Pass Interference (Connecticut Kings Book 6) Page 9

  “But I told you to go home.”

  “And I said what I said,” he countered, tossing me a grin as he worked at the stove. “I was reading about whether or not the stairs were too much for you last night.”

  My face twisted. “Did you or did you not incessantly ring my doorbell to get me to come down this morning – when you had the code to get in my front door?!”

  “I did. Because the stairs are good for you, if you take it slow. And I see now, you’re not doing any exercise unless you feel like you have to, so if I have to create some urgency to get you moving…”

  “What you’re creating is a pain in my ass.”

  “Better than one in your chest.”

  “You did that already too, remember?”

  “Yap, yap, yap. Eat,” he insisted, sliding a plate in front of me. The omelet, sliced tomatoes and sliced avocado looked amazing, and smelled it too. I expected Nate to take a seat beside me, but instead I watched in fascination as he folded his omelet onto his fork and put the whole damn thing in his mouth at once, chewing while he cleaned up behind himself.

  Which was a show of its own.

  Garrett had never understood the concept.

  “You gonna eat or not?” he asked me, when he glanced up and I still hadn’t touched my plate.

  “Oh! Yes, I am.” I started – damn this is good – while he finished cleaning up, and then he turned and informed me that he was going to clean himself up, and change for work.

  I really didn’t have a choice except to nod.

  He went out to his car to grab his bag, and then disappeared while I finished eating. I climbed the stairs myself – slowly – with a glass of water so I could take my proper medicines, and when I came back down, he was emerging from the guest bathroom looking good as hell.

  But he always looked good as hell.

  “I have to head out, but you can hit my cell if you need anything, okay?”

  “I know.”

  “And there’s two more of those salads in your fridge, in case you get hungry before I come back.”

  My eyebrow lifted. “Assuming I let you come back.”

  “Whatever you say, woman,” he teased, as I followed him to the door. He leaned a little, but what I expected to be a kiss on the lips – his most frequent parting gift for me – ended up… on my forehead.

  Despite my best immediate efforts… I felt a way about that.

  A way that I quickly swallowed, because wasn’t this exactly what I wanted? I enjoyed Nate as a friend, and prior to almost dying, had been trying my best to return him to that place.

  I had zero room to feel salty about him taking me up on it.

  I was about to make one last teasing remark as he opened the front door, but it died on my lips when I saw Garrett and Madison walking up my front steps three days sooner than they were due back from California.

  Don’t have another heart attack, Sloane. Just stay calm. Just stay calm.

  “Thank you for being willing to discuss this with me so early, Coach Brooks,” Nate said, cool as a cucumber, without so much as a hint of strain in his tone. “I appreciate your dedication to the team. We’re lucky to have you.”

  And without even telling a lie.

  Wow.

  “Good morning!” he said, waving to Garrett and Madison as he passed them to get to his car, which he’d apparently already pulled out of the garage, and into the driveway.

  “Is that Nathan Richardson? Eli Richardson’s son?” Garrett asked as they approached the door. Nate pulled off, and I nodded to answer Garrett’s question.

  “Yes. He works for the Kings – Director of Player Success. Offense.”

  Garrett frowned. “So he was here to what, talk about the players or something? It’s not even seven in the morning.”

  “It’s called dedication. There was something to discuss, and we discussed it.”

  “That Amare kid?”

  “I’m not really at liberty to talk about it. What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to change the subject as I extended my arms to Madison. I tried my best not to cringe as she squeezed me tight, then planted a kiss on my cheek.”

  “You had him in the house while you were dressed like this? And why did he have a bag?”

  “His laptop bag?” I asked, knowing damn well it was a stretch.

  “Why does he keep his laptop in a duffel?”

  “You’d have to ask him that. Why are you here?”

  “Oh.” he waved me off as he passed me to get inside with Madison’s bag. “Emergency situation with one of my clients, and Mads was missing you anyway. What’s up with you?”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s up with you? You look… tired.”

  I rolled my eyes, finally closing the door. “Thanks, that’s exactly what I want to hear from you,” I told him, dryly, then turned to Madison. “You have a good time out there with your cousins?”

  “The best. Can I go call Langston?!”

  “Go ahead,” I agreed, knowing her father had probably been hating on her when it came to Langston the whole time they’d been gone.

  In fact, I expected him to start up as soon as she disappeared up the stairs, but he was too distracted by my ass in my shorts.

  “That lil’ nigga didn’t try anything with you, did he?”

  I sighed. “Why would you even say that?”

  “Because, he popped up on you all early in the morning, before you were dressed… that ain’t dedication. That’s creeping.”

  “I promise you, the last thing he was trying to do was get some ass. Okay?”

  “Maybe not overtly, but—”

  “Didn’t you say you had an emergency you had to handle? Couldn’t you be doing that, instead of questioning me?”

  I asked that question just as his phone went off – probably Miles, calling to see where the hell he was.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he told me, rushing out the door as he pulled it from his pocket, finally leaving me alone.

  Once I’d closed and locked it, I put my back to the door, letting out a sigh. I took a second to breathe, and then moved to start my trek back up the stairs, to my room, to lay down.

  Heart attack or not… this was too much excitement for one morning.

  Seven

  I always knew my father had a way with women. From casual observation of his – and their – mannerisms, the things said about him in the media, and the stories he’d told me that I unquestionably believed, because Eli Richardson was the fucking man. I couldn’t deflect a single accusation that I lionized my father, and didn’t care to. He wasn’t without his flaws, but all in all he was well-liked, well-respected by the public, and well-loved by people who knew him better.

  Especially his wife.

  There was – to my mind, at least – no other possible reasoning for her to agree to move back into the house where Cole and I had been raised.

  Our mother’s home.

  Mel had to really love his ass.

  There were other factors involved in the decision of course –Mel’s pregnancy two years ago had sparked heightened interest in her and my father’s relationship, and made the relatively easy media access to their Bridgeport townhouse less than desirable. Then there was Emma. Just like he’d done with me and Cole, he didn’t want her growing up with cameras stuck in her face at every turn, and Mel was on board. They wanted space, and grass, and privacy for her, all of which were in abundance at the house he’d lived and loved with my mother before she passed away, which he’d kept with the intention of one of us – the twins – having it.

  Now though, it was their place.

  They could have bought a new house, that they chose together, but Mel had insisted it was unnecessary. I still thought she’d just been in a hurry to get out of the city so she could have some peace, but she didn’t seem to be suffering in the home of her husband’s previous wife.

  In fact… she was thriving.

  Hence, the party.

  Every
year, Eli hosted a “Welcome Back” party. This year, Cole and I had been referring to it as a kickback, since he’d decided on a house party.

  Mel was a great hostess.

  Emma was off with her grandmother – Mel’s mother – and Mel was all over the place, socializing and making sure there was a drink in everyone’s hand. The house was decorated in blue and gold streamers and balloons, just enough to not be gaudy. Staff wore red coats, Frankie Beverly and Maze pumped through the speakers, and the place was packed.

  And damn near everybody had a glass of Mel’s Richardson Punch in hand.

  That woman knew how to make a damn drink, and that was just a small thing in the long list of reasons Mel was cool by me. Probably because age-wise, we were closer to peers than anything else.

  Cole had always been a little resentful – to Mel and my father – over him marrying a woman that was only seven years older than his kids. The age difference between them was almost twenty years.

  Which is why I didn’t understand Sloane tripping over our barely thirteen.

  It was nothing, as far as I was concerned.

  “Hey Nate!”

  I looked up from my current Mel-appointed task of lining up martini glasses in the busy kitchen. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d gotten recruited – along with one of Mel’s friends - into helping with the punch, so I wasn’t surprised to see she’d rustled up new help, in the form of Parker, who was a mainstay in the Kings’ front office.

  She’d started with the team as a cheerleader – like Mel’s story, only with not as desirable an ending. Parker had gotten wrapped up with James “The Boulder” Wright, another former player who was now in a near-vegetative state from a myriad of health issues. I wasn’t sure how old she was, but knew she was close to my age – too young for Jimmy, who she was saddled with caring for when she wasn’t even married to him. I was happy to use her as a temp for Elliot whenever he was out, knowing that the job in the front office gave her a break from that house.

  Parker had just enough time for that short greeting before Mel put her to work beside her homegirl.

  “Don’t let her work you too much,” I teased her as I lined up the last glass and then left the kitchen before Mel found anything else for me to do. I headed out to the main area, looking around. Damn near every face was familiar, and everybody had something to say, so it took a bit of time to travel through all the space available for the party, still looking.

  It was a minute before I realized who I was doing all that looking for.

  Sloane.

  We’d spoken the day before, at the Kings’ facilities, and she claimed to be coming. Her proximity to Rut, Terrance, and Jordan gave me just the excuse I needed to lay eyes on her at work, under the guise of checking on my players. They were in preseason workouts now, which didn’t really require any physical exertion on her part. If anything, she was more of an observer, since there were trainers in the room.

  There was another minicamp coming up though, in June. And then training camp after that. As a coach, Sloane had a very hands-on style – I’d seen film of her practices with the BSU wide receivers. She’d get out there and throw passes, run routes, do drills with them like it was nothing. As physically fit as she was… I didn’t see her being ready to handle that.

  But a week – almost two weeks later – she was still insistent on not telling anybody.

  She was good and grown though – I knew I couldn’t press too much there. What I could do though was stay all over her ass about the things her doctor had insisted on – a conversation she hadn’t asked me to leave the room for there in the hospital.

  Even if it was subconscious, she wanted the accountability.

  Stay active, take your meds, lower your cholesterol, and minimize stress.

  It was the driving force behind me showing up to make egg white omelets and take her on walks. She’d been good with her meds, and put up a minimal fuss about the adjustments to her already mostly-clean diet, and on the days she had her house to herself, our little walks had started to gradually get a little longer.

  About that stress, though…

  Once the season started… maybe even before… I didn’t know how that would be managed. It was a stressful job by nature – dealing with big, rich, immature men and their egos. I thought about the bullshit she was bound to get from fans, the media, the other people on the field, and dreaded it in advance.

  It could send even the healthiest person into stress-overload.

  The bit of worry in the back of my mind dissipated all at once when I turned a corner and came upon a group set a little apart from the players and other staff – the coaches. The sound of Sloane’s voice drew me a bit closer, and I grinned when I realized she was the center of attention, telling what was apparently a riveting story about an experience she’d had coaching semi-pro. The other coaches were fully engaged, laughing and joking with her, something I felt no need to interrupt, even just to say hello.

  Because I was looking for it, I could see the little bit of fatigue that lined her face from working all week, but other than that, she looked… happy.

  So I needed to mind my business.

  It was the other corner of the room that held my crowd – the players. Even before I saw them, I could hear Jordan and Trent clowning – in a good way – and headed in that direction, knowing that was where the fun was.

  I was almost there – had laid eyes on my sister and Jade, Trent’s wife, whispering together about something – when I got interrupted by a hand on my shoulder.

  Landon.

  “What the hell are you even doing here bruh?” I asked, giving him a quick greeting before I turned my attention to the familiar faces that accompanied him. “Ladies,” I greeted Tyra, and Leya, who immediately moved closer to me.

  “Here for you, nigga,” Landon said, glancing around. “Came to rescue you – you’re around these same motherfuckers all the time. It’s a Saturday night, I’m trying to find a real party.”

  I shrugged. “My old man already made his speeches and whatnot, so my presence isn’t required and won’t be missed. What do y’all have in mind?”

  “Well,” Leya purred, slipping her arm through mine. “I was telling them about the bar at Veil – you know the hotel in the city where everybody goes to have their illicit affairs?” she laughed at that, then continued. “Well, they make a Macallan Rare Cask Manhattan that is just…” she moaned a little, kissing her fingertips for effect. “You have to experience this.”

  “Damn, when you describe it like that, I feel like I need to,” I laughed, with Landon joining in.

  “Okay so then what’s up?” Landon asked. “You need to say something to your people or what?”

  I shook my head. “Nah, they’re all occupied, and if I’m going, I need to get the fuck outta here before Mel tries to make me pass out more drinks or something. Which one of us is driving?”

  “I’ll drive!”

  “Hell no,” me, Tyra, and Leya all chimed at once, immediately shooting down the idea of Landon playing chauffeur.

  “I’ll drive,” Leya offered. “Since I did drive us here. Nate, you’ve got shotgun, since I already know Landon and Tyra will be all over each other in the back seat.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “I’m positive. Because that way, I don’t have to worry about coming back out to the boonies to get my car back. Everybody has to find their own way home.”

  “Understandable,” I laughed. “I’m sure my father will want to debrief tomorrow anyway, so it's not a big deal for me to come back for mine.”

  “Well,” Tyra spoke up. “Sounds like it’s settled. Let’s go have Leya’s bougie ass cocktail.”

  “So… neither of us is surprised by this, right?”

  “Not remotely. I had a pretty strong hunch.”

  Ten minutes ago, Landon and Tyra had disappeared together, citing a trip to the “bathroom”. We all knew what they were going to do, so the “don’t wait up” style t
ext I got from Landon – Tyra sent a similar one to her sister – hadn’t been unexpected at all.

  I’d already suspected that my night would end without either of them present.

  “So… you haven’t made any effort to see me since lunch at Zoe’s,” Leya said, grinning across the booth at me. All the tables in the bar were private, sectioned off by sheer veils that doubled down on the hotel’s privacy schtick. “Is there some sort of hint I should take from that?”

  “Only that I’m a busy man. Definitely nothing to be offended by.”

  She smirked a little as she brought her drink upward, sipping from her straw for a moment before she replied. “I didn’t mean to imply any offense was taken – there wasn’t. I just … how do I say this… I like to be very clear about where I stand with someone, no matter where on the roadmap of possibilities that is.”

  “That’s fair,” I agreed, taking a swig of my own.

  She had not lied about the whiskey.

  The shit was… transcendent.

  Which is why we were both on our second one.

  “So… where do I stand for you? Am I just a beautiful woman to provide the pleasant scenery and stimulating conversation while you enjoy a nice meal, or are we testing the waters for more?”

  My eyes widened a little, surprised at how straightforward the question was. Most women, in my experience, were afraid to ask a question like that, because most men were afraid to give an upfront, honest answer. I did not share my brethren’s leeriness of the truth, partially because I understood this situation for what it was.

  Neither of us was desperate.

  We were whole.

  We didn’t need this situation, and we were both willing to walk away – there was no urge to fit the square peg of what we wanted into the round hole of what was immediately available.

  “It’s complicated,” I admitted, looking her right in the eyes. “You are… incredibly attractive. You’re smart, you’re successful, you seem mentally stable so far,” I teased, making her laugh. “Any man would jump at the chance to be in my shoes.”