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A flashbulb goes off, somewhere to the side.
Derek releases her hand—finally, fuck—staggers back, then promptly crumples to the ground.
Another flashbulb pops. I blink the light out of my eyes and zero in on the man who’s snapping away with his camera.
A growl tears out of me. I leap forward, close the distance to the guy, tear his camera from him, then throw it aside.
"My camera!" he yelps and reaches for it, but I grab him by his collar and haul him up to his feet.
"The fuck you doing here? I’m going to sue you for trespassing."
"And I’m going to sue you for assault if you hit me," the douchebag counters.
"Oh, yeah?" I raise my fist.
Abby throws her arms about my waist. "Stop! Don’t do it, Cade, please!"
I blink and stay with my arm raised for a few seconds. "Count your blessings, asshole." I lower my arm to my side.
I release him, and he steps back, then glances between me and Abby and a lascivious look comes into his eyes. "I can see why you took out your own teammate. I would, too, for that piece of ass, I—" He gurgles, and his eyes roll back when my fist connects with his face.
"Oh, no, Cade!" Abby gasps in horror as the douchecanoe sinks to the floor.
I hear the door open behind me, followed by a beat of silence before my friend, Declan Beauchamp asks, "The hell is happening here?"
* * *
"What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off shooting the next big Hollywood hit, or whatever it is you hotshot actors do?" I wince as Abby dabs at the torn skin of my knuckles. We’re in the coach’s office adjoining the dressing room.
"More to the point, what were you doing swinging at a news guy?" Declan leans a hip against the wall of the dressing room.
"You first." I scowl at one of my best friends, who’s face currently graces the top-grossing movie in Hollywood. We met when he was a struggling actor and I was trying out for the English cricket team. Asshole comes from a moneyed background, but he refused help from his father and struck out on his own to make it in the film world—a prospect as challenging as my shot at the national team. Our friendship was sealed over the course of one memorable bender that lasted forty-eight hours—during which time Knight, Declan and I bar hopped every nightclub in London’s East End and exchanged stories about the challenges we were facing in our chosen careers. A month later, Knight shipped off to the army, Declan landed his first role in a movie, and I was chosen as a reserve for the cricket team. The three of us have kept in touch since, and with Knight away, Declan and I have only grown closer.
"I was filming in London; thought I’d find you here." He smirks. "Didn’t expect to see you beating up teammates and journalists, alike. Not that I have anything against the latter, considering I spend so much time dodging them myself, but man, you’re pushing your luck, you know that?"
Abby digs into my knuckles, and I yell, "Woman, that hurts."
"Good." She wraps the bandage around them, then jumps to her feet. "Seriously, why did you have to swing at the journalist? And you refused to let me talk to him."
"He looked at you. He dared to talk about you in disrespectful terms, and you think I was going to let you talk to him and strike a deal with him?" I growl.
She stares at me. "That’s what I do. I work in PR, remember? Also, I work in a media profession. I meet unsavory characters all the time—"
"Then I’m going to beat up the lot of them."
She gapes. "Are you hearing yourself?"
"Nothing wrong with what I said."
"He’s a journalist," she murmurs.
"So?" I raise a shoulder.
"It’s bad to rub these people the wrong way."
"I’ll live."
She shakes her head. "He’s going to make your life miserable in the future."
