Football is brutal.

It’s not every man that can handle it, but God knows every man wishes he could. It’s why Sundays are sacred during the season. It’s the reason grown men teach their sons to catch and throw, hug that pigskin close to their chests before those poor kids have really gotten the concept of running. It’s the battlefield for every boy who wanted to be a superhero but instead became an adult.

Laying back, my knee icing in the locker room, I thought that I wasn’t really edging too close to that adulthood like I should be. But hell, neither had my father. It was the game, the drills and calls I was supposed to be focused on out on that field. It was the nods, the subtle gestures from my teammates that I was supposed to be watching for as we practiced.

Football is especially brutal when your head isn’t in the game. Mine had been somewhere else, distracted by my worry, the stress of classes, the pressure to prove myself. It was the memory of soft skin, brown, not pale, and the crushing guilt I felt for thinking about her that had me missing Richard diving right at me.

My knee was twisted. The injury was so minor Dad almost let me finish out our drills when I landed under Richard’s sweaty grunts. He might be Kona Hale, new Defensive Coach at CPU, but he was still my father. Sent me straight to the team doctor.

Now I waited for that over-cautious doctor to tell me I was good to go. And waiting was never good for me. There was too much silence, too much quiet in those moments when I was alone. Too much recollection. Too much fucking reality.

Shit, I thought when an image of the dancer came back to me. That soft, beautiful skin, the heavy pant of her breath across my lips. Why couldn’t I get her out of my head? My eyelids felt tight, wrinkled when I squeezed them shut. Even gripping my phone in my hand didn’t keep the images of that body from flooding my mind.

At least the guilt was lessening, maybe more than it should. I watched myself, not understanding why I did it, as I scanned through the contacts on my phone and found Ironside’s number. He hadn’t been really returning my texts, instead kind of brushing me off when he did answer. Trent had mentioned not seeing the man when my teammates had spent Saturday night ogling the dancers at Summerland’s. Still, I had to try.

You gonna tell me who she is or not? I texted, same as the last several messages I’d sent him. His responses had been sarcastic, tight-lipped and I caught on quickly to what he was doing. Ironside wanted me owing him. He wasn’t interested in cash, no matter what I’d offered to get the dancer’s name. That asshole was the type of guy who dealt in favors and connections and I knew once I agreed, I’d end up regretting whatever price I had to pay.

Got it that bad? Even in text messages, Ironside was a sarcastic dick.

It was desperate, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about her. It had been a week and I still couldn’t shake the feel of her or how it was remotely possible that a total stranger had me hard, had me aching, even now. Grunting, I pushed back the doubts in my head, deciding I’d do whatever Ironside wanted just to have her name.

Tell me.

There was a whisper in the back of my mind, one I’d managed to tune out during the past week. It prickled against my conscience, taunted me with whatever I believed was right and wrong. It told me I was wasting my time. Unconsciously, I touched my chest.

Breathing through my nose, I concentrated on the sound I remembered the dancer making, those slow, even moans and the heat of her body moving, dancing against me.

My phone chirped twice, two messages in a row and that quiet voice in my head grew softer as I read Ironside’s texts.

What’s it worth to you? I can set up a performance.

No other promises than that.

I’d take what I could get. I’d do just about anything to see her again. Admitting that to myself amazed me, especially when I thought about how ridiculous I sounded. I didn’t even know this girl’s name. Had no clue if she was married or gay or only let me touch her because she needed a release as badly as I did. Was it just a moment? Something that wouldn’t ever happen again?

Was I really that fucking pathetic?

I reread Ironside’s messages and the silence rose back up, letting that small voice whisper in my mind again.

You don’t need anyone.

No, I didn’t, but I wanted her. I needed to know if I was completely broken, if that dance and how it affected me had been the fluke I thought it was. Not caring what Ironside was plotting, I hurried to reply.

What do you want?

Like I guessed, his answer came quickly and I swore I could see that stupid toothpick of his moving with his smile.

We’ll talk price later. I’ll let you know when she’s available, but it shouldn’t be more than a week or two.

A week or two. I could manage that. A week or two until I’d know if it was just her, only her, that had me twisted up and ready to burst, or if it was just a waking dream. Even the thought of her had been the only thing that managed to get me hard, even now. Just her. I’d tried it before. When the guilt got too heavy, when I felt so alone I thought I’d die, I’d lay in bed thinking first of Emily, then just faceless female bodies when thoughts of her only brought guilt instead of desire. It had never worked. Not once. Not until that night at Summerland’s.

You don’t need her.

Head slung back against my pillow, I heard that needling voice in my head louder this time. Clearer. It wasn’t her for real, I knew that, I wasn’t crazy. It really was all in my head. But the shame, the guilt had made Emily a ghost—and now the sweet, soft voice that I’d fallen in love with had been warped into something bitter. No matter how often I told myself Emily wouldn’t ever talk to me the way that voice did, I still couldn’t shake the heaviness that sunk into me whenever those phantom words came.

You don’t need anyone.

I wouldn’t answer this time. Wouldn’t give in to that stinging tone or the weight laid heavy, firm on my chest every time she spoke to me. But the pressure ripping into my body didn’t lessen when I covered my eyes with my arm. I couldn’t make it stop; not the guilt, nor the memory of the damage I’d done. It wouldn’t leave me, and this thinking only of myself, of what I wanted for the first time in ages, made that thick voice seem even more real, scarier than it ever had been.

You don’t deserve anyone.

“I know it, okay? I fucking know it!”

She’d gotten the reaction she wanted. It was always that way. She baited, I bit and every time I did, I lost a little bit more of myself. Like clockwork, Emily’s face came back to me—one minute hurt, tears in her eyes, skin flushed from the sun, then…God, the sounds. The screams.

Stop Ransom! Stop right now!

“I’m sorry,” I told her, trying like hell not to lose it completely lying on that bed in the locker room infirmary. “God, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Brah?”

My arm felt weak, thin when I lifted it to look at my father staring at me from the doorway. He’d caught me. It wasn’t the first time, not likely to be the last, but every time when Dad heard me shouting to myself, back at her, he’d let the worry slide away, leaving me to my own demons.

I knew that expression. I’d watched him for years, back when my Pee Wee team called me Baby Kona, before I knew just how close to the truth that nickname was. Dad was worried. That forehead was heavy with lines and the cast of his eyes was tight, concerned.

“I’m okay. It’s fine.”

“Keki kane …” He stopped speaking when I sat up.

“I’m just losing it a little, okay? Don’t worry about me.”

Kona brushed my good leg aside and sat next to me, but that frown stayed fixed to his mouth and I felt the beginning of a lecture coming my way. “Listen, if you want to talk to someone…”

“You serious?” I didn’t let him answer. “I’ve been talking to someone since I was eight years old.” I wasn’t angry. That was something else I didn’t do anymore. But I couldn’t keep my tone from sounding sharp, defensive.

If my father was irritated by my attitude, he didn’t call me on it. “They said the same thing over and over,” I continued. “I could probably write a book about all the one-liners shrinks tell their patients. I don’t need to talk to anyone about what goes on in my head, just like I never needed to talk to anyone about how pissed off I got.”

“This isn’t about your temper.” Dad stopped me when I tried leaving the bed with his big hand on my shoulder. “It took me years…”

“Dad, I know.” God, I’d heard it so many times from my parents. Frustrated, I covered my face, scrubbing my fingers over my eyes before I finished. “You’ve told me all of this before. It took you years to learn how to release your anger. It took discipline and practice. The league did that for you. Mom learned to control her rage when she had me. And I learned how to deal with it when…” I looked up at the ceiling, knowing he watched me, that he probably thought I was getting worse. “I don’t do angry anymore.”

“You do. At yourself.” His fingers tightened on my shoulder. “You keep it all in.”

“It’s how I deal.”

“Ransom…” No. I didn’t want that tone—the overly stressed, no sleep, my kid has lost his ever-loving mind bullshit tone my father got whenever he thought I needed to see reason. He had enough on his plate. I didn’t need to add to it.

“Did the doc say I could leave? I want to get back to the team house. I’ve got a Chem quiz on Thursday.”

He looked at me for a long time and I felt the weight of his worry, that tight tension only worsening the longer he watched me. But then, I offered him a smile, hoped he got that I didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart while my teammates crowded into the locker room. Moving his hand off my shoulder, my father nodded once, letting the worry go. I knew he wouldn’t ignore it forever.

“Yeah,” he said, lifting the ice from my knee. “Just a little inflammation. You should be good.” My father’s presence was looming, and the way he moved his gaze at me as I pulled off my uniform and limped toward my locker had me just on the tip of losing my temper. But that wouldn’t do either of us any good. It wouldn’t settle the problems I’d created for myself since the accident, or since. “Listen, why don’t you grab your books and come home with me? I have to get back soon, and I know Keira would want to see you.”

“Why you hurrying back?”

Dad nodded at his assistants and a couple of linemen as they passed him. “Leann couldn’t stay all afternoon with her.”

“Leann?” I said, stopping him with my hand on his shoulder. “What about that Aly girl?”

“Who?” He had no clue, that much I could tell by the confusion making my father frown. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“The instructor from Leann’s studio.” That suppressed anger started to bubble as my father shook his head and I threw my balled up shirt onto the bench when I realized Aly had played me. “She said she’d call Mom, like three days ago.”

“Keira didn’t mention it and we’ve been bouncing through some of Leann’s students so your mom can get in a nap or two every day. But they’re still in high school.” Dad yawned, blinking quickly as though he needed to keep his eyelids moving so he wouldn’t fall asleep where he stood. “So you wanna come back with me?”

That was bullshit. You don’t say you’re going to do something and then flake out. Who does that? Assholes do that, but I honestly hadn’t picked up that Aly was a liar. Dad yawned again and I realized I’d have to let some of my temper surface. I didn’t care who this girl was, I’d scare the hell out of her if it meant my parents could get some damn sleep. “No. I’m good Dad. I’ve gotta get dressed and head to Metairie.”

He moved to my side when I shuffled in my locker for my clothes, ignoring the jabs I heard around me from my teammates. They stopped when my father waved them off. “I thought you were going to study.”

“I am,” I said, slamming my locker, “but first I need to go to the studio.”