The ride to her dad's place is quiet. In fact, Emma hasn't said a single word since we first got in the car. Instead, she's huddled against the door, staring through the window. I know she's rattled – whether it's because of me, or what happened with her ex, I can't say.

“You okay?” I finally ask.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I'm fine.”

She falls silent once again and doesn’t speak the rest of the way. When the car pulls into her driveway, she has the door open before it even stops moving. The back of the car is flooded with light, and when she looks back in to say something, her eyes widen, and she grimaces.

“Jesus,” she says. “Your face is a mess.”

“You're not the first woman to tell me that.”

She rolls her eyes as I touch the spot where Mark had punched me, and wince at the sharp sting of pain. The area is sticky to the touch as the blood on my face dries.

“He was wearing a ring,” she says. “That's probably what cut you.”

“No big deal,” I say. “I'll wash it off at the hotel.”

“Yeah and give yourself an infection so bad they'll have to remove half your face,” she teases.

“Careful,” I say and grin. “It almost sounds like you care.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Get out of the car,” she says. “Let me clean that up. I mean, I guess it's the least I can do, considering how you got it.”

I tell the driver I'll call when I need him and get out of the car before following Emma up the walkway to the house. We step inside, and I pause for a moment as I take a look around at the house that was such a large part of my younger years. For the most part, it hasn't changed a bit. The same pictures are on the walls, bookcases crammed with books, memorabilia, and knickknacks, are everywhere. Even the walls are the same shade of sage green they'd been all those years ago – though, it looks like a fresh coat had been applied somewhat recently.

It's like I’ve stepped into the past. Into a place completely untouched by time.

“Yeah, Dad didn't much care for change,” Emma says, noticing me looking around.

“I can see that,” I say. “It's like we just got out of a time machine.”

She laughs softly. “In the kitchen,” she says. “Go have a seat.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” I say.

Emma's high heels click on the hardwood floor as she retreats further into the house as I walk into the kitchen, still marveling at how virtually untouched everything is. I take a seat on the high stool at the center island – the one I used to think of as “my stool,” back in the day. Other than more updated, modern appliances, this room is as unchanged as the rest. The center island has a stainless steel sink in it, and space for four stools on the other side.

There's a large, round table in front of a set of French doors that look out onto the backyard. The light shimmers below the surface of the pool, sending wild, undulating shadows across the walls. A faint smile touches my lips as I reminiscence of summer days back there, swimming and having fun while Mr. Simmonds grilled for us. The wave of nostalgia that rushes over me is almost suffocating.

“You have a look on your face like you’re reliving the glory days.”

I turn and find Emma standing on the other side of the island. I guess I was so caught up in my memories, I didn't hear her come in. She wets a rag in the sink, and with a first-aid kit in her hand, steps over to where I'm sitting. Her steps are light, nearly silent, and it's then I notice that she's taken off her heels, that’s why I didn't hear her walk in.

“They were killing me,” she says, obviously noticing me looking at her feet.

I give her a small smile and a nod. “I can imagine,” I say. “I know my feet always cramp up if I wear heels too long.”

Emma rolls her eyes at me – a gesture that seems to be her signature move these days. She sets the first-aid kit down on the counter beside me and opens it up. Although Em is doing her best to keep an annoyed and put-off expression on her face, there's a tangible difference in her attitude towards me. It's not quite as tense. Not quite as hostile as before.

At least, she’s not nearly as tense and hostile as she had been back at the bar.

I wince as she wipes at the cut on my face with the rag. She has to rinse the rag a couple of times before she's satisfied that she's gotten all the blood off my face.

“How long have you been wearing the beard now?” she asks.

“Few years now, I guess.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I needed people to take me seriously,” I say. “I think without it, I've got a soft face. And nobody would take me seriously.”

She laughs softly. “You did always have a baby face,” she says.

The comment surprises me, only because it's been so long since I've seen her – and the last time I did, she was so young, I doubt she even knew what a baby face was then. Emma looks up and either reads my mind or sees the look of disbelief on my face, because she rolls her eyes.

“My dad used to watch your games,” she says. “I saw you interviewed like once or twice.”

“Once or twice, huh?”

She snorts and rolls her eyes again. It really does seem like it’s her default gesture. Or maybe, it’s only the default for me. Somehow, I don't think that's the case, though. She tears open a small package, and the pungent scent of alcohol quickly fills the air. Slipping the small swab out of the wrapper, she applies it to the cut on my face, making me suck in a sharp breath, and wince.

“Sorry,” she says. “Didn't realize a big football guy like you could be such a baby.”

“Cute,” I say. “I appreciate the doctoring, but your bedside manner could use a little work.”

“Exactly why I didn't go into the medical field.”

It's not lost on me that we're having an actual conversation, rather than just sniping at one another. I have to say, it's a pleasant change of pace, and I find that I want to keep it going.

“So, what did you write about?” I ask. “At the paper?”

“I wrote for the crime beat,” she says, and I can't help but hear the tinge of sadness in her voice.

“I remember you always had your nose in a book as a kid,” I say.

“Yeah,” she replies.

Emma dabs at the cut on my cheek gently then applies a salve to it. Next, she grabs a bandage and opens it up, and I realize she's going to be done soon. Only, I'm not ready to leave just yet. Not when it seems like the ice is finally starting to thaw between us.

“Still into it?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah, it never gets old for me.”

She gingerly applies the bandage to the cut and smooths it out. There's a look of sadness in her face that has nothing to do with her father's death – though, that sorrow is still very much present. There's something more.

“What is it?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says. “I'm just tired.”

“It's more than that,” I say. “I can see it.”

“Right. I forgot. You're the all-seeing and all-knowing Brice Kelly.”

“Well – yeah,” I say and chuckle.

She looks at me stone-faced. Clearly, my charms are not working on this woman. Either that, or it's been so long since I used them, I’m rusty as hell. Regardless, she's not having it.

“Seriously,” I say. “What is it? You might be surprised to find that I'm actually a good listener.”

“I believe that about as much as I believe in Santa Claus.”

“Ouch.”

“Brice, you've always been about yourself,” she replies. “It was always what Brice wanted. Everybody always bent over backward to make sure Brice was happy. And all the while, you proved time and time again, that you didn't give a damn about anybody else.”

I look down at my hands, actually feeling the sting of her words. Emma’s right. When I was younger, I only cared about me, myself, and I. It's one of those hard lessons I had to learn when I was in recovery, trying to get myself clean and sorted out. It was one of the many ugly truths about myself that I was forced to confront.

NA held a mirror up for me, and in a lot of ways, I really didn't like what I saw.

“You're not wrong,” I say. “But, I'd ask you to consider that nearly two decades can change a person.”

“That remains to be seen,” she snaps back, her voice harder than steel.

“I promise you, I'm not the same person I was when I was younger,” I say. “Just as I'm sure you'd agree that you have grown and changed over the years.”

“Yeah, but when I was a kid, I wasn’t a huge asshole either.”

A laugh burst out of my throat, which seems to surprise her, and I just shake my head. She just won't let things go.

“Yeah, I had a little longer road to travel to learn how to be a decent person,” I say. “I'll grant you that. But, I've worked on it a lot. And I’m still working on it.”

There's a long stretch of silence between us, and I can see her eyes searching mine before Emma finally shakes her head and seems to come back to reality. “I think you're all patched up,” she says. “Thank you for your help with Mark. I – I appreciate it. A lot.”

“Glad I could be there to help.”

I get up off the tall stool and wince as a white-hot bolt of pain shoots through me. I hold my hand to my side and grimace, letting out a soft grunt. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I'm starting to feel all the aches and pains from the fight with Emma’s ex.

Getting old is a real bitch.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing. It's fine.”

As I start to move past her, heading for the door, Emma puts her hand in the middle of my chest and stops me. There's a stern, stubborn look in her eye.

“Sit,” she says. “And take off your shirt.”

“It usually takes a drink or two before I get to that point,” I tease.

She narrows her eyes, and I see her jaw clench. Still not having it, I see.

“Seriously,” I say. “I'm fine. I'm just – not eighteen anymore.”

“Shirt,” she repeats and points to the stool to emphasize her words. “Now.”

“That really necessary?”

“Look, you saved my ass back there. You very well may have saved my life, for all I know. If I let you leave here, and you're like bleeding internally or something, and end up dying, I'm going to feel guilty. This is not an act of altruism – I just don't want to spend the rest of my life feeling like crap, because you croaked after I let you go. So, do me a favor and let me look.”

I let out a dramatic sigh, though the idea of stripping down in front of her isn't without its appeal. I am after all, still a warm-blooded man with needs and desires. Not that it's necessarily going to lead anywhere I want, but it doesn't hurt to be optimistic, right?

After taking off my jacket, I drape it over the back of the tall stool. My shirt follows a moment later. The whole time, I'm subtly watching Emma and notice that she's looking at me very closely. The pink tip of her tongue wets her lips, and she clears her throat, tearing her eyes away from me. When she turns back, she's got that mask of cool indifference on her face once more, but I can see a small spark of desire burning inside of her.

I take a seat on the edge of the stool and sit up straight.

Her eyes return to my torso, and I watch as they travel all over, as she takes in the wide array of tattoos that cover my arms and chest. She reaches out and then seems to think better of it, snatching her hand back like she'd just been scalded.

“The artwork,” she says, her voice a little breathy. “It's beautiful.”

“I'm lucky to know a really talented artist.”

“There's so many.”

I shrug. “Each one represents something different in my life. Something I want to remember – and some things I can never let myself forget.”

I see her eyes hone in on one that sits on my left arm. It's not all that big, but it's a potent reminder. It's a small bottle, with a pile of pills pouring out of it. Each pill is shaped like a football and is imprinted with a skull – a reminder to me of what my addiction cost me. It's nestled in among the other tattoos, but she seems to zero in on it right away.

She looks at it curiously and can't seem to help herself. She reaches out and touches it, her fingertips tracing the outline of the art, her eyes riveted on it, absorbing every detail. I can see a certain understanding in her eyes as if she somehow understands the symbolism.

I doubt she does, though. I haven’t told a single soul the real reason my career came to such a quick and miserable end. Not even the team I played for knows the full story. All anyone knows, and all I've ever said is that I suffered a catastrophic, career-ending injury. Which is very true. How that injury came about though, is a story I don't plan on sharing with anybody.

Oh, there were whispers and rumors. There always are. People who think they know the full story based on gossips and tabloids. But, perception is reality in today's world, and all that matters is that people saw me taking a crushing blindside blitz that collapsed my knee and did enough damage that prohibits me from ever playing competitively again. Thankfully, I’m still able to walk and live a normal life.

It's my story. It's my cross to bear, and because I'm so ashamed of how it unfolded, I've decided to bear it in silence. It's better this way.

As if coming back to herself, Emma pulls her hand away and stares into my eyes. I feel a subtle energy flowing through us. I don't know what it is, and I sure as hell can't define it, but it feels like something has snapped into place. Like a deep connection was just forged between us.

I could be imagining all of it, of course. High hopes and all that. But, I don't think I am.

The moment passes, and the sense of connection dulls but doesn't disappear entirely. There's a sense of comfort between us now that didn't exist before. A familiarity.

“Just – sit and wait here,” she says. “I'll be right back.”

I stand up and put my hands on my hips, walking around the kitchen, and looking out at the pool, I breathe in and out, slowly and evenly, focusing on diminishing the pain radiating off my body. It's one of the things I've had to learn how to do – manage my pain without drugs. As a former addict, it's all too easy for me to slip back into old habits. Which means that sometimes, I have no other option to suck it up and deal with it.

“You okay?”

I turn and see Emma standing there with a pill bottle in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

“Jesus,” I say. “You move like a cat. I'm going to have to put a damn bell around your neck.”

Her smile is soft but genuine – and absolutely beautiful. Everything about her is beautiful. I never would have guessed it all those years ago, but Emma Simmonds has blossomed into one of the most gorgeous women I've ever met.

While not necessarily Hollywood's ideal of beauty – with some hips, a nice round ass, and full, shapely breasts, she's a little curvier than most starlets. But, her body is soft and exquisitely feminine, with gentle curves, and a tantalizing fullness. I feel a familiar stirring in my groin just looking at her.

It’s more than mere physical beauty that makes her so damn attractive to me, though. In the short time I've been around her since the funeral, I’ve noticed that she's got a keen intelligence and a sharp and cutting wit. It’s obvious that she isn't afraid to mix it up verbally. There's a strength and toughness about her that I never would have expected – she doesn't seem afraid to stand up to anybody. More than that, she's so full of fire, drive, and passion that she’s formidable as hell.

Emma Simmonds literally is the whole package – personally, I can't believe she's single.

“Anyway,” she says, handing me the pill bottle. “I knew my dad still had some. So, take two of these.”

I look down at it and see that it's Percocet – and I can't take Percs.

“I – I'm okay,” I say.

“No seriously, it'll cut down on some of the pain you’re experiencing right now.”

“Actually, I'll be fine with just some ibuprofen if you have it?”

She cocks her head and looks at me as realization slowly dawns in her eyes, and I let out a long breath. I know I'm busted and there's no way around it. I know I have to say something and figure I can tell her a little bit without telling her everything. Some things I need to keep for myself.

“Oxy,” I say. “I had a bad problem with Oxy for a while. Though, once I found Fentanyl, that did the trick too.”

She gives me a lingering look before nodding and walking out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, she comes back with some ibuprofen and hands them to me without a word. I pop the pills and wash them down with a long swallow of the water.

“Thank you,” I say.

Emma looks at my arm again, trying to see the pill bottle tattoo that had caught her attention before. Reaching out, she takes my arm and raises it, tracing her fingertips along the artwork again. Her touch sends a pleasant chill through me.

“Can I ask about this?” she asks gently.

My lips compress into a tight line as I stare down at her. Something inside of me tells me that I'm safe with Emma – that my story is safe with her. I can't explain it – there's no real reason behind it – but, for some reason, I feel like I can trust her. I don't feel like Emma will judge me. There's a small part of me that's been yearning for a human connection like this for a long time – one that will allow me to open up and share my deepest, darkest secrets.

But, I’m not there. Not yet.

I gently shake my head and lower my arm again. “Not right now,” I say softly. “I'm not ready to give that up yet.”

She gives me a small nod, and the look of sympathy on her face is almost more than I can bear. I don't like being pitied by anyone. But, the sympathy I see reflected in Emma’s eyes is so sincere, so genuine, that I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me.

“Maybe someday,” I say.

“Okay,” is all she says.

As we stand there, inches apart, I feel a spark of heat and intensity that didn't exist before. Emma puts her hands on my chest, tracing some of the artwork on my skin. Her eyes move up to mine and her lips part slightly.

There's a longing in her expression I'm sure mirrors my own. Seizing that moment, I lean down and press my lips to hers. Emma's body stiffens for a moment, and I'm half-afraid she's going to pull back and slap me. But, after that initial hesitation, she opens her mouth and slides her tongue into mine.

Ignoring the brief flash of pain, I grab her by the shoulders and pull her to me, pressing her soft, smooth body to mine, as our kiss intensifies. Emma runs her hands up and down my chest as our tongues swirl and dance together. I run my hands through her long, dark hair. Grabbing a handful, I gently pull her head back, drawing a gasp from her as I kiss and nibble on her neck. She digs her nails into my chest as I give her collarbone a hard nip.

Heat and adrenaline pulse through my body as I pick Emma up and carry her over to the island in the center of the kitchen. I set her down on top of it, pressing my mouth to hers again. As we kiss, I work the buttons of her blouse, and she wriggles out of it, dropping it behind her.

I lean down and run my tongue from her neck down to her breasts. Emma's hands are in my hair, pulling and tugging on it as I unsnap her bra, and let her round, full breasts spill into my hands. I take her hard nipple into my mouth and suck on it, giving the other a sharp pinch that makes her gasp. I suck on one nipple, then switch to the other, kneading her breasts the whole time. Emma throws her head back, moaning a little louder than before.

I plant a line of kisses up her chest to her mouth. As we kiss, I feel like I'm wrapped in a surreal bubble. A couple of hours ago, we were fighting like cats and dogs at the bar, taking cheap shots, and bitching at one another without reason. Now, here we are, both of us filled with fire and passion.

When I look into Emma's eyes, I can see the lust and desire that fills them, but I also see the anger burning in her. As she channels the anger into passion, her every movement is almost like an act of violence – and she's intent on taking it out on me.

And I'm more than happy to let her.

I slide my hands from her knees up to her inner thighs, relishing the smooth, silky stockings she's wearing. I push her skirt up around her waist and touch her through her panties. Feeling how hot and wet she is fuels my own lust, and my cock grows even harder than it already was.

Emma bites her bottom lip and draws in a sharp breath as I pull her panties to the side and plunge a finger into her. I lean down and give her neck a nip as I start to slowly pump my digit into her, driving it firmly into her dripping wet pussy.

“Yes, Brice,” she moans. “God, yes. That feels amazing.”

Still not believing this is actually happening, I push her back a little more and lean down. I bury my face between her thighs and plunge my tongue inside her. Emma screams, and I feel her thighs reflexively clamp down around my head. As I lick and suck on her clit, continuing to thrust my fingers into her, she pulls my hair, calling out my name again and again.

I breathe deeply, inhaling her delicious, musky scent. Relishing it. I plunge my tongue deep inside, savoring the sweet taste of her.

Emma's body trembles but suddenly stiffens. Her grip on my hair tightens, and she pulls to the point that it's almost painful – though, that sting of pain blends with the pleasure coursing through my body, intensifying the sensations even more.

She cries out as her orgasm crashes down around her, her voice echoing around the kitchen. Emma's body shakes violently as her thighs tighten even harder around my head.

Slowly, her grip on my hair loosens, as does her thighs. I stand up, licking my lips, relishing the decadent taste of her juices. Emma's eyes burn into mine, the desire and need I see in them bordering on desperate.

I step forward, and she parts her thighs for me, never taking her gaze from mine. I pick her up and set her down on the stool, putting her at a better height for me.

“I need to be inside of you.”

“I want to feel you, Brice,” she whispers, her voice low and husky.

I can't believe this is happening. It's insane. I know this is insane. I haven't seen her in years – and the last time I did see her, she was a child. But, there is no doubt that Emma is all woman now. Every inch of her is luscious, beautiful woman – and it’s driving me crazy.

Reaching into the inside pocket of my coat, I pull out my wallet. Emma watches me slip a condom out of it, then drop the wallet to the ground. I quickly open the metallic wrapper, and Emma takes it from me. She reaches down and grips my cock with her hand, squeezing it hard and tight. I grunt as she gives me a few strokes, pumping her hand up and down my hard shaft.

“I need to fuck you,” I say. “Right now.”

She slips the condom over the tip of my cock and quickly slides it down the length of my shaft. Grabbing her hands, I position myself, step forward and push my cock into her. Her eyes widen, and she gasps as she takes the length of me inside her. She's so warm and tight, and I stretch her open completely.

“Oh, god,” she moans.

I fill her up, unable to stop myself from reveling in the tight, snug fit inside of her. I start to move my hips faster, pumping my cock into the warm, wet center of her. Emma struggles to break free, so I let her hands go, allowing her to get a grip on my shoulders. She digs her nails in and wraps her legs tighter around my waist.

“Mm yes, Brice,” she groans, her voice husky and low.

I reach down, cup her ass, and hold on tight as I start to pound my cock into her faster than before. Emma's cries grow louder and louder as I fuck her, and her nails dig deep into my skin. My body is awash in sensation – the pain of her nails raking my skin, and the overwhelming pleasure I feel from driving my dick into her. Emma's head is thrown back, her eyes are closed, and there's a wide smile on her face.

“I've wanted this for so long,” she gasps.

I feel my body stiffening already and fight like hell to hold it back. I'm not ready yet. I want to make this last as long as possible. I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, slowing my motion, trying to prevent my impending orgasm.

“It's okay,” I hear her say. “Come for me.”

I open my eyes and find her gaze locked on me. Her cheeks are flushed, and an enigmatic smile touches the corner of her mouth. I don't answer her. Instead, I pull her off the stool, turn her around, and bend her over the island counter. Emma squeaks in response as I grab a handful of her hair and pull her head back as I drive my cock into her again.

“Oh, god,” she moans. “Yes. God, yes.”

She looks back over her shoulder at me, her eyes wide, cheeks flushed even more, and a look of bliss on her face.

Pumping my hips hard and driving my cock into her, she leans her forehead down on the counter, moaning loud and long – like she's never experienced pleasure like this in her life. And who knows? Maybe she hasn't.

Emma pushes herself back against me, grinding her pussy against my pelvis, taking my length deeper into her. She starts to thrust herself backward – fucking me as hard as I'm fucking her. In her movements, I feel all the anger that had consumed her earlier.

I pull her head back and pound myself into her, feeling my stomach tighten as I near the brink. Emma looks back at me over her shoulder, a dangerously sexy look on her face.

“Come for me, Brice,” she moans. “Come for me.”

As if those are the magic words that unlock my orgasm, I feel my cock begin to throb. A moment later, I can't hold back the flood any longer. My dick pulses and I let out a loud groan as I erupt inside the condom. The feeling of me exploding inside of her touches off another powerful orgasm inside of Emma. She trembles and cries out as her body clenches up and she comes for me. For the second time.

Together, our movements begin to slow as we ride out the waves of ecstasy, allowing ourselves to be enveloped in the warm afterglow that descends over us. Slowly, our breathing returns to normal, and my cock begins to deflate. I take a step back and wipe away the line of sweat that's formed on my brow.

I slip the condom off my cock and throw it into the trash can under the sink, then step back around, pulling Emma into a tight embrace. I plant a soft kiss on the top of her head and feel her body stiffen against mine. Confused at her reaction, I look down to see her staring up at me, a look of stark terror on her face.

“What have we done?” she asks. “Oh god, what in the hell did we just do?”