Your own legs are unsteady as you make your way to the back of the box and grab the closest security guy you see. “I need to get down to the athletic trainer’s room,” you tell him. “Please.”
The guy—his name is Brett; he’s a newer recruit to your team—frowns. “Cal told us that you’re not to leave the suite until the game is over, Mister Grayson,” he says.
“I don’t care.”
Brett frowns, and covers his ear to murmur into his earpiece. Beside him, Juarez shakes his head.
“It’s a no-go, sir,” he says. “Safety issues. We’re under orders…”
“Cal says he’ll be right up, sir,” Brett breaks in. “He was downstairs, but he’s heading back right now.”
If Cal comes up here, you areneverleaving this box. You make a split-second decision.
“Tell Cal I went down to the field level,” you announce, swinging the door open.
Brett and Juarez simultaneously step towards you. “Sir!” Juarez says. “Cal says…”
“Cal doesn’t sign your paychecks,” you say tightly. “I do. You can either come with me or not, but I’m leaving.”
Somehow—they are big guys, and you are walking very fast—they fall into formation around you, front, back, and sides, as you hustle for the elevator that will take you downstairs. You’ve spent quite a bit of time at the stadium since you started dating Kai, and, in calm moments, you probably know where you are going, but it takes a few wrong turns before you get your bearings and successfully cross from the public section of the Hard Rock and arrive at the out-of-the-way locked door that leads to the player areas. For a few, terrifying moments, you were out on the concourse, with normal fans milling around you.
“Is that Sterling Grayson?” you hear a voice shriek. “Oh my god! Sterling…”
All the people are, thankfully, removed from you by an AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY sign and a hallway. They could have, technically, followed you, but nobody did.
You bang on the door aggressively with your fist.Bang, bang, bang.There’s no answer. You have the sudden, irrational wish that you had a weapon, like in the movies. Like you could just blow the lock off the door. (Your bodyguards normally carry guns, but they aren’t allowed in the stadium.)
Again, you rap on the door, hard enough that it hurts. “Excuse me?” you yell, not caring who hears. “Excuse me? I need help, please!”
An older man in a security guard’s uniform opens the door, looking visibly irritated.
“You’re not allowed…” he begins. Notices your detail, all of whom are over six feet tall and 250 pounds apiece. “Umm. What are you doing here, young man?”
“Kaius Reinhart is my partner,” you say, trying to tamp down the rising hysteria in your voice. “He got injured. I believe they are taking him to the athletic trainer’s room? I need to get in there, please.”
He sucks on his teeth. “Partner?” he repeats. “You his family?”
Subconsciously, your fingers clench and crack your knuckles. “My name is Sterling Grayson,” you say tensely. “I’m his boyfriend. Please show me where he is.”
The man shakes his head. “No can do, son. Nobody’s allowed back there, except family if it’s an emergency.”
“Itisan emergency!” you say, unable to keep your voice from rising. “He nearly got his head knocked off on the field just now!”
The old man nods thoughtfully. Adjusts the bill of his black baseball cap. “I’m going to get you someone who can help you,” he announces finally. “This one’s above my pay grade. You stay here.”
“Please don’t…” you start, but he ignores you and shuts the door. Frustration is making your vision spotty around the edges. You wish you didn’t have five guys breathing down your fucking neck. You wish you had just pushed past the old guy and opened doors until you found Kai.He’s back there!Biting your lip, you force your eyes closed. Suck a ragged breath in through your nose, trying to hold it, and then blow it out of your mouth. Repeat this three times.
“Yes, sir,” Juarez says from behind you. Without looking, you can tell he’s speaking into his earpiece. “I know, sir. We’re down outside the entrance to the player area, on field level. Fastest way down would be to track him; it’s a bit confusing. Yes, sir, Iknow. I kn… I’m aware of the concerns. He didn’t give us a choice, sir.”
It’s irrationallygratifyingto you that Cal must be chewing Juarez’s ass. You can imagine your head of security up in the suite, looming like an immense, black-suited shadow, growling at all the blonde ladies up in the box with their effortless curls and their Louboutin heels and their collective cloud of Jo Malone and Portrait of a Lady. Their manicured hands with their six-carat diamonds flapping uselessly at his demands. It’s perverse, but misery obviously loves company.
“Cal is coming,” Juarez announces redundantly, becauseobviouslyCal is coming. Well. He’ll have to pick you up and carry you kicking and screaming through the crowds if he wants you elsewhere. You aren’t moving.
Anxiety and hatred for the human race are seething through your veins when the door opens and a tall woman with a hard face stares you down. She has a walkie on a belt at her waist, and she’s wearing a polo shirt withMiami Cyclones Athletic Trainingembroidered on the breast. Her eyes are rimmed in unfashionable black eyeliner, and there’s a wad of gum stuck in her cheek.
“Mister Grayson,” she says. “My name is Michelle Venzino. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I want to see Kai,” you say, summoning all the authority you can muster.
