The fans cheered, and the Kings’ bench went wild. Devon was jumping up and down, arm-in-arm with Mahoney. Coach Bass went into his little dance and turquoise towels, Kings’ colors, were waved and twirled in the stands. Robbie Anthony stepped up and kicked for the extra point. It was good. The Kings were only behind one field goal, three measly points.
After the kick-off, Drake put in his mouthpiece, donned his helmet, and hit the field. Both teams were pumped. There were only seven minutes left in the game. It was do-or-die time for the Kings. The determined expressions on the faces of the Sidewinders offensive line told Devon that they were for real and not giving up.
The team was depending on him. Everyone was responsible, but the pressure was on Devon to intercept a pass and run for a touchdown. Just breaking up a play wouldn’t be good enough at this point. Mahoney gave him a thumbs up and a nod. Andrew Boyer wasn’t stupid. He knew Drake was gunning for his receiver, so he kept the ball on the ground. Running down the clock was to the Sidewinder’s advantage. The less time the Kings had to make up the few points they lacked, the better. So, Boyer kept inching his way toward the goal, not appearing to be in a hurry. Every third down play, the Sidewinders put the pedal to the metal and charged ahead, with an eye on the ten yard marker.
To Devon’s deep disappointment, they made first down every time. He watched the clock, his anxiety growing. Sweat broke out on his body, draining him of water, making him thirsty. He ignored it, focusing all his energy and attention on the field.
Then, it happened. Forced to pass by a third down and fifteen, Boyer drifted back, raising his arm. Devon’s heart began to beat out of his chest. He watched the ball while he ran back to cover Willis. The two men vied for position. First Willis was closer, then Devon, as the wide receiver pushed off from him, Devon tugged him back. They elbowed each other in the ribs, pushing, shoving, and scrambling to get the ball without committing pass interference. A fifteen yard penalty now would mean the end for either team.
No ballet was ever this delicate or intricate. Devon took a breath as he inched forward then pushed off, rising into the air, higher and higher. The ball headed straight for him. Joy pumped through his heart. He had this. As his body soared, both arms opened to receive the slippery pigskin. They closed around it, bringing a grin to the cornerback’s face.
Until he was hit so hard, he wondered where the train had come from.
Elvin Tuttle, a two hundred and fifty pound offensive lineman hit Drake, taking them both airborne. The big man’s arms were around the cornerback, forming a spiral. Devon attempted to right himself and managed to get his leg down, one foot almost on the ground. But Tuttle landed on top of him, causing his ankle to twist slightly and his cleats to cling to the turf.
The cornerback screamed as the big man bounced off him. Tuttle pushed up immediately. Pain seared through Drake. His ankle was on fire. Shit, fuck, it’s broken. The whistle blew, but Devon couldn’t hear anything but the pounding agony reverberating in his head. He clutched his leg and rolled around on the field. Within seconds, the trainer and the doctor were at his side.
Adrenaline kicked in, and the injury went into shock, relieving the pain a little. He tried to stand, but his ankle hurt so much he saw stars. The trainer signaled for the cart. Humiliation and hatred for the big ape who did this to him mixed with intense agony. His mood went south. He needed to get off the field before tears started. When he got on the motorized wagon, fans stood and cheered. He waved, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg.
Inside, the medic went to work. They took a quick x-ray and wrapped his ankle.
“I don’t think it’s broken, Devon. Sprained, badly sprained, but not broken. Thank God,” the doctor said, as he manipulated the cornerback’s joint, pressing with his fingertips. “I’ll know more after I study the x-ray.”
“I gotta get back out there.”
“Not to play,” the man said. “You’re done for today.”
“I’ve got to see the game.”
Drake threw on sweats so the doc could fasten a temporary boot. They gave him a crutch, shot him full of painkillers, and he hobbled out to the field. But time had passed, at least twenty minutes. He had arrived for the final whistle.
His gaze shot up to the scoreboard.
His eyes widened.
Chapter Seven
There it was—twenty to seventeen, Sidewinders win. Shame, anger, and sadness filled him at the same time. He wobbled, suddenly aware of his lack of energy. I fuckin’ lost the game. He closed his eyes. A dull ache emanating from his shoulder joined the ankle pain now fading after the drugs. The narcotics kicked in, making his mind a jumble as he tried to figure how much of their loss he was responsible for.
He hobbled back to the locker room with his teammates. Everyone was silent as they peeled off sweaty uniforms and toed off muddy cleats. The only sound was the hiss of shower spray before it hit exhausted, aching bodies. Devon supported himself with a crutch for a quick lather and rinse. The trainer helped him dress and get his boot back on.
The shame at his poor performance on the field hurt more than his leg or his shoulder. Coach Bass would never pin anything on him, the man never did. Wasn’t built that way. But the responsibility for the loss fell squarely on Devon’s shoulders, at least for the defensive part. And he knew it.
“There are a couple of anxious young ladies to see you, Devon,” the doctor said, interrupting the cornerback’s thoughts. “They’re right outside.”
Drake gave a rueful grin and hobbled toward the entrance.
Samantha threw herself into his arms and sobbed. “Devon, are you okay? What happened? You’re hurt?” she babbled into his neck then pushed back to look at him.
He chuckled. “It’s not so bad. Honestly, Sam. It’s not broken. Don’t cry.” He patted her back as his gaze connected with Stormy’s. She hesitated, about twenty feet away, staring at him and wiping tears off her cheeks.
Samantha looked up and followed his gaze. She stepped back. Devon moved toward the redhead, but she beat him to it and was in his arms in a flash. He hugged her, feeling her body heave as she sobbed into his chest.
“Honey, it’s all right. A sprain, the doc said. I’ll be okay.”
“I thought he was gonna crush you, kill you. That big ape,” Stormy muttered.
Sam joined them for a three-way hug.
“What’s the verdict?” Bullhorn asked, as he shuffled through the archway.
“Just a bad sprain. I’ll need some OT, but that’s all.”
“Good news,” the lineman said, slapping his teammate on the back.
Devon watched Bull’s gaze settle on Samantha. The big man gave her a nod and a grin.
“Sorry you lost, Sly,” she said.
“Thanks. Your brother was amazing. We’da lost by a lot more if he hadn’t shut down their wide receiver.”
Devon’s sister smiled. Bull raised a hand and was gone.
“I’m starving. Let’s eat.” A vision of steak and baked potato sat seductively in his brain. “Steak. Let’s go to Rosie’s.”
“That’s expensive,” Samantha said.
“It’s a wound-licking dinner. Come on. I’m paying. But you’re driving.”
“Damn.” Stormy looked down. “It’s your right foot too.”
“Yep. I’ll need a chauffeur for a while.”
She piped up, “I volunteer.”
“You’re hired.” He kissed her, slipped the crutch under his right arm, and led the way.
As Stormy drove to the tony restaurant, guilt gnawed at Dev. Depression circled his brain, but he didn’t want to bring the women down. The meds had him a bit groggy, feeling no pain.
“I want a gallon of water. Two thick steaks, baked potatoes, and coleslaw.”
“Rosie’s Steak House, coming up,” Stormy said.
“Bull’s pretty nice to you…even though you hate him,” Sam put in from the backseat.
“I don’t hate him. I know he’s just trying to get into your pants. You do
n’t need his shit.”
“You don’t know that.”
He turned his head and raised his eyebrows. “Really? Like he’s not a player?”
“He’s been very nice to me.”
“Yeah. Setting you up, then pow! He moves in for the kill. Like a snake.”
“You’re mean, you know that?” Samantha crossed her arms, her voice pouty.
“I’m protecting you, Samantha. You should be grateful.”
“I don’t need you to protect me. I’m twenty-eight, not ten. I can take care of myself.”
“I’ve been protecting you since you were born. And you, too, Miss Stormy, for a lotta years. What would you girls do without me?”
“We’re not girls,” Stormy said, through clenched teeth.
“You sure as hell aren’t a boy,” he snickered.
“Speaking of getting into someone’s pants,” Sam put in.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Devon started.
Stormy screeched the car to a halt and pulled into a driveway. She turned to face Devon. “Look. I know how you feel about us, but you’ve got to can this overprotective crap. Samantha is an adult. She’s been taking care of you for years. Why don’t you cut her some slack? If she makes a mistake, it’s on her. Maybe this guy isn’t so bad. You don’t know.”
Devon stroked his stubbly chin and watched his sister in the mirror. “I’m all she has. We stick together. I know these guys. The serious ones are already married. The others are players.”
“Are you a player?” Samantha shot back.
“Well, no. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve dated around. But I’m not really a player.”
“Maybe Sly isn’t either.”
“You have to trust me. These guys just want to get laid. Then, they move on.”
“Fine.” Samantha turned her gaze out the window as her fingers picked at the zipper of her jacket. “You know everything. All seeing, all knowing Devon Drake. Don’t you think someone could be interested in me for more than sex?” Her voice wobbled.
“Come on, Sam. Don’t use the waterworks on me. You know that’s not what I meant.”
Samantha sniffled as she rummaged through her purse for a tissue.
“Is that what it is with me?” Stormy asked. “Are you a player?”
“Are you kidding?” Devon turned his attention to Stormy, took her hand, and kissed it. “It’s not like that with you.”
Stormy slipped her fingers from his. “Let’s go. I think we all need food.” She put the car in gear and eased back onto the road. They were at Rosie’s within five minutes.
* * * *
When they arrived home, Stormy noticed Devon was fading. His face was pale, his brow creased. Samantha had arrived at a truce with her brother over dinner, but had excused herself upon entering the house. Tension crackled between brother and sister.
“Do you want me to stay with you tonight?” Stormy asked.
“I can’t do anything. Won’t be much fun for you.”
“Does that mean yes or no?”
He shrugged. “If you want to.”
“I think you’ll need me. What if you want a glass of water?”
He chuckled. “Right. Good thinking.”
She took his hand and led him into his bedroom. Slowly and gently, she stripped him down to his boxers. After pulling down the covers, she stepped back to let him slide in. She hightailed it to her room, where she yanked a short gown from the closet before returning to Devon’s. He was almost asleep. His eyes were at half-mast. She undressed quickly, threw on the nightie, and got in next to him.
His body was warm. She snuggled into his shoulder. As he tried to roll over, he cried out.
“Your ankle?”
“Yeah. Hurts like crazy when I try to move it.”
“Lie still.”
He closed his eyes. Stormy sat up and ran her hands down his chest, through the dusting of dark hair there. She dug her fingers into his muscles, pressed, and rubbed. Then, she worked on his arms. He moaned with pleasure, barely awake.
“Let’s try to turn you over.”
He moved slowly, hissing when he flipped his foot. Stormy went to work. She started massaging his shoulders, digging in to reach the deep tissues, but avoiding the bruise on his left blade.
He folded his arms and rested his cheek on his hands. “We lost because of me.”
“What?” She stopped for a second then continued, working her way down his back slowly.
“Yeah. I flubbed at least three chances to intercept the ball.”
“You did not lose the game. It’s a team effort.”
“I didn’t do what I was supposed to do. I tried, but my body was sluggish.”
“You’re not responsible.”
“Wait and see how the guys feel about it.”
“No one places blame, do they? I mean, it’s a team sport, right? Why didn’t the offense score more? It’s not all on you.”
“Maybe not all. But some. I fucked up,” he said. “Shit that feels good.”
Stormy did his butt a little, but didn’t want to arouse him or herself, so she quickly moved on to his calves. The muscles were stiff. Guess it doesn’t matter. The season is over now anyway. So what if his muscles are tight? He’ll just be taking it easy for a while.
She was gentle with him. By the time she finished, he was snoring softly. She sat back on her haunches and smiled. Then, she pulled up the covers and switched off the light. She inched closer. When her warm body touched his, he reached out and threw his arm across her waist. Stormy relaxed and drifted off.
He did wake up in the middle of the night. He hissed at the pain in his ankle and shoulder when he tried to shift position.
She raised her head, her eyes half closed with sleep. “What is it?”
“I’m thirsty. I feel like I swallowed the desert.”
“Don’t move.” She threw back the covers and padded to the bathroom. The room was cold, as the heat automatically went way down during the night. The floor was like a giant block of ice. She shivered as she filled a cup with water.
When she returned, he used only the massive strength of his arms and abs to settle into a sitting position. He took the glass from her with two hands and drank. His gaze breezed over her. Her gown was a soft aqua and practically see-through. His stare seared her skin as he took in every bit of her with his eyes. Self-conscious that she looked a mess, she tried to run her fingers through her tangled hair.
He raised a palm to stop her. “Don’t. I like you like that. You look like we just made love.”
She sensed a flush in her face. Happiness flowed through her.
When he finished, he put the cup on the nightstand, cradled her cheek, and kissed her softly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She returned the vessel then raced back into bed, rubbing her arms to keep warm.
“Samantha says we save a ton of money turning the heat practically off. But if you have to get up during the night, you’ll freeze your balls off.”
She slid under the covers, next to him.
He turned on his side, again gasping at the pain, and tucked her up against his chest. “Thank you for staying with me.”
I love you. Where else would I be when you need me?
He kissed her hair.
“Goodnight, Dev. Hope you feel better tomorrow.”
“’Night, baby.”
* * * *
In the morning, Stormy awoke early. She crept out of bed without disturbing Devon. After padding downstairs, she made a pot of coffee. As she sat by the window sipping the hot beverage, she gazed at the snowy woods behind the house. Her mind turned back to the conversation before dinner. Is he a player? Do I just move into his bedroom now, a quick, easy, and convenient replacement for Jackie? Is it over with her? Will she return? Why would he be with me instead of a supermodel? Doesn’t make sense.
Questions roiled around inside her head, yet she had no answers. Only Devon Drake could tell her what she n
eeded to know. And he was asleep, knocked out, maybe for hours yet.
An uneasiness gripped her. Her stomach groaned, and her heart beat increased. Was she being used—a Jackie substitute until he could have the real thing? He’d been so sweet, was it just to get her into bed? Stormy shook her head. That’s not the Devon Drake I grew up with. But people change. Success, money, can change people. Did it make the nice boy I knew a user?
She pulled a container of yogurt out of the fridge and refilled her mug. Sitting at the kitchen table, spooning the food into her mouth, she pondered. Her gut told her he was still a good guy, even though he’d humiliated her in high school. She’d never figured out why he’d done that. But now, it was so long ago, it didn’t matter. She had forgiven him, yet wondered if he’d do it again.
Truth was, it was too late for her. She couldn’t stop caring about him. She had loved him for too long and saying goodbye was not an option at this point. If he tossed her aside, she’d deal with it. But only then would she be willing to change her opinion of the cornerback. Until then, she’d be happy loving him.
“My brother is an idiot.”
Stormy jumped at the sound of the sharp voice.
“What?”
“Devon’s a jerk.” Samantha padded in, wearing a robe, her dark hair tangled. She filled a mug and topped off Stormy’s.
“Give him a break, Sam. He’s only worried about you.”
“Hah! That’s what he says. He’s only worried I’ll get my own life and stop taking care of him.”
“Not Dev.”
“Yes, Dev. He’s a bit selfish, always has been. He’s got it good now. He does what he loves and has a live-in cook, chauffeur, laundry woman and maid—me. Not bad. So why should he do anything to encourage me to find a guy? Maybe get married. If I do, then he loses big time.”
“He can hire someone to do those things.”
“But then he’d have to pay.”
“Isn’t he paying you?”
Sam shook her head. “I get free room and board. So, I guess that’s kind of even.”
“He needs a special diet.”
Devon Drake, Cornerback Page 9
