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But I knew there was more. I had known for weeks. Wes didn’t heal on his own.
“Thanks for letting me know.” I smiled weakly, feeling the nausea hit me in a gigantic wave.
“I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”
I looked down at my coffee as he walked out of the room. The nausea rolled again in my stomach and I ran for the trashcan. This couldn’t be happening. There was a reporter digging into Wes’s recovery. I didn’t know whether to tell him or keep it to myself.
Would it keep him out of the Super Bowl? Would he be so distracted he’d screw up? Would she actually uncover something I didn’t want to know?
I sat on the bench, clutching my thermos. I had almost forgotten this part of Wes existed. These past few weeks, I had seen the sweet and sexy side. The side that had turned into a one-woman man. The side that told me he loved me.
I had forgotten that before me, he drank and gambled and slept with a different woman every night. Winning was his everything. He told me. He told me he crossed a line to repair his hand. God, why didn’t I find out more? Why didn’t I try to stop him?
The pit in my stomach grew. What if he still was that man?
25
Wes
I smiled in front of the cameras. My cheeks hurt from smiling so damn much. I was tired and cranky. This was supposed to be the best week of my life, but all I could do was countdown to Friday.
Coach Howell sat next to me while the press fired questions, and Sam Hickson was on my right. I’d give Stubbs a hard time when I saw him for bowing out of this one.
A reporter in the front row raised his hand. “How are you feeling about going up against the best scoring team in the league?”
Howell fielded the question. It wasn’t like it hadn’t been asked fifty times this week. “Our defense has studied. They’re trained. We’re ready for what they have. We don’t plan on letting them be the highest-scoring team on Sunday.”
Everyone in the room chuckled. It was easy to get a laugh out of the press.
A nerdy type next to him asked the next question. “Wes, what has been your training regimen this week?”
I pulled the mic closer to my chin. “I work with the trainers on my diet and I try to get a workout in in between press events. Standard stuff we do on the road. Nothing special this week.”
“Wes, Wes!” I pointed to the man in the back row. “Do you think Jenny Nichols is going to get any traction on her story?”
“Jenny Nichols? Is she here?” I’d never heard of her.
“The reporter who posted that your injury a few weeks ago may have been more than a severe sprain.”
I chuckled. “You boys know people are always trying to dig up exposés before the big game. This is the Super Bowl. It should be about the players. The teams. The men who worked their butts off to get here. Next question.” I passed over him and moved to another reporter, hoping he had something for Hickson or Coach, but I could feel it. The fear that Jenny fucking Nichols might know something.
It wasn’t a good feeling.
We left the press conference and rode back to the hotel. Sam was on his phone the entire time, texting who the hell knows, and Coach was answering calls from ownership. That one damn question at the press conference had made the headline. Nothing else mattered right now. There was a firestorm of emails and texts blowing up my phone.
I looked down when I saw Lennon’s number pop up.
“Hey, Doc. Can’t talk right now.”
“Wes, what’s happening? There are reporters downstairs in the lobby.”
“What?” I sat forward in the backseat.
“I got home from work and they were there like they were wait
ing for me. The only way I got up to the penthouse was because the concierge blocked them while I ran into the elevator.”
“Shit,” I whispered. “What did they ask? Did you answer anything?”
