More pounding. The big double doors rattled in their frame.
Heaving a sigh of resignation, Tyler yanked on one side of the solid oak front door. The damn thing stuck as usual. Grabbing the antique door handle with both hands, he wrenched on it. On shrieking hinges, the door gave way and slammed against the opposite wall. In the process, the force catapulted him across the room on his ass.
Shit. Damn. Fuck.
His unwanted guests’ hearty laughter bounced off the walls of the entry. Cussing a blue streak, Tyler shot to his feet with his ego bruised and his butt stinging. Sacked by a door. How fu—frigging embarrassing.
A half-dozen members of the Seattle Steelheads loitered on his front porch.
“Well, are you gonna let us in or roll around on the floor all afternoon? Not much fun, I might add, unless you’ve got a woman with you.” Derek Ramsey, his best buddy, cousin, and the Steelheads’ all-pro wide receiver didn’t wait for an invitation; he pushed past Tyler.
“Who the hell invited you dickheads?” Rubbing his ass, Tyler stood back to allow them in, as if he could stop a couple tons of muscle.
Derek smacked him on the back. “Don’t need an invitation. You missed the Super Bowl parties. We thought we’d bring the party to you.”
“About two months too late.” Tyler pointed out the obvious, but none of his teammates seemed to give a shit. “You’re really here to mooch off me and get a free vacation on the island.”
“Fuck yeah.” Bruiser Mackay, the team’s starting running back and a bigger party boy than Tyler, followed Derek through the door.
“Hey, we should sign that door to a contract. It laid Harris out flat.” Hoss Price, Tyler’s center and a smartass, grinned with unrestrained amusement. Three more guys pushed through the door, rookie defensive end LaDaniel Crates, tight end Spin Statler, and cornerback Bryson Lewis. Tyler started to shut the door but someone else prevented its closing.
“Not hard to do, considering it’s Harris.” Zach Murphy shoved the door open and strutted past Tyler. The man wore a cloak of attitude that even did Tyler proud, except the jerk was his nemesis.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Tyler swung around and blocked the linebacker’s path. Murphy looked him up and down as if to say you and what army? Tyler stood his ground. He couldn’t let a dick like Murphy get even the slightest inkling he might have the upper hand. Sure, he outweighed Tyler by thirty pounds, bench-pressed elephants for fun, and ate rookies for lunch. That didn’t impress Tyler. The Steelheads were his team, not this interloper’s.
“Fostering a little team camaraderie.” Murphy dropped his duffle bag near the rookie’s feet and leaned against the banister. He studied Tyler like a poker player sizing up his opponent.
“Foster it by getting the hell out of my house.” Tyler ignored his teammates gathered around as they waited for bloodshed.
“Is that any way to welcome your new teammate?” Murphy stepped forward, invading Tyler’s personal space until they stood toe-to-toe. No one got in his space. Especially not a washed-up tool like this guy.
“Hey, guys, let’s play nice.” Derek pushed between them, the wimpy-ass assuming the role of peacemaker, as usual.
“How about I spare his life if he gets the fuck out of here in the next five seconds.” So much for curing his potty mouth.
Zach held his hands over his chest. “I’m fucking scared. I’m shaking.”
The guys snickered, especially the defensive players, who no doubt idolized the asshole. The offensive players traded nervous glances, even as they bit back amused smiles.
Assholes, all of them.
Tyler flexed his fingers, itching to plant a fist in the smug bastard’s face. How the hell could the Steelheads sign this guy, considering the public knowledge of how much the two hated each other?
Murphy found this way too amusing. “The boys invited me to hang with them for the weekend.” With a smooth, quick move that left Tyler standing flat-footed, the all-pro slipped around him and joined his teammates in the entry. Tyler growled his disgust.
Murphy jumped on it, making Tyler look like an idiot. “Losing your step there, Harris. Along with your killer instinct.”
Derek turned a complete circle in the two-story entryway. “Damn, this is some place.”
Murphy grunted and faked a yawn. Tyler snarled. The rest of the team played dumb and nodded or murmured agreement with Derek.
“Yeah, the advantage to being on an island is it deters unwanted guests.” Ty leaned against the banister, crossed his arms over his chest, and ignored Murphy, pissed he’d let the guy get under his skin and in front of his team.
“Where the hell have you been?” LaDaniel, the stupid rookie, couldn’t keep his trap shut.
“The rumor going around the league is that you’re in rehab.” Bruiser ran a hand over the sanded banister. “We had to see for ourselves.”
“I might be a lot of things, but I don’t do drugs.”
“I knew better, unless there’s an ego rehab.” His chickenshit cousin stepped between Tyler and Murphy, keeping a wary eye on both of them.
“That’s not what’s been stuck up his ass all season. It’s worse. The word on the street is you’ve lost it.” Murphy’s dark brown eyes glittered with undisguised animosity. Tyler damn well knew what defined it: a guy’s indescribable love of the game, his hunger for the next win, his obsession with all things related to the pigskin. Doubly worse, Tyler was guilty as charged, and Murphy had seen right through his posturing.
“The only thing I’ve lost is my patience—with you. Get the fuck out of my sight, asshole.” Tyler took a step toward Murphy, but Derek put a restraining hand on his arm. Two defensive guys did the same to Murphy. Then there it was, plain as day, the division. The defensive players stood next to Murphy, while the offense gathered around Tyler. Their personal feud had already divided the team, and they were months away from playing their first down.
“You two assholes need to get over it. We’re all on the same team.” Exasperated, Derek squeezed Tyler’s arm so hard he should have left fingerprints.
“Just remember, dick, how many Super Bowl rings I have.” Tyler flipped him off with both hands. “And you have? What is it? Zero?”
“I’m going to have one by the end of next season, or I’ll hold you personally responsible.” Zach looked him up and down, a sneer on his ugly mug. “You’re right about one thing. I don’t have a ring. This is probably my last year. Twelve years in the NFL and not one ring. I took 50 percent of what I could get anywhere else to win that ring. There’s no way in hell an asshole like you is going to ruin it for me.”
“It’ll be tough to win three in a row.” Bryson, the wiry little cornerback, stared at Murphy like he was the second coming.
“Depends on Harris. A QB without a killer instinct might as well take up knitting and leave the game to us real men.” Murphy turned back to Tyler, straining against his teammates’ hands on his arms. “I’m going to make your life a living hell.”
“Yeah, bring it on, asshole. That just scares me shitless.” Tyler leaned into Murphy, ready to smash in the jerk’s face, but Bruiser and Derek held his arms.
Murphy hesitated then flipped Tyler off and swaggered from the room like a frigging turkey the day after Thanksgiving, having survived another year.
It was going to be a damn long football season.
Breathing hard more from anger than exertion, Tyler glared in the direction Murphy had gone. The rest of his team vacated the area, following Murphy down the hall. Tyler heard the sound of a hockey game going in the den. Obviously, Murphy had found the remote and made himself at home with Tyler’s newly installed satellite service.
Tyler spun around and launched an attack on his idiot cousin. “Why the fuck did you bring that fuckhead here?”
“Because he’ll be our defensive team leader next year. You need to settle your differences if we’re going to do a three-peat. Hell, he’s warming up to you already.”
&
nbsp; “I could tell, like a hound dog warms up to a fox.”
His cousin glanced over his shoulder, as if eavesdropping could be added to Murphy’s long list of offenses. “He’s a tough nut to crack. Kinda like you.”
“Two assholes on the team is one too many. By the way, where’s your ball and chain?” Ty didn’t see his cousin’s wife anywhere. Hell, and here he’d thought they’d joined at the hip when they’d said “I do.” Rachel sure as hell castrated the poor bastard. She’d pussy-whipped Derek to the point where he actually believed he enjoyed being married.
“Helping HughJack evaluate talent for the upcoming draft. We’re losing a lot of veterans to free agency this year.”
HughJack could lead them to a few more if Tyler could get his game back. At least Murphy pissed him off, which beat not giving a shit about football.
Tyler made a point of glancing at his watch. “You have plenty of time to make the next ferry.”
“This is a guy weekend. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Fucking fantastic,” Tyler muttered and headed toward the den. He needed a drink. Make it a double. His pansy-assed cousin dogged his heels.
“Ah, come on, you love hanging out with the guys, downing some brews, losing your ass at poker.”
Tyler didn’t need the team to do that. The brothers kicked his ass almost every week. He grabbed a couple beers from the den refrigerator and popped the tops.
Derek snagged the beer offered to him. Murphy stole the other without even a grunt of thanks. The rest of the guys jostled for the remaining beers in the frig or dug into his hard liquor in the bar cabinet. Bruiser, who ate like he had a hollow leg, opened a couple bags of chips. Seconds later, the entire group of uninvited guests sprawled all over his couch and chairs, eating his food and drinking his booze. Each one talked louder to be heard over the din of the conversations.
Obviously annoyed by the noise, Murphy cranked up the sound on the hockey game. His brother played on that particular hockey team.
Pure chaos reigned. Usually Tyler instigated any bedlam related to his team. Today he stood off to one side, an observer instead of a participant, and it was way too reminiscent of how he felt after winning this last Super Bowl.
These guys weren’t leaving anytime soon. With a long-suffering sigh, Tyler took a thirsty gulp and hitched a hip on the corner of the antique barstool. His cousin studied him, most likely reading his expression pretty damn accurately.
“You missed all the Super Bowl parties.” Derek pulled out the other barstool and plopped his ass on it. He took a pull on his beer, and Tyler braced himself for whatever the hell came next.
“Been there, done that. Besides, my car shoved its nose up a cop car’s butt. I had a little explaining to do.”
“Yeah, you sure have a nose for trouble.”
“You let the team down again by driving drunk, and you’re hiding out here.” Murphy inserted himself into Tyler’s private conversation. How he’d managed to hear them over the din, Tyler couldn’t fathom. He shot the jerk a glare. Murphy just raised one eyebrow and saluted Tyler with his beer can.
“Seriously, why are you here? A little scandal’s never driven you out of town before.” Derek turned his back on the rest of the team, blocking Tyler’s view of Murphy. An intentional move, no doubt.
“Some obscure great uncle left me this rundown piece of crap, but I have to live here in hell for ninety days before I take ownership.” Even Derek didn’t know about his friendship this past year with Uncle Art.
“It’s rustic but not really a piece of crap, just needs some cosmetic work.”
“I’m working on restoring it.” Tyler appraised the den, imagining it from his cousin’s neutral position. Faded wood paneling, he wasn’t even sure what kind of wood, but definitely exotic and expensive and most likely irreplaceable, covered the walls, along with an impressive array of scarred wood trim, hardwood floors in need of buffing, and worn area rugs. Arranged around the massive fireplace, pieces of antique furniture were scattered, and not dainty shit, either, but furniture made for men to use. Good thing, considering the size of the men currently sprawled on his furniture.
“You’re doing the work yourself?” The asshole Murphy frowned at the TV then jabbed at the remote. The picture on the TV showed nothing but squares of color, a digital snowstorm.
“Some of it.” Tyler hated admitting to manual labor—not good for his image.
“What the hell’s wrong with this damn TV?” Murphy shook the innocent remote, obviously wishing it were Tyler’s neck instead. Well, back at you, dickwad.
Tyler fought back a grin. “Give it up. My TV service goes in and out. It’s all part of living on the island. Welcome to my life without working electronics.”
Murphy picked up his phone.
Tyler chuckled, loving Murphy’s initiation into island life. “No cell service, either.”
“How the hell do you stand it?” Murphy paced the floor a few times then grabbed another beer. Grumbling, he slumped in the armchair by the window, shoved on his earphones, and ignored them all. Coug helped himself to Murphy’s lap, his paws kneading on the linebacker’s leg. Murphy yelped when the cat’s claws dug too deeply.
“You can leave anytime. Let me show you the door.”
“And miss out on all the fun? Not on your life.” Murphy leaned forward and snapped his fingers at Bryson, who’d found a deck of cards. “Deal me in, Bry.” Bryson scrambled to do so. Tyler rolled his eyes at the pathetic way the defense catered to Murphy.
“So how’s it going? Really.” Derek lowered his voice and leaned closer. Tyler could have sworn Murphy’s ears pricked up, even though the guy faked disinterest.
“Just counting down the days until freedom.”
Derek shrewdly assessed his cousin. “You don’t seem to mind it here that much.”
“I hate it. I’m just being a good sport.”
“You are never a good sport.” Derek knew him too well. He didn’t buy Tyler’s bullshit. “Hiding out isn’t going to give your attitude a kick in the ass. Plus, as soon as you come out of hiding, the press will be all over you.”
Tyler sucked on his beer and didn’t answer. Tolerating a weekend with these assholes required a lot of beer. He’d send the rookie to the store for several more cases.
Derek changed tactics. “What’s with the cat? You hate cats.” Coug, the traitor lap slut, luxuriated on Murphy’s lap. The man petted the cat absently as he stared at his poker hand.
“I was taken hostage and turned into slave labor.”
Derek’s grin turned ruthless, the rat bastard. “Ah, I get it. You’ve met a woman, and she’s into cats.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact that hit too close to home.
Ty shrugged, not about to give away anything.
“You have. You’re an animal lover, but not cats. Never cats. They’re not manly. It’d ruin your bad-boy image. Who is she?”
“No one you know. Have you seen Cass?” He patted himself on the back for his deft sidestep.
“Nope, she left town right after the Super Bowl and never looked back.”
“Oh, well.” He meant it. He didn’t really care, sad but true. He’d spent years with the woman, and she’d barely caused a blip on his emotional radar. He’d bet the feeling was mutual.
“She was all wrong for you, Ty. You were toxic for each other.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Tyler put the empty bottle in the bar sink. He popped the top off a cheap beer and handed it to Derek then opened a microbrew for himself.
“I liked her, but not for you.” Derek stared at the beer and frowned before taking a sip and making a face.
“Weird thing is I don’t miss her.”
“Not even the make-up sex?”
Tyler shrugged and his cousin studied him with shrewd appraisal. Even Murphy turned his head to hear the answer.
“Aha. I knew it. There’s someone else.”
“I’ve found a hot body to warm my bed.”
“Just a hot body? That’s all?” Derek’s skeptical expression said it all. He considered Tyler full of shit. “By the way, Steve wants to know what the hell is up with you.”
Tyler sighed. His cousin was an annoying bastard, and his agent, Steve, even worse. “Look around you. I’m stuck in nowhere hell.”
“That doesn’t stop you from returning your calls.”
“It does when I have to travel five miles just to get cell service.”
“What’s stuck up your ass, anyway? Don’t think I didn’t notice your attitude during our last playoff run and the Super Bowl.”
“I always have attitude. I’m the king of attitude.”
“No, actually, it was the lack of attitude that worried me and everyone who knows you. You were on autopilot, and you were just good enough to pull it off.”
“No one really knows me.”
“I do.” His cousin stared him straight in the eye, his gaze unwavering. Ty knew he’d been outed.
Derek did know him better than anyone, but even his best buddy didn’t know what lurked in Tyler’s murky depths. Most times, Tyler didn’t know himself.
“Ty, you won the Super Bowl on pure technical ability. You weren’t bringing it on the field. Our defense won the game for us, and you know it.”
Ty looked away, unable to answer his cousin’s question because he didn’t know the answer himself.
“What’s wrong, Ty? Hey, man, if you’re not leaving your heart out on the field every game, you need to hang up the cleats.”
The room had gone unusually quiet. Murphy grunted his agreement but, for once, kept his mouth shut. The rest of his teammates studied their cards and pretended they didn’t hear a thing.
“Nothing’s up with me. Nothing.” And that was the problem. He felt like a big fat nothing. The only time he felt alive was with Lavender, but that was a spring fling. As soon as his ninety days were up, he’d haul ass to the first ferry out of here, sell the place, and never look back.
Never.
* * * * *
Lavender snuck through the gate between her property and Tyler’s, more than a little peeved at him for bringing up her father once again. For a man who insisted on keeping their relationship purely physical, he sure got himself involved in her family dynamics. She didn’t know what to make of the mixed messages he kept sending.
Snap Decision: The Originals (Seattle Steelheads Series Book 2) Page 15
