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Keep My Heart (Top Shelf Romance Book 7)

Page 43

by Lex Martin


  I pull out my phone and Google him to check for an update on his injury. Nothing much more than I already know, except that they’ve taken him to the hospital for tests. There are only a few games left in his rookie season, and this has happened.

  Because of me?

  I choke on guilt, and the bright lights of the skyline blur through my tears while we travel the city’s streets. As soon as we pull into the garage, I unsnap Sarai and scoot to the door. Ramone is already there, holding it open for me. I don’t even look at him, but rush inside and up to the nursery, laying her down in her crib and making sure her monitor is on.

  I turn on the huge television in our bedroom built into the wall over the fireplace. Avery Hughes, one of SportsCo’s most popular anchors, shares a split screen with a reporter in the field.

  “What can you tell us, John?” Avery asks. “Any news on August West?”

  “He’s inside.” John points a thumb over his shoulder to the hospital behind him. “All we’ve heard is that they’re doing tests to gauge the extent of the injury. It looked pretty bad, but we won’t know until the results are in.”

  A small commotion off-camera distracts John for a second, and then he jerks his attention back to Avery.

  “We may have something.” He gestures for the cameraman to follow him. “It’s MacKenzie Decker, San Diego Waves president of basketball operations.”

  The reporters gathered at the hospital entrance slow Decker’s progress, clustering around him with boom mics and recorders and curiosity.

  “What can you tell us, Deck?” one reporter yells. “Is August out for the rest of the season?”

  “How bad is the injury?” another asks before he has time to answer.

  “Is the leg broken?” The question is hurled at Decker, prompting a quick frown on the handsome face.

  “I played basketball, not baseball, guys,” Deck says, stopping to answer their questions, a strained smile canting one side of his mouth. “You keep zinging these fast balls at me. Gimme a chance to answer one.”

  A few of the reporters chuckle, but no one moves, waiting for answers to their questions.

  “It’s too early to say how serious the injury is,” Deck continues, his eyes graver than the smile firmly planted on his face. “As a precaution, it’s safe to say August probably won’t return for the last few games of the season, which is tough. Everyone knows he’s a once-in-a-lifetime player. I have no doubt he’ll be just fine.” He glances past them to the hospital entrance. “Now I better get in there and check on our boy.” He waves, ignoring the follow-up questions, and makes his way inside.

  When the camera cuts back to Avery, it catches her in an unguarded moment, and genuine concern shadows her pretty face. It’s been rumored for months that she and MacKenzie Decker are dating. I wonder if she knows August personally. Her expression definitely goes beyond the bounds of professionalism.

  She looks into the camera, composing herself and slipping her reporter’s mask back on. “Keep us posted, John. Now, I think we have a comment from the other side of the court. Speculation around the league about a dirty play by Caleb Bradley started almost before West hit the floor. I think we have some sound on that from the Stingers’ locker room.”

  Caleb’s face comes onscreen, his expression concerned and contrite as he stands by his locker, grabbing his leather jacket. His hair is still damp from the shower.

  “I can’t say how sorry I am this happened.” He gulps as if it’s hard to swallow, his eyes blue, free and clear of malice. “August and I have been playing together since we were kids, and of course there’s a friendly rivalry between us. We bring out the best in each other on court. I respect his game, and he’s a great guy. I unequivocally deny that it was a dirty play. I would never do something like this, and I think my reputation speaks for itself.” He looks down at the floor, shaking his head and running a hand over the fair hair curling at his collar.

  “He’s in my prayers, and I hope he’s gonna be okay.” He slides his jacket onto his powerful shoulders and looks solemnly at the reporters circling him. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get home to my fiancée and baby girl.”

  Fiancée?

  We’re not engaged, and he’s never said that publicly.

  Yeah, something has definitely shifted. I sit on the edge of our bed and wait for him to come home so I can find out what it all means.

  August

  “You stupid motherfucker.”

  Decker’s anger hurts almost as much as my leg. They gave me painkillers before we even left the arena, so the blinding pain has dulled to a persistent throb. I struggle to focus on Decker’s words as the drugs sap my lucidity.

  “I told you, West,” Decker says, drawing a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I warned you about this shit with Bradley.”

  I don’t speak. I fucked up, and I have to take this.

  “And when we had the game won and I advised you to sit out the last minute, you what?” Decker demands rhetorically. “Needed to piss a circle around Caleb to prove you got the bigger dick?”

  My mom clears her throat from the corner.

  Decker grimaces. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “No problem,” Mom says. “But maybe you can save the recriminations for when my son is not in unbearable pain and waiting for the surgeon to arrive.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Decker dips his head in deference to her. “You’re right. I’m just a little frustrated.”

  “I understand. We all are, but August getting better is the priority, and the only thing I care about,” my mother says quietly. “Now, I’ll leave you two alone. My husband is on his way. I’ll go meet him.”

  The door closes behind her, and Decker looks back to me.

  “She’s right, and I’m sorry.” Disappointment and fury wrestle in the look he lays on me. “I feel bad for you, but I’m also so damn angry with you.”

  “Not as angry as I am with myself.” I bang the bed with my fist, shaking my head at my own recklessness.

  The door opens, and the orthopedic surgeon walks in, Dr. Clive.

  “How you feeling, August?” he asks, glancing at the folder in his hands.

  “High as a kite. They gave me some painkillers.” I release a heavy sigh and wince at the needles of pain in my leg. “But it still kinda hurts like hell.”

  “What are we looking at, Doc?” Decker leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets.

  Dr. Clive’s brows lift over the silver rims of his glasses. If the bone jutting from my leg didn’t tell me this can’t be good, the twist of his lips and the reluctance in his eyes do.

  “You’ve got a compound fracture, August.” He steps over to the wall, places a film on the mounted X-ray monitor, and points to the image. “You see the break here and here in the tibia and fibula? Good news is that the break is clear. No damage to the nerves, tendons, or ligaments.”

  “Why do I feel like there’s bad news, too?” I need to pay attention, but between the drugs and the pain that persists despite them, it’s hard to focus.

  “We need to start prepping for surgery right away,” Dr. Clive says. “The bone broke through the skin and has been exposed to air. There’s risk of infection. We need to do immediate intramedullary rodding of the tibia. We’ll place a titanium rod down the center of the tibia and then further stabilize it with small screws in between the rod and the bone above and below the fracture site.”

  “A rod?” I tip my head back into the pillow. “Will I have that forever?”

  “Yeah, afraid so.” The grim line of Dr. Clive’s mouth eases the smallest bit. “Think of it as another bone, but one that’ll never break.”

  “What’s the recovery like on this, Doc?” Decker asks. His frown has grown heavier with every word Dr. Clive speaks.

  "Being optimistic, it could take anywhere from six to twelve months to return to fully competitive basketball after something like this.” He pulls the images down and shoves them back in the file. “You’ll
be in an Aircast for about two months, August. And, of course, aggressive rehab from there. Most athletes can return to pre-injury levels. It just takes a lot of time and hard work.”

  “I’ll be ready for rehab, no matter what it takes,” I assure the doctor, but mostly Decker. I know he’s concerned for me, but basketball is a business, and I’m a commodity—one in which the team has invested a lot of money.

  “Let’s get the surgery behind us, and then we can talk about rehab,” Dr. Clive says, walking to the door. “I’m going to prep. We’ll be back for you in twenty minutes or so.”

  The prognosis is better than I thought it would be, but I still feel like an idiot. If I could take that last minute back, if I could reconsider rubbing the win in Caleb’s face, I would.

  “Look, Deck, I’m sorry.” I force down my shame and regret. “I know it was stupid. I just . . .”

  What can I say? Caleb has the girl I want? I jeopardized a thirty-million-dollar contract for a woman who lives with another man, has had his baby, and already turned me down? A woman I’ve only seen four times? If I ever see Iris again, I’ll walk the other way.

  Who am I kidding? In that charged moment Iris and I shared tonight, I couldn’t even look away. What makes me think I could walk away from her?

  And that makes me a fool so many times over I lose count.

  “Just worry about getting through the surgery.” Decker forces a half-hearted grin through his obvious concern. “I’ll rip you a new one when you can take it a little better.”

  The door opens, and my mom and Matt come in, accompanied by my stepbrother. He’s tall and blond, practically Matt’s spitting image.

  “Hey, you can’t be here, Foster,” Deck tells him sternly. “We don’t need agents sniffing around. Not even sure how you got in. Team and family only.”

  We’ve been so careful to keep our connection discrete, I forget even Decker doesn’t know.

  “It’s okay, Deck,” I tell him. “He is family. Jared’s my stepbrother.”

  Iris

  I stand as soon as Caleb enters our bedroom. We watch one another in wary silence for a few moments before he walks over and drops a kiss on my cheek. I jerk back, glaring up at him. “Don’t, Caleb.”

  His eyebrows arch over the hard humor in his eyes before he shrugs and walks toward the closet, taking off his jacket. I follow him closely, determined to have this out.

  “What was that tonight?” I ask, my voice brittle.

  “What was what?” he asks, a little too casually, too easily, but his shoulders tense beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

  “August.”

  At his name, Caleb meets my eyes in the closet mirror. He sneers and huffs a breath. “Oh, you mean his little fall?”

  “Little fall?” I walk to stand in front of him, staring up and searching his face. “His career could be over, Caleb. Why would you do that?”

  His eyes are blistering cold blue. “And what exactly are you accusing me of, Iris?”

  “It was a dirty play.”

  The back of his hand slams into my mouth, shoving any other words down my throat. I stumble. My back hits the mirror, sending spikes of pain through my shoulder.

  I’ve never been hit in the face. My mother didn’t bother disciplining me. Though I saw men hit her and my aunt from time to time, no man has ever hit me, so I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known that the first hit, that baptism into violence, doesn’t just sting the flesh. It startles the soul.

  For the space of a broken heartbeat, I stare at him. Every sensation and emotion—pain, anger, fear, panic—converge into the ache of my teeth and the throb of my lips. I touch my mouth, feeling the smear of blood, but not taking my eyes off him in case he strikes again.

  As the shock wears off, my fingers twitch, every muscle longing to strike back, but I have the presence of mind to know I can’t. Lotus said she saw a shadow on Caleb’s soul. Well, I see a snake—a boa constrictor of lean muscle who could crush me with barely exerted effort.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” He looks contrite. “I was just so upset that you would accuse me of a dirty play. It was instinct. It won’t happen again.”

  He steps toward me, his hand reaching for my face.

  My hand raises to ward off another blow. He frowns and takes another step, trapping me between the mirror and his huge body. I swallow my fear and shock so I can speak. “I told you what would happen if you ever did that, Caleb.” My voice sounds strong, but every cell in my body is trembling. It’s an act I have to hold up because I know he will exploit any weakness.

  As soon as my words hit the air, I realize I’ve made a tactical error. The phony remorse melts like a plastic mask in a furnace. And from the fire, his true face appears, all bolts and steel.

  “Oh, now I remember.” He folds his arms across the width of his chest. “Something about you leaving with my daughter if I ever hit you, and good luck trying to find you. Do I have it right, Iris?”

  “I am leaving.” I slide away from the mirror, my back straight and my stride confident, even though the very blood in my veins is shaking. He’s twice my size. The force of his hand against my lips—that strike still hurts.

  I ignore the pain and focus on getting Sarai and me out of this house unscathed. I grab an overnight bag and toss a few items of clothing in, not looking at him as I shove a pair of Chucks in, too.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Laughter threads through his words.

  I don’t bother answering, but walk swiftly into the bedroom, scooping my purse as I go. I make my way silently into the nursery down the hall, and in the faint light of the half-lit sconces on her wall, grab the essentials and a few outfits for Sarai. I pick her up carefully, praying she doesn’t wake.

  When I step into the hall, Caleb is there, leaning against the stair banister.

  “You actually think I’ll let you leave me.” He chuckles, shaking his head.

  “We can discuss custody,” I reply emotionlessly. “But this is over. We’re over, Caleb.”

  The cruel amusement fades until all that’s left is cruel.

  “Try to leave me.” His words are wrapped in nails and heavy with warning. The darker centers of his eyes, the irises, are shards of glass. “I want to see you try.”

  I don’t pause to contemplate what that means, but rush down the steps. I freeze in the foyer, surprised to see Ramone still here and hovering as if waiting for direction. He looks up the stairwell at Caleb watching from the landing. I glance up to see Caleb shake his head once. Ramone steps back. I race to the garage, my heart pounding as if I’m in a fox hunt with hounds nipping at my heels, but no one follows me.

  I snap Sarai into her car seat, amazed that she hasn’t even stirred, and stow our bags in the back of my car, shooting furtive glances at the garage door the whole time. No movement.

  I start the car and pull out, rounding the circular driveway and gunning it as soon as I hit the road. I check my rearview mirror every few seconds, certain Caleb must be following, but there are no lights trailing me. The frigid certainty in his voice haunts me. Like he was so sure I wouldn’t get away. My sore lips pull painfully into a crooked, relieved smile. I shake a metric ton from my shoulders and tip my head back into the buttery leather of the headrest. Things haven’t been right between us for a long time, but I had no idea how wrong they would go.

  He hit me.

  I’m still reeling inside and aching where he hit my mouth with the full force of his body behind his hand. I didn’t think this through beyond getting out of the house, but it’s so late. I’ll find a room for the night and get a fresh start tomorrow.

  I pull into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn off the interstate. It’s not the expensive hotels Caleb always reserves for us, but I never cared before and I certainly don’t care tonight. My freedom is the only luxury on my mind.

  I park, wrangling my bag and Sarai’s while bundling her in the blanket against my chest. I juggle everything in my arms, struggling to get t
he door open without waking her.

  “I need a room for the night, please,” I whisper to the front desk attendant. I would love for Sarai to sleep through this entire ordeal.

  “Of course.” The young man’s eyes narrow, and a smile breaks through his professional demeanor. “I know you.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask cautiously, patting Sarai’s little bottom.

  “Well, not know you.” He offers an almost shy smile when he takes my credit card. “I saw you and your baby on TV tonight.”

  The jumbotron.

  I can’t think about being on the big screen without remembering the moments after when, in an arena of twenty thousand people, it felt like August and I were alone in an electric bubble. Each moment I’ve ever spent in his company had played through my mind, and I’d cherished every one. The kind, funny, thoughtful man should have seemed at odds with the feral competitor on the floor, but he wasn’t. All the disparate parts fit snugly and rightly to form this man I desperately want to know better.

  And maybe now I will.

  It’s an ill-timed thought, but I’d be lying if I didn’t at least admit to myself that with things over between Caleb and me, there will be something with August. Even if I don’t pursue it, he will. The knowledge sends a tiny thrill through me.

  “Um, ma’am, your card has been declined.” The awkward phrase snatches me from my thoughts.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” I glance from the black card extended between his two fingers to the frown on his face. “Are you sure? There’s no limit on it.”

  “Right. It’s a Black card, but . . .” He hesitates, his eyes speculative. “This card has been reported stolen.”

  “Stolen?” The word emerges loud and harsh in the quiet lobby, garnering the attention of two people at the other end of the desk also checking in.

  “That’s impossible,” I say in a softer voice.

 

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