Hunted. Haunted.

Delaney

 

 

 

MY FISTS BALLED. MY adrenaline rushed. I scanned the crowd again then looked down at my feet.

I didn’t want to be this person. The one Eric made me become—scared, lost, and defenseless . . . paranoid.

Blowing out a huge breath, I sat back down as Carolina Crush rushed on field. “I’m sorry about that shit performance against the Naiads, but you guys don’t know what you’re talking about. What I’m dealing with.”

“Hon, what’s wrong?” Sammy slung an arm around my shoulders.

“We didn’t mean to throw shade at you. You’re a rockstar, Laney.” Slipping her arm around my waist, Raquel leaned in.

“Laney?” Lourdes crouched in front of me.

“I can’t talk about it. Just . . . let’s just watch the rest of the game.” I sent a small wave to Brooklyn, hoping he wasn’t beset by the same nerves as me, although he had no reason to suspect Eric was in town.

Then I saw Rafe with Peyton. Their heads bent together as they studied the playbook then . . . lifting up his helmet and chin guard, he hugged her tight and kissed her smack on the lips. She shoved him away, laughing, before she swatted him on the ass and back into play.

I wished it could be that simple between Brooklyn and me.

Fifteen minutes later it wasn’t a game. It was a straight-up slaughter of the sort Carolina Crush had become known for last season. Fail all over the place.

Bad luck followed me everywhere. Eric infected everything he touched. Maybe it poisoned Brooks, too.

From down the sideline he shot me smiles I couldn’t return. On the field he began screwing up more.

During a timeout, Coach D shoved at his chest. “You wanna ride the bench the rest of this season?”

“No, sir!”

“Then get back in and complete a play already. This team depends on you as much as Macintyre!”

Thumping his chest, Brooks raced onto the trodden turf. He completed the next pass—a drill down to the end zone, a catch from over forty yards—for a touchdown, keeping Crush in the seven-point deficit behind the NY Dragons.

I rushed to my feet, finally paying attention to what mattered. Me. Brooklyn. Our teams. The game. My new life.

He blew me a kiss as he reached the benches.

Wisely, Sammy, Raquel, and the others kept their mouths shut although they saw that action for sure.

Entering the fourth quarter, Crush tied thanks to an incredible score by Calder Malone—the underdog of the NFL world. But they couldn’t hang on, and the Dragons made another mega-play that gave them a seven-point lead.

The last minutes of Crush against the Dragons unfolded so fast I almost started biting my nails again. I sat forward, hands at my chin, body coiled as the final seconds played out.

Now it was up to Rafe who rocketed the football from a strong arm straight toward Brooklyn.

#43, he was open.

Totally invested in the game, I surged up, shouting his name along with everyone else in the mile-high stands.

Eric?

No, I wouldn’t think about him.

Alive in every fiber of my soul, I tugged Sammy’s hand into mine. The ball spiraled, on course.

At the last second, one of New York’s giant defensemen plowed into Brooks. Even bowled off his feet, he stretched up, eyes on the ball. It lighted on his fingers as he rolled into the end zone. His shoulders hit ground, and his hands opened.

The ball knocked free and half a second after the final whistle blew, crazed Dragons fans pounded from their seats.

The sizzling win by the New York Dragons—the first Carolina Crush defeat of the season—had to weigh heavily on Brooklyn, who went through all the postgame BS as only a truly humble man could.

He shook hands. Slapped asses. Smiled and gave face time to the sports channels—reporters shoving mics in his face.

The whole time he sought me out with his gaze pinpointed on me.

Rushed off the field by our coach, I showered and dressed, dejected. My phone chimed, and Raquel tossed it to me as she toweled her hair.

“Hot date?”

“Doubt it.”

“You want to talk about this trouble?” Fluffing out her tight curls, she peered at me through the mirror.

“Not tonight, sweetie.” I checked my phone, releasing a slow breath.

Brooklyn. Thank God.

Gate 4. Ten minutes?

Through the dimmed corridors, shadows chased me. I hurried to the destination, hating the frightened feeling that crept up my back.

I opened the door, and Brooklyn stood there. Tall, strong, sweet as could be and strapping at the same time.

He took my bag, and I laid my hand against his bearded cheek. “Your first loss of the season.”

“Not a total loss.” Those full firm lips curved before he bent his head.

His soft, moist kiss obliterated my worries the second his talented tongue rolled against my mouth.

“How so?” I drew back, my hands on his chest where his heartbeat pounded.

“Won you, didn’t I?” He towed me into the darkened parking lot, stopping beside my car. “Maybe we could come back and pick this up tomorrow?” Brooks cupped my ass. “I’d like to drive you home.”

“Home?”

“My home.” The corner of his jaw clenched, heat pouring off him.

I chewed on my lip.

“What?” He tilted my chin up.

“Nothing.” But my gaze darted around the parking lot.

“You’ve been off all day.”

“So were you.”

“Worried. I guess.” Pulling a hand from me, he rubbed along his jaw. “Come home with me, Delaney. Please.”

I nodded, and he handed me up into his Ford. The same truck his grandfather used to drive. I knew—in my gut—Brooks was one of the good ones.

I needed him tonight. I’d be safe at his house.

Safe with him.

As he put the pickup into gear I teased, “What was that about the sex before a game myth again?”

“Yeah. But I don’t have a game tomorrow, so . . .” His hooded eyes, his predatory smile, the hand he draped onto my thigh with a light squeeze all announced his plans for the night. “Rematch.”

“Is that your romantic way of telling me you want to take me to bed?”

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it to the bed.” Hitting the gas pedal, he gunned the engine.