Not My Match Page 9

  I stiffen. “I just want the best for you. You deserve . . . love or whatever.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “So do you.”

  I frown, shoving that sentiment away. I don’t let anyone close enough for love. Not anymore. “You just need a good guy.”

  “He can be a bad boy—in bed.” She eases out of my grasp and walks to the den to grab her heels, leaving me uneasy. This Mike topic needs a serious conversation.

  She stops at the mirror in the hall to let her hair down, only to finagle it into two plaited braids, tying them off with string she must have found in my kitchen junk drawer. She looks at herself for several seconds, frowning.

  “Where are you going?” I ask as she walks to the den and grabs her backpack, stuffing her laptop and phone inside. Part of me isn’t ready for her to run off. I liked breakfast. I like talking. “You look cute in shorts and heels.”

  “Need to check on Myrtle, and these clothes will have to do until I get more.” She makes her way to the door while I tag along. She pauses and glances at a shivering Pookie at her feet, then down at a pair of expensive Italian leather loafers. I already tossed the three-hundred-dollar sneakers into the laundry room. I have no clue if I can even wash them, but I can’t seem to bring myself to care.

  She winces. “I took her out earlier, but she’s a nervous wreck, and she might pee again. I guess I can run down real quick—”

  I open the door for her. “I’ll take her down. Go see your friend.”

  Her phone pings with a text, and she looks at me warily. “It’s Elena asking how my classes are. She must be up early in Hawaii or hasn’t even gone to sleep yet. I’ll call her later and tell her about the fire.”

  I see the problem right away. “Don’t mention you’re staying here.”

  She nods quickly. “Mum’s the word. Jack will never know. I’ll be gone before they get back.”

  “Right.” I stick my hands in my pockets and follow her to the elevator and push the button for her, eyeing her legs. “Is your ankle all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Knees?”

  “Good.”

  “Any more bad dreams?”

  “No.”

  I heave out a breath. “Giselle. About this Mike guy . . .”—who I don’t like on principle—“instead of rushing out for a fling with him, why don’t you let me find you a nice guy? Not Aiden, not any football player, and not any guy on the app.”

  The elevator opens as we stare at each other.

  She frowns. “Not Lawrence.”

  Fuck no. Lawrence is a woman-eater of the first order. “Let me work on it, okay? I have someone in mind.” I think.

  She stares at the floor, then back up at me. A strange expression flits over her face, and I think it’s disappointment.

  “Whatever. You find him, and I’ll meet him.”

  Relief wafts around me. I dangle Red’s key, the extra one I grabbed from the foyer. “Well, if you’re gonna do the walk of shame to my lobby, at least drive a badass car.”

  “We slept together because of my dream!”

  “Uh-huh. The valet’s name is Richard. Password to drive my ride is ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me.’” No one drives her but me, but because Aiden begs to drive it when he’s over, I made up a silly password to taunt him with, and he keeps trying to guess it and approach the valet.

  I laugh and toss her the keys. She catches them, her eyes wide. “Devon! Are you sure?”

  I usher her into the elevator and push the button for the lobby. “Can you drive a stick?”

  “Was driving a tractor when I was ten.”

  I wince. “Not quite the same, baby, but I trust you. Bring her back in one piece, and I’ll tell you why I kissed you.”

  She sputters just as the door shuts in her face.

  After letting Pookie have another pee, I leave the penthouse, stopping at the valet’s desk and asking for the Hummer to be brought around. I add Giselle’s name to the list of people allowed up the elevator in case she comes back when I’m not here and can’t recall the code. Security is tight around here, one of the many reasons I bought it from Jack.

  I’m sliding into the car when a man across the street calls my name. I’m used to people seeing me around town and asking for autographs if they bump into me, but he’s not the usual fan. Shaved head, tattoos, work boots, and a determined grimace plastered on his face as he holds up traffic to reach me. I eye the car he was leaning against. Blacked-out sedan.

  “Mr. Walsh!” he yells as he runs across the parking lot to the overhang of the hotel.

  I’ve been mauled by women and bombarded after games by overzealous fans who’ve managed to get on the field, but I don’t hang around for strange dudes who drive dark cars. Living with my father has taught me to be on the defensive, and coupled with the stardom, I’m a paranoid fuck. How does he know where I live? Because he wasn’t just walking past. No, he was waiting.

  I lock the door and pull out in the opposite direction, glancing in my rearview mirror. He’s standing with his feet apart, hands on his hips. He kicks at a piece of the asphalt with his boots. It’s not hard for my head to wonder if this guy is related to the men looking for my dad. Annoyed, I pull over a few blocks later and send a text to check on my dad, but he doesn’t reply.

  After parking behind the locked gates of the stadium, I jog to the gym, where we spend the first few hours of camp. After working out, we’ll do a team meeting and watch tape, then separate for offensive and defensive strategy sessions that last an hour or so depending on the day before. Next is our first practice of the day, more mental preparation than physical, where we’ll jog through plays and discuss pros and cons. By late afternoon, playtime is over, and we’ll put pads on for the grueling, challenging second practice.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” says Aiden as he runs on one of the treadmills. “I’ve gotten a massage and a leg workout in.”

  I get on the treadmill next to him and turn it on. “I may be late, but I can still kick your ass.”

  He snorts—as much as he can going at full speed.

  I match his pace, increasing my incline so it’s steeper than his.

  He cocks an eyebrow, and it’s on.

  “How was the fight?” I rasp out a few minutes later.

  “Slick. McGregor took him down in the second round.”

  I nod.

  “What was your big errand?”

  Flashes of me taking care of Dad and cleaning up his house come to mind.

  “The model? You go see her?” He ups his incline.

  I shake my head.

  “Huh. Okay, so you flaked on one of your friends because you’re a dick.”

  I grin at him in the mirror, and he flips me off. I like Aiden, and we’ve become friends over the past year—when he isn’t aggravating Jack—but nobody gets the lowdown on my dad.

  “You gonna see her again?” He pants, upping his speed on the machine. Damn twenty-three-year-old rookie.

  “Don’t kiss and tell,” I drawl as I finish my run. Besides, nothing happened between me and the girl from the wedding.

  I wipe my face with a towel, then suck down water before I head to the weights.

  “I can spot you,” Aiden calls, getting off the treadmill.

  “You just wanna see if I can press more than you.” I get settled on the bench and wait for him to prep. He’s a competitive bastard, but it’s good for both of us.

  “Two hundred?”

  I roll my neck, cracking my fingers. “Two twenty-five.”

  He chuckles, moving the weights for me. “Now we’re cooking with oil!”

  I roll my eyes at his southern slang. Straining, I get the first ten reps up; then my arms tremble.

  “Come on, pussy; you gonna quit now?”

  Sweat drips down my forehead, and my fingers curl tighter in the gloves. “Been playing longer than you. I got this.”

  Five more pushes, and my arms burn.

&
nbsp; Aiden leans in. “Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

  “Devon Walsh,” I mutter, shoving the bar up.

  “That’s right, motherfucker. You’re a constant threat. Running or getting the ball. Your body is a well-oiled machine, the best wideout in the NFL. You make defensive guys cry. You catch a jump ball as easy as a post. Shallow, deep, or on a slant. Nobody can catch your ass.”

  I grunt. “Tell me how pretty I am.”

  “So damn pretty. Not as much as me, but nobody is.”

  “Not working,” I heave as I struggle to get the bar up for another rep.

  “Twenty, man, that’s all you got? Hollis beat your ass yesterday with five more. Push it up, or I swear I’m gonna escort Giselle Riley all over Nashville. She’ll be in love with me, ’cause come on—who isn’t?” He pops my leg with his towel. “I might just love her back. I’m sick of the women, dude, annoyed with the attention, and she’s not like the rest. Did you see her in that skirt? I went to bed thinking about her—”

  “Shut up,” I call, the bar wobbling.

  “Why? You got a hard-on for her?”

  “No!” I shout.

  He gets in my face, his voice low. “Why are you so angry? Huh? You think I’m blind? I might be a farm kid from Alabama, but I ain’t stupid.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” I say, letting loose a long string of curses.

  “You can try. Just don’t hurt the throwing arm.”

  I glare up at him, seething.

  “Come on, old man. Three more, and you’re done.”

  The bar rests on my chest, and I swallow. Digging deep, I press my lips tight, clench the bar, and push it up for three more reps. Once it’s secure, I jump up off the bench, adrenaline pumping. I point my finger in his face. “Don’t use her as motivation, man—not cool.”

  He holds his hands up between us. “Whoa, man. So you aren’t into her? ’Cause last night in the VIP room, you had this look on your face. And you took her to dinner. Was that your errand? Did you hook up—”

  “She is my friend!”

  He scratches his hair, studying me. “For real? You swear?”

  “Yes!”

  “Huh.” He paces around me. Something about the look on his face, almost hopeful, causes my shoulders to coil and tighten.

  “What’s eating you?”

  He stops, rubbing his face. “All right, all right, I won’t talk smack about Giselle. She’s your friend, and it bothers you. I’m glad you clarified, because I was wondering—I mean, I know I joke around a lot, but she’s got something about her, you know?”

  My hands ball up, dread pooling.

  He paces around. “It’s been years since I had a real date with a girl who wasn’t after my money and fame. I’m tired of coming home to an empty apartment and not having someone I can vent to. Hard to trust people, especially after what Jack went through.”

  Jack’s ex wrote a tell-all book about him full of lies. It was a bestseller and nearly killed his career. Aiden took her out once and claimed she was a devil.

  “Giselle gets the lifestyle—she knows we’re real people, and she doesn’t care who I am.” He rubs at his neck, a slow blush crawling up his face. “She’s interesting. I like how she thinks. Plus . . . she’s looking for someone.”

  “Jack will flip.” It’s all I can come up with, battling the impulse to put my hands around his throat.

  He holds his hand up. “But . . . but if I do this right, maybe talk to him and explain that she’s different, that I’m not doing it to piss him off and rattle him . . . I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ll wine and dine her—like, really woo, no pressure—be sweet and give her time before I throw the whole charm at her. If we clicked—and obviously we will—I could have what Jack has. A chance for a real relationship . . .” His voice trails off as he frowns. “Dev? You okay?”

  I’ve been trying to keep the anger under wraps, but his whole wooing shit sent me over the edge, and I erupt and shove him. He stumbles back into the wall. Shocked blue eyes glare at me. “What the hell, man?” he shouts as several of the guys run over, their gazes darting between us.

  “Everything all right?” Hollis asks, panting since he dashed over from a treadmill. He’s the toughest and stands between us, a brawny defensive lineman with dreads, medium-dark skin, and fists the size of bowling balls.

  Everything with my dad, Giselle and the fire, her horrid encounters with men—and now him saying he might really like her and want to be serious—even talking to Jack? What the hell . . . I can’t . . . no.

  “Stay away from her!”

  “What’s your problem?” Aiden’s chest heaves, his fists curled.

  “Your attitude!”

  His jaw pops. “Dude. I won’t hurt her!”

  “You’re a kid! You don’t know how to treat her!”

  He shakes his head at me, his face reddening. “You’re an asshole—you know that? I’m not gonna hit you, even though you deserve it. But I can guaran-damn-tee you that I’m gonna see her again, so you better get used to the idea.” He snatches his towel off the weights and storms out of the gym.

  Chapter 8

  GISELLE

  Driving a red Maserati to Walmart makes me cackle. On the inside, though, I’m freaking out. I googled how much the car was worth as the valet drove her around for me, and I started sweating. Over $140,000, but knowing Devon, it has more bells and whistles than the one I looked up. Sweat slides down my back.

  With my hands gripping the black leather steering wheel, I inch along at two miles an hour for a place to put Red so she won’t get a door ding. I picture Devon’s face if I were to wreck. Dark and stormy. Maybe how Vureck looks when Kate crash-lands his ship on that rocky planet.

  A horn blares behind me, and I check the rearview. An old lady in a Cadillac flips me the bird.

  I whip to the back of the lot, away from all cars, park, and head into the store, already pulling out the quick list of essentials I made. Some cheap shirts and shorts, underwear, a pair of flip-flops, apples to snack on, makeup and toiletries, and some food for Pookie. Definitely pee pads. Deep in thought, I don’t notice the man at the entrance of the store until I bump into him.

  “Sorry, excuse me,” I say with a smile and move to step to the right—only he puts his hand on my elbow.

  “You know Devon Walsh?”

  First instinct is to always tell the truth, but self-preservation knows when to kick in. “No.” I pull my arm away, and he holds his hands up in a placating manner.

  He’s older, around forty, with clipped brown hair. I catalog other details: height, weight, a scar on his right cheek, tattoos on his neck. I frown at his shirt, an old black one with a lion crest and faded writing.

  “Sorry, Miss, but I know you do. It’s my job. Tell Devon we’re looking for his dad. He owes us money.”

  My gaze narrows. “You look familiar.” I point down to his shirt. “Daisy High School. Small world.”

  He takes a big step backward, eyes wary. “Look, just tell Devon—”

  “No, you look, buddy,” I say, my southern accent thickening as I inch closer to him. I put my hands on my hips, feeling brave, maybe because this has to do with Devon, and I’d slay a dragon for him. “I’m assuming you followed me from the penthouse, which is just horrible. Don’t you have better things to do? Not to mention it’s downright rude to approach a young woman with your demeanor and an ominous attitude—”

  He blinks. “I can’t help the tattoos or the scar!”

  “Regardless, I never forget a face, and yours is tugging at me. I may not know your name—yet—but my mama is Cynthia Riley, and she knows everyone.” His eyes bulge. “That’s right. You must know her, and when I tell her you put your hands on me—”

  “Please don’t tell your mama! I just had to get your attention!” He’s already walking away, darting looks over his shoulder as he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Get the hell away from her.

  My lips compress as I call o
ut, “Creepy message received. Now scurry on back and hide. Cynthia is coming for you.”

  I watch until he gets in an old black truck near the back and squeals away, relief swamping me as he disappears down the road. Worry inches up my spine as I walk inside the store. What’s going on with Devon’s dad? Frowning, I text Devon what happened and hit send. My phone dies right after, and I groan and add phone charger to my list.

  “She needs another day or so for us to monitor the arrhythmia in her heart.” The doctor looks at me. “Besides the atrial fibrillation, her glucose and iron levels are low. Her knee is sore and swollen, and the cortisone shots we administered will alleviate some of that in the next few days. However”—he gives the woman in the bed a firm look—“a knee replacement is recommended. I have a list of orthopedic doctors who are excellent.”

  Myrtle pushes up in bed. “Like I already told that nosy nurse, all I need is my cannabis. Some studies show it helps arrhythmia.”

  The doctor arches a brow. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know about your cannabis. I’m not aware of this study.”

  “Well, get busy earning my money, and read it and write me a prescription,” she huffs. “As it stands, I have to sneak around and buy my special cigarettes on the sly.” She looks wary and a little scared. My protective instincts flare; they’ve been doing that a lot today.

  The doctor is a tall man with white hair and wire glasses and seems acceptable to treat my bestie, but he’s in a hurry, already eyeing the door to get to his next patient in line. That bugs me. “Where did you go to medical school?”

  “Vanderbilt.”

  Well, of course, it’s top notch, but I stand firm. “Nice. Now, perhaps we should revisit the issue of cannabis. It’s the elderly who benefit the most from medicinal marijuana,” I tell him, not even caring that I don’t have a medical degree. This is Myrtle, and she’s been enjoying her Mary Jane since the eighties. “She smokes because of migraines and her knee pain.” Mostly. “What are the guidelines for getting a recommendation for a prescription?”

  “It calms me and improves my appetite,” she adds, a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

  “Unfortunately, medical marijuana in Tennessee is all but nonexistent.” His words are flat. No budging there. I can tell by the hard look in his eyes. I exhale.