disgusted with himself, he took off for the showers. Maybe the hot water pounding down on his head would knock some sense into it.

  Chapter 6

  Paige closed the book and emitted a satisfied sigh. It was a rare occasion that she got the chance to read for pleasure, but after the week she’d had, she figured she deserved to indulge in a little escapism. She laid the paperback atop the book she should have been reading, an autobiography of a New York businessman whom many pundits believed would enter the next mayoral race. She popped the last grape into her mouth and went into the kitchen to refill her bowl, then carried it to her computer.

  Paige pulled up the page for her blog and grimaced. They were up to eighteen hundred replies, by far the most her blog had ever received. She had to bury this fiasco with Torrian Smallwood. Despite the traffic to her blog, the guilt of profiting from someone else’s misery wreaked havoc on her conscience. Even if that person had brought that misery upon himself.

  That wasn’t completely fair. Could she fault him for retaliating after the review she’d posted? Other authors had done so. Why should Torrian be held to a different standard?

  Maybe because no other author’s response had affected her as much as his had.

  Her inter
com buzzed.

  Paige popped a couple of grapes into her mouth and walked over to the panel next to the door. She pressed the intercom button and spoke into the speaker. “Who is it?” she garbled.

  “Torrian Smallwood.”

  Paige nearly choked on the grapes.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. First her cell number, and now he’d found out where she lived. An excited tingle fluttered in her chest.

  “Stop it, Paige. This is stalking.” She wouldn’t feel this shimmer up her spine if the average Joe had found out where she lived. But Torrian was no average Joe.

  The intercom buzzed again, long and steady.

  “What can I do for you?” she spoke into the speaker.

  “You can let me up,” he suggested.

  Paige disregarded the idea. She didn’t care how famous he was, she did not know him well enough to invite him into her apartment.

  “You can say whatever you came to say from where you are.”

  Her voice met empty static on the other end of the intercom.

  A few moments later there was heavy knocking at her door. Paige covered her chest with her hand, her heart beating like a drum within her chest.

  She cracked the door open, but left the chain on. He looked a thousand times better in person than he ever had on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

  “How did you get up here?” she called.

  “One of your neighbors let me in. She’ll be back with her son’s football card in a minute.”

  As if on cue, a woman she’d seen around the building approached. She gushed and fawned and pretty much made a fool of herself while Torrian signed a football card, a football, two magazine covers and a Sabers jersey.

  When the woman finally left, he turned back to her door and leaned in close. “Can you please let me in before that happens again?” he asked.

  “I’m not letting you into my apartment,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a single woman living in New York who understands the finer points of self-preservation,” she returned.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a voice that made her believe it. “I just want to talk. Our phone conversation didn’t go so well, so I thought we could try a face-to-face.” He held up his hands. “I promise I’m not here to do anything other than talk. I would never put my hands on a woman. Unless she asked,” he added.

  Paige studied him through the crack in the door. It would be pretty stupid of him to harm her, especially since thousands of people around the city had witnessed their heated debate on her blog.

  “Fine,” Paige relented. She closed the door and released the chain, opening it and stepping back to let him in.

  Just as she’d been in Mancini’s Grocery, she was momentarily awestruck by the sheer magnificence of the man standing before her. He towered at least a foot above her, and even though he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a pullover shirt, he exuded something that definitely made him different from the average man on the street.

  “Thank you,” he said as he stepped into her apartment, leaving a gentle wave of something subtle and spicy in his wake. She remembered it from their encounter in the produce section. The enticing aroma caused all manner of fluttery happenings within her stomach.

  He walked over to her army green suede armchair and plopped down with an exhausted sigh.

  “Make yourself at home,” Paige snorted. She took a seat on the edge of her couch, crossed one leg over the other and rested her elbow on her knee.

  “So?” she started.

  Torrian dragged a hand down his face. His slightly almond-shaped hazel eyes held a hint of fatigue. He closed them, leaned his head on the back of her chair and expelled another sigh.

  “Did you come here to take a nap?” Paige asked, intentionally heavy on the sarcasm.

  He raised his head, cocked one eye open and had the nerve to grin. “I see the attitude extends beyond the blog.”

  Oh, good God, that grin was nice. He had a near-perfect face, with a mouth that eased into a decadent smile with zero effort. Paige had never realized the safety the TV screen provided until she was left without its protective barrier. Torrian Smallwood in the flesh was a very dangerous thing.

  She had to clear her throat before speaking. “I know you didn’t track me down to my home—which is the creepiest thing anyone has ever done, by the way—just to insult me yet again.”

  “If my saying you have attitude is an insult, you need to get some thicker skin, sweetheart.”

  Before she could call him on the sweetheart remark, he expelled another sigh and said, “This thing on your blog has gotten way out of hand.”

  “Only because you took it there,” Paige responded. She reached over to her computer desk and caught the bowl of grapes with the tips of her fingers.

  “I’m willing to own up to my part in this,” Torrian said. He straightened in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “I shouldn’t have responded, but I never intended for that first comment I posted to remain on the blog.”

  “Then why did you post it in the first place?” she asked. She held the bowl of grapes out for him. He picked off two and tossed them in his mouth.

  Was she seriously sitting in her living room eating grapes with Torrian Smallwood? There was a sufficient amount of surrealism in the moment, but even more surreal was how comfortable it all felt. He was a superstar, but lounging in her favorite chair with fatigue in his eyes and contriteness in his voice, he could very well be any one of her friends. Or something more.

  “Like I told you, it was a knee-jerk reaction. I know it was out of line and I apologized. You’re the one who chose to ignore me and keep this thing public. Now we both look like fools.”

  “Only one of us looks like a fool, in my opinion. I’ve remained as professional as I possibly can.”

  He stared at her, his gaze assessing. “You’re not as professional as you seem to think you are,” he said.

  Paige arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

  “A true professional would have accepted my apology from the very beginning and erased my response last Sunday night. You decided to humiliate me on your blog instead.”

  “What apology?”

  “Fine, maybe it wasn’t an apology in the normal sense of the word.”

  “In no sense of the word,” Paige returned.

  “If you’d done what I’d asked in the first e-mail I sent Sunday night, there would be no reason for me to be in your apartment right now,” Torrian said.

  “You e-mailed me?”

  “Several times,” he nodded. “Starting with last Sunday. I explained that I was going to erase the comment I’d put on the blog but got distracted. I damn near begged you to go in and erase it, but you decided to ignore me.”

  He’d e-mailed her. Probably through her blog’s e-mail, which she had not had a chance to check since Saturday night.

  “I didn’t see your e-mail,” Paige admitted. She looked up at him, suffering the first twinge of regret she’d felt since this whole debacle first began. “I only check that e-mail account once a week.”

  His head fell back again as he let out a low groan. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. This could have all been prevented if you’d just read your e-mail.”

  “I’m not the one to blame here,” Paige protested. “If you hadn’t posted the response in the first place, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands between his spread legs. “You know what, none of it matters at this point. It’s done. We need to figure out where to go from here.” “We? Exactly why do we need to figure out anything?” Paige asked.

  “Because I don’t want this thing to get any more out of hand than it already has,” he said. He reached over and picked off another grape.

  “I am not recanting my review,” Paige declared.

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Look, I get that you didn’t like the book. You’re entitled to your opinion
. My main concern is that my fans will see me as someone who can’t take a little criticism.”

  “Apparently, you don’t take criticism well. This way your fans see the real you?”

  “Paige.” Her name came out of his mouth in a soft, beseeching plea that caused a delicious ripple to cascade down Paige’s spine. “That was not the real me,” he said. “It’s driving me crazy that people are getting this impression of me.”

  There was actual pain in his voice. Paige was puzzled by how seriously he was taking all of this. Sure, he’d look bad to a few fans, but he had millions of worshipers out there. Why should he care that a few thousand New Yorkers thought he was a jerk?

  Paige settled back on the sofa and crossed her arms over her chest. “There is an easy way to fix this,” she said.

  His eyes flew to hers. “How?”

  “You can write an apology on my blog,” she stated.

  “No way.” Torrian shook his head. He shot up from the chair and walked over to the window that overlooked 3rd Avenue.

  “Why not?” Paige asked, pushing up from the sofa so she could join him at the window.

  Torrian turned to face her. He braced his legs apart and crossed his arms. “Because you would win,” he answered, his voice cool, his eyes matching.

  Paige’s mouth gaped open. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  He took a step forward and settled a look on her that made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. “I’m not going to roll over and play dead,” he said. His eyes zeroed in. “I looked into you. You’ve built your career by cutting people down to size with your weekly column, and you’re even worse on the blog. I’ll be damned if I become one of your victims.”

  “Victim!” Paige laughed in his face. A bit of insanity seemed to accompany all that sexiness. “You’ve spent the past week attacking me on my own blog, but you’re the victim?”

  “I’m not apologizing,” he stated.

  “I’m not erasing anything from the Web site,” she returned, jutting her chin forward. He stood a hairbreadth away from her. The subtle heat radiating from his body caused a contradictory chill to skitter along Paige’s skin. The man exuded sensuality by merely existing.