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 waiting 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?”

“They wanted to know if I had any comments on your injury. They wanted to know what medications I gave you.”

“Did you say anything?”

“Of course not.” She sounded pissed. “But this is insane. I can’t leave. They’re stalking me.”

The car pulled up to the curb and Coach and Sam slid out, leaving me in the car alone.

“I can get you out of there.” I tried to think what security team I trusted to escort her from the building, but I’d pay whatever I had to in order to keep her away from those vultures.

“I’m supposed to fly to San Diego tomorrow.”

“I know. I know.” It was all happening so fast. It was starting to crash down, and they had barely scratched the surface of this story. If I could make it through the weekend, and walk out of here with a Super Bowl ring, there would be a way to handle the press.

“This is exactly what I talked to you about,” she seethed. “You’ve risked it. Everything, Wes.”

“No one knows anything. The only story that’s out there right now is that I might have had more than a sprain.”

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I’ll fly you out tonight. Beat the press by a day. We can talk.”

“I can’t leave. I have patients.”

I scratched the back of my head. “I need you here.”

She sighed into the phone. “I can try to get someone to cover my shift. I’ll call you back.”

I felt the relief sink into my shoulders. She could be here tonight. By my side. Battling this with me.

“I’ll book the flight.”

“All right, but I’m worried this is going to get worse before it gets better.”

“It might. But it’s going to blow over, Doc. Trust me. I’ve ridden out worse scandals.”

It wasn’t the right moment to tell her about how many women had accused me of knocking them up, or the guy who threatened to expose my private gambling ring. Ben was just one more on that list of people I’d paid off to keep their mouths shut.

“I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes, you will. I’ve gotta go. Coach is waiting.”

I walked into the sunlight and into the hotel. I wasn’t prepared when a reporter popped up from behind a plant.

“Wes, do you want to comment on the rumor that you used HGH and regenerative gels to repair broken bones?”

“Who the hell are you?” My hand was already balled in a fist.

“Jerry Cole with the Sports X.” He pushed a recorder in front of my face. “Is it true? Did you use substances banned by the AFA?”

I shoved his hand out of the way. “I’m not commenting on rumors.”

“So was it really a break and not a sprain? Did the Wranglers lie about your injury?”

I walked away, heading toward the elevator.

“Did your girlfriend help you get the HGH? Did she have access to the illegal substances? It’s Dr. Lennon Ashworth, right?”

At the mention of her name, my eyes blazed. Who did this fucker think he was? Before I had a chance to deck him and flatten on the marble floor, Stubbs was next to me, pulling me into a conference room. He slammed the door behind us.

“Calm the fuck down, Blakefield.”

My chest was heaving. My pulse was thumping.

“They’re going to drag her into this,” I groaned.

“Stop right there.” He put his hands up. “I don’t want to know anything. Nothing about your hand. Nothing about HGH. Nothing about you and your girlfriend. Don’t say another word. If there is an investigation, I want to be able to say I know nothing. Got it?”

“Then why’d you drag me in here?” I glared at him, feeling my blood pressure starting to drop.

“To stop you from punching out that reporter in front of everyone. I can’t help you with what’s already happened, but maybe I can stop you from making a mistake today.”

I hung my head. “Thanks.”

“You’d do the same for me.”

“I would.”

“Get up to your suite. Get on the phone with your agent and come up with a plan.”

I chuckled. “You make it sound simple.”

“This is all just noise, man. Noise because no one wants the Wranglers to win.” He slapped me on the back, then poked his head out the door. “That guy’s gone. I think you can head up now.”

“Thanks, again.” I felt calmer, less likely to slug someone. There was a way out of this. There always was. I just had to figure out what it was, and how much it was going to cost me.