The Right Swipe

by Alisha Rai

  “I’m learning that. No reason for us to go negative, though.”

  Dean tossed the number to him. “No lies detected. Have fun with that.”

  Samson tucked the napkin into his pocket. He’d do with it what he’d done with all the other napkins he’d received over the last couple weeks. He’d toss it, once he was out of her sight.

  There was only one woman’s number he was interested in right now.

  “Well, well, well. Look who it is.”

  They both froze at the familiar voice. Samson slowly looked up at the man standing next to their table, where the waitress had just been. What the fuck.

  “Trevor,” Dean said, and his grim tone echoed Samson’s lack of desire to see this asshole.

  Trevor Sanders smiled at both of them. Tall and still fit in spite of his retirement a few years ago, the Brewers’ former quarterback had the kind of blond good looks the media loved.

  Samson was definitely not in love with him. “How did you find us here?” He’d dodged two more calls from Trevor, had considered blocking the number, but figured it was better to know what the snake was up to.

  What the fuck was up with this trend of people somehow knowing where he was and showing up? It was one thing when Rhi did it, she wasn’t his longtime nemesis. Was this an L.A. thing?

  Trevor’s toothy grin disappeared. “Dean posted a photo. It was tagged.”

  Samson scowled at his friend. “Dean has clearly forgotten that he could have stalkers out there, and he will no longer be telling the world where he is.”

  “My social’s private,” Dean protested. “But not private enough, I guess.”

  “Look, guys, I get it.” Trevor pulled a chair over and sat down without asking them, which was a very Trevor thing to do. He paused to smile at Miley. “Cute baby, Dean. I love all the photos you post of her.”

  Dean pulled a wet wipe out from somewhere. He carefully cleaned his hands, sanitized them with a squirt bottle, and grudgingly nodded. He wouldn’t turn down a compliment to his baby. “Thanks. And thanks for the baby present. We really love that stroller.”

  “I’m glad. It was my girlfriend’s—well, ex-girlfriend’s—favorite stroller for our kid.”

  Samson passed Miley to her dad and immediately wished he had her back. Therapy baby indeed. “I have nothing to say to you, Trevor.”

  Trevor’s sigh was long and low. “Listen. I know you hate me, Samson. I even get why. But please, can I have like ten minutes of your time?”

  Samson gritted his teeth.

  Dean placed Miley carefully in her carrier. “Harris said you were starting an organization. That true?”

  “It is,” Trevor responded.

  Dean buckled his daughter in, then pinned Trevor with a stern look. “You going to ask Samson to help?”

  What was Dean talking about?

  “I am.”

  Dean pursed his lips. “He doesn’t owe you—”

  “It’s okay, Dean.” Samson didn’t want Dean in the middle of this feud. He could handle Trevor. “You need to get home, right?”

  Dean glanced back and forth between them. Miley was due for a nap soon, but Samson knew his friend wouldn’t leave if he thought Samson needed him. “I guess . . .”

  “Go on. Trevor and I will have a quick chat, and then we don’t ever have to talk again.” He kept his tone pleasant, though his stomach was coiled into a knot.

  Trevor was smart, confronting him in a public place like this. Samson wouldn’t, couldn’t, make a scene. Too many people knew who they both were.

  The last thing he wanted was another wave of headlines pitting him and Trevor against each other.

  “He’s loyal to you, all right,” Trevor said, after Dean gathered up his baby and left, with another warning glare for Trevor.

  “That’s what friends and teammates are. Loyal.”

  Trevor flinched, probably because he’d said almost that sentence, verbatim, to a journalist the day Samson had walked mid-game, but he stayed seated. “Like I said, you have every right to hate me. But this isn’t about me. It’s about something bigger than both of us.”

  “You always were dramatic.”

  Trevor was silent for a beat. “I don’t know how much Harris has told you, but I’m starting a nonprofit. For retired players who are showing signs of CTE but can’t access the NFL settlement, either because they were denied, or because their symptoms don’t fit in the covered class.” When Samson stared at him blankly, Trevor continued. “The settlement only covers a narrow window of neurological, degenerative diseases like ALS or Parkinson’s. There are players out there with anger, depression, suicidal ideation. They have to cobble together their own emotional and financial resources. I want to create a central place they can go to for assistance.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to be the face of a CTE organization?”

  “No, actually. I was hoping you would be.”

  Samson’s laugh was short. “Are you serious?”

  “We’re serious. I’m serious.”

  “There are a lot of players, current and former, who are more famous than me,” he said flatly.

  “Your career aside, you’re a Lima.” Trevor spread his hands out. “The son and nephew of two beloved players. Your father’s case made that settlement possible. The irony is, he wouldn’t even be eligible for compensation from it if he was still alive. Both because he retired before the cut-off, and because he didn’t have the right diagnosis. Your uncle—”

  “My uncle’s results are not back yet,” Samson snapped. With every word Trevor was saying the throbbing at the base of his skull grew. He didn’t want to think about where his uncle’s brain was, or who was poring over it, or when the results would come. Bad enough when it had been his father, though he’d prayed for an explanation then.

  He knew exactly what had caused his uncle’s decline, he didn’t need the confirmation.

  Trevor dipped his head, acknowledging what he must have realized was a sensitive subject. “You quit the game,” he continued, in an even softer tone. “At the height of your career, loudly and publicly, because you disagreed with how head injuries were being managed. You were one of the first to take a stand for yourself and other players. In the history of activism for this condition, you are an icon.”

  Samson linked his hands together under the tablecloth. Another person might say they were shaking, but he was a big, strong man. Big strong men’s hands didn’t shake.

  He’d played football for four years after his dad died. Four years of being gaslit by his employers about how the scientists who had studied his father’s brain matter didn’t know what they were talking about, and that Aleki had been a special, unusual case.

  On the day Samson had retired, when he’d knelt next to Dean, he hadn’t been thinking about activism. He’d been thinking about his dad. And how, if people had stopped Aleki from going out in the field with concussions, maybe he wouldn’t have suffered as much as he had in his final years.

  “You’re forgetting part of that story,” Samson said, his voice hoarse. “When I left the field, you declared me a coward and a traitor.” A curse.

  “I did.” Trevor’s shoulders hunched forward. “I absolutely did. I’m so sorry. It was a different—”

  “I don’t want your excuses. I’m out here to help out a family friend, that’s all. It has nothing to do with CTE or the NFL or football.”

  Trevor’s brow furrowed. “Man, haven’t you been looking at how the sports world is covering this? Whether you want to or not, your whole past, your father, your uncle, it’s all getting rehashed. I’m not the only one calling you an icon.”

  Samson’s shoulders tightened, like there was a target painted on his back. “I stopped caring what that world thought of me a long time ago.” He dropped a wad of cash on the table, not looking to sort out how much was there, just eager to get gone. The waitress could have a big tip.

/>   “Samson . . . I retired because I started having depressive episodes.”

  Samson froze. Trevor’s voice lowered. “It was bad. I couldn’t play, I couldn’t get out of bed. After I quit, it got worse. I had other mood changes. Paranoia, anger. I’d pick fights with my girlfriend, stupid fights, sometimes over the same damn thing again and again. She finally left me one day when I accused her of stealing my phone. I couldn’t stop yelling at her.” Trevor’s jaw worked. “She took our son. I only get to see him in supervised settings now. I actually don’t mind that. I’d never hurt him, but I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry.” An inadequate bouquet of words, but they were all he had.

  Trevor swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have help. There are guys out there who are way worse off than I am. I want to help them. I’ve assembled a good team. Please, will you meet with the whole group? Then decide.”

  Slowly, Samson shook his head. Ice had seeped through his veins, leaving him cold. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s organization or his problems. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s son. “I don’t want to work for you. When this gig with Matchmaker is over, I’m going to—” He stopped. He was going to . . . what?

  “You could save lives, Samson.”

  Samson wanted to laugh at that, but not because it was funny. He hadn’t been able to save his own father, or a man he considered a father. What good could he do for anyone else? “Goodbye. Good luck.”

  He was sweating by the time he got outside, and he ripped off his light jacket, though there was a nip in the air. He pulled out his phone to call for a ride, and that was when he saw the text from Rhi.

  Can I come see you?

  He didn’t know what she wanted—they didn’t have anything scheduled today—but it didn’t matter. Could she come see him? What a ridiculous question. The answer would always be yes, but especially right now.

  He typed out his reply. I’ll be at my place in an hour. He gave the address and hit send. Her response was immediate. See you then.

  He knew he needed to sort out the complex tangle of emotions in his brain, but not now. Not yet.

  For now, he wanted Rhi.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RHIANNON’S FRENZIED panic had cooled a little on the drive from Santa Barbara to L.A., especially after Samson had finally—finally!—texted her back, but not enough for her to cancel seeing him. The edge of fear and anger was still there when she pulled up in front of Samson’s high-rise condo.

  She avoided looking at herself in the mirrors in the elevator on the way up. She didn’t want to think about what she looked like. Probably a mess, since she’d intended to lounge the day and weekend away and not see anyone but Katrina.

  Her knuckles barely hit Samson’s door before he opened it. Angels didn’t sing, but a halo of light surrounded him.

  Or he’s backlit by the sun, calm down.

  He opened the door all the way, and his biceps looked so big and strong and sweet. She wanted to bite them and lay her head against them. “Hey. Good to see you. Come on in.”

  She stepped inside and glanced around. Curiosity pierced through her other emotions, though it was misplaced. There was nothing personal in this open-concept corporate-furnished condo. It was all black leather and metal.

  “Do you want me to take your sweatshirt?”

  She rubbed her hands over her arms, letting the worn material hug her closer. “No.”

  He didn’t insist, only gestured at the living room. “Have a seat. Wine?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Water?”

  She hadn’t realized it until now, but her throat was parched. “Yes. Please.”

  He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge door, grabbing a bottle of water. Restless, she walked to the couch, but didn’t sit down. There were three framed photos on the side table, the only personal effects in the entire room, as far as she could tell. That curiosity reared its head again, and she welcomed the diversion from her darker emotions.

  One photo was of Samson crouched next to a wheelchair with who she assumed was his uncle Joe, with the ocean in the background. The older man looked tired and fragile, but happy. His smile was identical to Samson’s, down to the tiny dimple.

  She didn’t want to prick his grief by asking about his late uncle. She ran her finger over the photo of Samson and a handsome young couple. Samson held a baby in his arms. The same baby from his Matchmaker profile, the one that had made everyone in the ballroom at CREATE sigh. “This is your goddaughter, right?”

  “Yes. My best friend, Dean, and his wife, Josie. Their daughter, Miley.” He walked out from around the granite island and handed her a glass of water. She drank it in a few gulps and handed it back to him. “Thirsty, huh?”

  Rage took a lot out of a person. Rhiannon ignored him and touched the last frame. A young Samson, maybe at twelve or thirteen, smiled out at her from a football field.

  She could see where he got his size and looks from now. A couple stood behind him, both beaming. The big man’s hand was on Samson’s shoulder, his pride evident. The woman was almost as tall as her husband, statuesque and gorgeous, her hip-length hair in a braid, love radiating off her. Sweet and loyal and kind. This was the type of woman who inspired that kind of description.

  “Those are my parents,” he said, and there was an odd tone in his voice. Banked grief and something else.

  “I’m sorry. They look lovely.”

  “It’s been a while. My dad died right after I was drafted to the Brewers. My mom lasted a couple months after him.”

  He’d lost them almost at once? She inched closer to him. “That’s tragic. I didn’t realize your mother died so quick after him.”

  “They said it was a heart attack. She was a lawyer, worked a lot. She’d been under a heavy stress load for years.” He grimaced. “But I really think it was losing my dad that did it.”

  “My dad died when I was young. I was too small to really know him, but I had my mom.” She might drive Rhiannon crazy, but she loved Sonya.

  “What’s your mom like?”

  “Guilt trippy, but she loves and supports me in her way. She lives in Chicago, but travels a lot.”

  “Do you wish she lived closer?”

  Rhiannon grimaced. “I should. But no. We’re both a little too power hungry to live in the same house.”

  “You both like to be head of the household?”

  “Basically.”

  “One brother, right?”

  Rhiannon nodded. “Younger, yes.”

  “I always wished I had siblings.”

  “I don’t know how I would have dealt with being an only child.”

  “My parents made sure I was never too lonely.”

  “You look like them. Your father, especially.”

  “I know.” He picked up the photo and looked down at it. That was when she noted the air of preoccupied sadness clinging to him. Had it been there since she’d walked in? Or was it in response to this conversation?

  She stuffed her feelings down for a minute and moved close enough to study the picture with him. “Had you just won some important game?” she asked.

  He nodded, still staring at the photo. His finger traced his mother’s face. “Yeah. My dad was really proud I was following in the family footsteps. This was before the Switch.”

  “The Switch?”

  He blinked at her, and shook his head. “Sorry. That was what my mom called it. A nice euphemism.” His laugh was hard and unexpected.

  She hesitated. This was veering fast into personal territory, and she wasn’t sure how personal she should get with this man, when they’d already blurred so many lines, but . . . “A euphemism for what?”

  His lips flattened into a tight line, and she wondered if he would answer her, but he finally did. “Right before I started college, my dad started having issues.”

  “What kind of issues?”

  “He’d get angry. Depressed. At first, it wasn’t too bad. My mom an
d I chalked it up to him not having enough to do. She tried to get him involved in activities, hobbies. Ballroom dancing with her, golf. Whatever might get him out of the house. Every month, it was like he got worse, the episodes getting longer. We took him to different doctors, neurologists, psychiatrists.”

  Ah. She didn’t watch sports, but she heard what was going on in the news. “CTE.”

  “Yeah. He played pro for seventeen years. He’d had God knows how many concussions, let alone subconcussive hits.” Samson shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “The episodes escalated. He stopped coming to my college games. Barely paid attention when I was drafted. He holed up in the house, drank, gambled, raged. My mom made excuses. I don’t think he ever laid hands on her, but I was always scared for her. Not that I expected her to leave him. I couldn’t leave him, no matter how angry my face made him, toward the end.” He cast her a quiet, anguished look, and Rhiannon’s heart clenched.

  Samson’s affable charm was such a huge part of his personality it was startling to see something else in its place. She placed her palm on his back, wishing she could absorb some of his pain for him.

  It’s dangerous to care this much.

  Nah. She’d be concerned about what kind of a person she was, if she could coolly turn the subject to business right now. Bluster over how strong and tough she was aside, she’d never been someone who walked away from another’s pain.

  Especially someone she kind of, well, liked.

  “Do you know what it’s like, to love someone who hurts you? Because you know they can’t help how they act?”

  Her fingers spasmed. “I know how it feels to love someone who turns out to be someone other than who you think they are. It’s not quite the same, though.”

  The corners of his lips turned down. “Not quite.”

  “I’m guessing it was difficult to get him help?”

  “We tried. The league denied us more disability. Said their doctors had found no definitive link between playing football and long-term neurological issues.” His smile was bitter. “We had independent research proving otherwise. In the end, he died as we were filing an appeal.”