“I’m sure,” I say, keeping the rest to myself. I don’t tell him that I wouldn't know anything about that. Not since I shut my wife out of my life, and along with her, the magnificent sex goddess she was becoming.
She was so good. She was so trainable and so workable. I was just starting to open her up.
“Who knew that on the other side of those walls in those Vegas pods were our undoing, eh?”
I let out a rough laugh. “Who knew?”
Declan catches my eye, a flash of shared understanding passing between us, and raises his glass. I raise mine back, the crystal catching the dim light of the club.
“To the voices of our angels,” Declan says, his voice dropping into a low, solemn rasp. “They carry all the power and the poison needed to destroy us, but we’re addicted to them all the same.”
“To our angels,” I say, toasting him.
And to my demon,I add silently.
The demon is the voice that’s been clawing at the back of my throat, reminding me that I never should have let her go. It’s theone that snarls at me for being a coward, for not fighting harder, and for letting a woman that spectacular walk out of my life.
Right then, as the amber liquid burns its way down, I decide to stop listening to logic and start listening to something I’ve never truly let guide me. Not since the night I said yes to her. My heart.
I was a coward. I can admit that now. I didn’t know how to balance the crushing weight of familial expectations and the rigid pressure of the team while trying to make her mine. I cared too much about the optics and not enough about the woman who opened her heart to me. But staring into the bottom of this glass, I realize I’ve run out of fucks to give.
I am in a precarious, beautiful, and utterly delicious situation. I have a second chance to win back my wife. The divorce isn’t final, after all.
As a man who once held a perfect-kick season, Aspen is about to learn the most fundamental truth about me: I don’t miss my mark. And I damn sure don’t lose.
Chapter Twenty-One
Fouls, Floors + Defensive Plays
Aspen
It’s Monday morning, and my 2:00 AM alarm didn’t just wake me, it galvanized me. I moved with a sense of purpose as I got ready for my first official day on the job torturing my husband.
My hair is pulled back into a high, tight ponytail. But the rest of my look is purposefully…devastating. I’ve traded my baggy hospital scrubs for a set that is dangerously form-fitting. The fabric hugs every curve while the V-neck dips just low enough to be a deliberate provocation. I look like a “naughty nurse” fantasy brought to life in functional polyester.
The twenty minute drive over is a frantic mix of anxious energy and butterflies. Being alone with him doesn’t scare me, but I am not confident I can get through this without bursting into tears and demanding to know how he could just let us go. I feel like he owes me that much. But since Our Lord the Pimp is a stubborn asshole, I know he won’t give me the satisfaction. So, Iguess I am heading straight for the kill. After a little torture, that is.
As the future team captain, Luca was moved into the Fury building to be closer to the stadium. The move gave him immediate access to the top doctors in the league, elite gyms, and all the high-end nutrition spots within the complex. One thing is certain about the Atlanta Strikers: they know how to take care of their own. Even the lobby takes my breath away. It is no wonder Tatum loves working for the team so much.
The security desk buzzes me through once I give them my name. I take the elevator to his apartment on the fifteenth floor, my heart hammering against my ribs with every passing level. I force myself to find my center before the doors slide open, channeling advice my mother hammered into me growing up. She used to tell me, “People only know how much they affect you by how you react to them. Never let them see you sweat.”
That is exactly how I intend to handle Luca today. I won't let him see me sweat. And I certainly won't let him make me wet.
My mother never gave me that second piece of advice, but I have a feeling she would if she knew just how devastatingly fine this man actually is.
The elevator doors slide open, and in an instant, the pull of this place hits me. I’ve only been here a handful of times, but my body seems to remember every inch of it. Since Croix lived closer to my place, Luca and I used to meet here most nights to avoid seeing him and hurting his feelings. For a few short, blurred weeks after his long practices or late-night returns from away matches, this was our hideout. Our home base.
I reach for the keypad and punch in the code I have memorized, but a red light flashes back at me.
He’s changed it.
The realization that I'm now a stranger to a door I used to walk through freely stings more than it should. Taking a steadyingbreath, I press the video intercom button, triggering the call that will flash my face onto his phone and wake him up to the reality that I’m back.
“Who the hell is at my door at four in the morning?” Luca’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“Your morning shift, Mr. Chidubem,” I say, my voice dripping with enough sweetness to cause a cavity. “I heard this place was a biohazard. Since I haveactualclients today, I thought I’d get a head start on the deep clean.”
A long silence follows. On the tiny monitor, I can see him rubbing his face, squinting at the screen, and slowly processing the fact that I’m standing in his hallway dressed like a naughty nurse. He doesn’t react. At least, not with the jaw-drop I was hoping for. But it’s still early.
