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He’s watching me now. Between that piercing gaze of his and my frazzled nerves, I’m starting to unravel. My chest feels tight. “Stop staring at me like that. It’s rude,” I snap, and watch his eyebrows climb up his forehead. After a backward glance to make sure Sam isn’t listening, I whisper, “I’m scared someone will recognize me.”
“So what?”
“So I tend to inspire nasty behavior in whomever recognizes me.” His expression hardens. Even with those pretty features, he suddenly looks dangerous.
“What kind of behavior?”
I sigh heavily and moderate my oxygen intake because the last thing I need right now is to hyperventilate, and there’s a really good frigging chance of that happening.
I hate talking about this––with anybody. There’s so much shame attached to it. Do I want to tell him about the time someone waited outside my house for two days only to spit on me when I took the trash out? Do I want to explain that I had to drive an hour away just to grocery shop for months because I had an orange thrown at me at my local grocery store? No. I really don’t.
“Shouting and swearing, sometimes pushing and shoving,” I mumble. When the silence continues, I chance a glance in his direction. He’s staring ahead, his jaw locked, his mouth stretched in a grim line. We ride the rest of the way in silence, the atmosphere tense. I think I may have just driven the last nail in my own coffin. He’s probably mad that may happen around his nephew and I don’t blame him. He parks the car and I’m about to jump out when he grabs my wrist.
“You don’t have to worry about that shit happening anymore.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Before I can ask, he’s out of the car.
Inside the indoor practice facility, the entire field is covered with carnival themed games and food stands. A lot of the guys on the team are in attendance, most with large families in tow. When I realize how many of them have young kids, it makes sense that they would still be in town until school lets out. As soon as we walk in, Sam’s eyes go wide and a smile spreads across his face.
“Sam, why don’t you walk around with your uncle so he can introduce you to some of the other players on the team?”
This question is answered with a little boy scowl that’s a carbon copy of the one Shaw gives me when I’ve done or said something to displease him, which of course is often.
Shaw starts to walk away. “Let’s go, Sam.”
Sam shuffles after him, dragging his feet, his shoulders slumped. And I almost feel bad pushing him.
The next hour passes slowly. I hide in a corner, away from a bevy of reporters and photographers, and watch Shaw and Sam from a distance. They aren’t saying much to each other, but it’s more time than I’ve ever seen them spend together since I moved in. I guess that’s something to celebrate.
“Whom are you hiding from?” I look sideways and find Ethan Vaughn scanning the crowd suspiciously.
“No one…what about you?” The exasperated expression he gives me puts a smile on my face.
“Short brunette, loud voice. Give me a heads up if you see her coming this way.”
“You badger me relentlessly and now you expect me to help you?” I say mildly amused.
“How is Angelina, by the way?”
“Infatuated. Add another heart to your trophy case.” For that comment, I get a strange quirk of his brow. His beautiful eyes follow the path mine take, straight to Sam.
“I knew you would be good for him,” he says, those chocolate orbs glimmering in triumph.
“How would you know anything about it?”
“Cal’s been raving about you. He says you’ve worked wonders with Sam.” Say what? “Oh shit––just go with it.”
“Go with what?” Before I can get another word out, Vaughn swings an arm around my neck and huddles closer.
“Vaughn, if you don’t remove your hand from the vicinity of my breast area, I will break off every single one of your digits,” I say in the same voice I used to employ on my unruly third graders.
“Look over my shoulder and make sure she’s gone,” he whispers. Fighting a smile, I glance over his shoulder and spot the busty brunette staring at us with her head tilted and a pout on. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Shaw.
“What is she doin…aaaaaahhhh.” Vaughn is pried off of me by an angry ogre with a firm grip on his ear.
“You’re hurting him, stop it.” Shaw lets go. While Vaughn is busy rubbing life back into his cherry red ear, I lift his hand and inspect the ear. “You’ll survive.”
“Fuck, Cal. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Vaughn looks pissed. I get the feeling this is strange behavior even for Shaw.
