Winner Takes All (22 page)

“Where's the execution?” he called out when no one said anything. He knew they wouldn't because none of them had the balls to talk back when the coach went on a tirade after a loss.

And Blake needed the tirade.

“Richardson!” Blake called out to the QB, who'd held himself hunched over through Blake's entire rampage. Cody looked up, blinking as Blake thumped him on his shoulder pad. “Good game,” he told the kid. A trickle of blood ran down Cody's face from a cut on his eyebrow.

Blake turned from the players and stalked toward his office. At the door, he turned and addressed them the entire time. “But not good enough.” He allowed the words to sink in, then hammered his point home. “Not nearly good enough.”

B
lake kicked his front door closed behind him, doing his best to ignore the teeth-gritting pain in his knee. It didn't work because the lightning pain shot down to his toes when he'd mistakenly used his bad leg to kick the door shut.

Or maybe not a mistake.

Maybe he'd done it on purpose because he was pissed off and wanted to tell the world to go eff itself.

And because Annabelle had been texting him since the game ended, asking him if he was okay. That she was sorry they lost. Like he was some Little League player who needed to be comforted by his mommy.

The last text had read something about her being proud of him for benching Scott. Telling him he'd done the right thing, or some such bullshit.

He hadn't answered her. He didn't want her sympathy or pity, especially because his decision to bench Scott had likely cost them the game.

Blake dropped his bag next to the front door, tossed his keys and cell phone on the hall table, and made for the kitchen. What he needed was something to drink. To get totally shit-faced drunk so he wouldn't have to think about how he'd allowed Annabelle to influence his game decisions.

He knew, logically anyway, that he couldn't blame her for the loss. That he was the coach and the decisions were his and his alone. But she'd gotten in his head with all her talk about keeping the kids healthy and losing Scott for the rest of the season if he played too much.

So he'd ignored his gut to keep Scott in and benched him. And they'd lost.

His phone vibrated again. Probably another text from Annabelle, wondering if he needed a shoulder to cry on. Apparently she thought he couldn't handle losing.

And, yeah, you can't handle losing, asshole.

So he was competitive. So he didn't like to lose.

Who did?

Once in the kitchen, Blake flipped on the light and snagged a beer bottle from the fridge. Staubach ambled in and stared at Blake with sleepy, deep brown eyes. Blake's Oxy was on the counter where he'd left it earlier. He stared at the bottle as he flipped the metal cap off the beer with the bottle opener. Stared at it as he chugged a slow sip. And stared at it some more when he lowered the bottle and swallowed.

It's not going to jump off the counter.

He picked the bottle up and shook out a pill in his hand. But he didn't toss it back right away. He rolled the pill over in his palm, wanting nothing more than to shove the thing down the back of his throat and do away with the pain. Instead he threw it over his shoulder, where it pinged on a surface and landed on the floor.

Blake didn't stay to see where it landed. He took his beer and strode out of the kitchen, thinking he would just get drunk instead of numbing his pain with more pills. He'd have a bitch of a headache tomorrow, but whatever.

He went into the bedroom, the dog close on his heels, set the beer bottle on the dresser, and starting stripping his clothes off. What he needed was a shower. To wash away the sweat and dirt and loss off his skin.

What you need is to get laid.

Probably, yeah. But the only person he wanted to get laid with didn't believe in casual. Which sort of messed up his plans to get her naked. Couldn't really get a woman naked if she wasn't on board with the plans.

Once in the bathroom, he turned the shower on, then strode back into the bedroom, not giving a rip about his nudity. He'd just yanked a pair of boxers out of the dresser when someone knocked on his door. Staubach took off running, his toenails slipping on the hardwood floor. Not in the mood to converse with anyone, Blake ignored the knocking, and his dog's furious barking. Except the knocking turned into the doorbell chiming and Staubach went nuts.

Over and over again. One chime after another and it was all Blake could do to keep his head from exploding. With a few muttered curses, he made a mad grab for a bath towel and hastily wrapped it around his hips.

Only someone with a death wish would come over at this hour, especially after losing a football game. Anyone who knew him knew to give Blake a wide berth after a defeat.

“Settle your ass down,” he growled at the dog, who was trying to climb up the front door. Blake pushed him aside and pointed a finger at him. “Down,” he ordered with the same authoritative air Cameron had used. Staubach whined and sat, but his tail was swishing back and forth so fast, Blake was surprised the dog didn't take off like a helicopter.

With one hand holding the towel up, Blake used the other to whip open the door, fully intending to tell his visitor to eff off.

Except his visitor had long dark hair, thickly lashed eyes, and had a smile that was like a one-two punch. Annabelle blinked back at him, raking her gaze over his bare torso before dipping her eyes to the towel covering his junk.

Her attention jerked north to his face as though just her mere perusal would have him dropping the towel.

If she wasn't careful, that's exactly what he'd do.

“I…” Her tongue darted out and swiped across her lower lip. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Did the woman never give up? “Why wouldn't I be?” he asked. “Stay,” he told Staubach when he stood and tried to nudge his wet nose past Blake's legs. Staubach whined again and thumped his wagging tail against the hall table.

She shifted on her feet. “Well, you didn't respond to any of my texts, so I thought…”

He arched a brow at her. “You thought…,” he prompted.

Her throat worked when she swallowed. “That maybe you'd like some company.”

He leaned against the jamb. “The only company I'm looking for is the naked kind. So unless you're up for that…” He allowed his gaze to rake down her body, enjoying the subtle flare of her hips, then stopping on her cool green eyes. God, she was beautiful. Why did he have to be such a bastard to her?

Annabelle tilted her head at him. “I know you're pissed at losing, but you can't scare me away.”

“You've established that several times already.” He pushed away from the front door, leaving her standing on the landing and giving his dog the opportunity to shove his nose in Annabelle's crotch. And not caring if she followed him inside.

At least that's what he told himself.

In truth, he did care. Way too much.

He wanted her to follow him in. He wanted her to tug the towel off his hips and use that magic touch of hers to make the pain in his knee go away. Or, better yet, the pain in his heart.

Because it ached every time he looked at her.

The front door closed with a soft snick and he heard Annabelle's light steps on the floor. Staubach trotted alongside her, desperately trying to get her attention. Instead of telling the dog to go away, she appeased him with a gentle rub behind his ears.

“Blake,” she said to him.

“My shower's running,” he told her. “If you're going to worm your way into my business, you're going to have to wait until I'm done.” He stopped at his bedroom door and glanced back at her. She was at the end of the hallway, waiting. Waiting for what, he didn't know. “Unless you want to join me.” When she didn't say anything, he pushed. “No?” With a shrug, he let go of the towel and it unraveled at his feet. “Your loss, then.”

He turned his back on her wide-eyed expression, snagged his half-finished beer off the dresser, and tossed back a long sip.

He made quick work of the shower, soaping his body and rubbing shampoo into his hair. His rushing was not, he told himself, to catch her before she decided to ditch him. That he didn't care how her attention had skittered down to his bare ass when he'd lost the towel. That satisfaction hadn't hummed through his system when her breathing had quickened.

Funny how he was so in tune with her that he could tell her breathing patterns from down a hallway.

But really, what would he have done if she'd thrown herself at him? Just launched that coma-inducing body against his and finally showed that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her?

She's already shown you that.

More than once with each kiss they engaged in. The problem was, she was scared. Too afraid of her feelings for him to take things further.

You're scared too,
he berated himself.

Hell yeah he was scared. More afraid of Annabelle Turner than he'd been of any other woman before. Because she touched a place deep inside him that no one else had. She saw past his weaknesses and demons and liked him anyway.

Annabelle Turner was a dangerous woman, plain and simple.

Dangerous and smart and too bossy for her own good.

Meddlesome. Independent. Caring.

But most of all gorgeous. Sexy enough to bring a man to his knees and shatter every defense he had.

Staubach came ambling into his bedroom, touching his wet nose to Blake's bare leg.

“What did you chew up this time?” he asked the dog.

Staubach sat and stared up at with soulful brown eyes.

Blake jabbed his index finger at the dog. “If you destroyed another pair of my shoes, you're done for. What happened to your toys?”

The dog stood and wagged his tail back and forth with such enthusiasm, his whole body moved with it.

After he dressed, Blake left the bedroom, aware of Staubach close on his heels, his toenails clicking softly on the hardwood floor. He expected, hell hoped, Annabelle had gone, knowing what was good for her. Perhaps even taking his surly attitude as a sign he didn't want company.

But there she was. In his living room. Looking like the wet dream she was, staring at his framed football jersey hanging on the mantel of his fireplace. The number twenty-four in white, surrounded by the well-known forest green of the Packers, stared back at him. Taunting. Reminding him of what he used to be and wasn't anymore.

His fingers itched to put the jersey back on. To feel it sliding over his head and falling down over his game pads.

But those days were over. He knew he needed to move on. To focus on what he had now, which wasn't a bad gig, if he were to be totally honest with himself.

Man, he was such a mess.

Staubach's tags clinked together when he jumped on the couch, and Annabelle turned, paralyzing him with her searing gaze.

To give him a distraction, he turned toward the dog and snapped his fingers. “Down,” he commanded.

Staubach just laid his head down and blinked.

Annabelle chuckled. “And you're supposed to be the alpha.”

He glanced back at her, then looked at Staubach. “Down,” he said again. The dog didn't move. In fact, he closed his eyes and expelled a deep sigh.

“He needs a bed,” Annabelle told him.

Blake turned toward her. “The carpet is his bed.”

Annabelle looked at the taupe carpet covering his living room floor. “Would you lie on the floor?”

“Why would I? I have a bed.”

“Exactly,” she told him with a grin.

Okay, she had him there. He'd sort of proved her point for her. “I'm also not a dog. I pay the mortgage; therefore, I get a bed.”

Annabelle pointed toward his framed jersey hanging above the mantel. “Is this your actual game jersey?” she asked.

He came to stand next to her, ignoring his body's warning not to get too close. “Yeah, that's the home jersey.”

“It's huge,” she commented.

“It has to fit over a lot of padding,” he explained. “Plus, I'm a big guy, in case you didn't notice.”
You're a masochistic asshole.

She didn't respond to that, thank goodness, because who the hell knew where the conversation would have gone.

It would go into the bedroom, so stop talking about bodies.

She stared at him for a moment. “Are you really okay?” she asked again.

“You act like that's the first game I've ever lost. It's bound to happen.”

No one had ever asked him if he was okay after a loss. Most understood defeat came with the territory. Either Annabelle didn't understand that, which he doubted, or she really was that worried about him.

The last thought had his heart constricting in his chest.

“Why are you really here, Annabelle?” They both knew why she was there.

“I'm not sure,” she admitted, which was bullshit. Then she held her hand up, showing a little white pill. “I found this on your floor. Your dog could have gotten a hold of it.” She extended her palm, offering the OxyContin.

He stared at the pill, realizing it was the one he'd thrown, not wanting to take it because it would be too easy to toss the thing down his throat.

“Blake?” she asked when he didn't move a muscle. “Aren't you going to take this?”

A bead of sweat ran down his temple and his heart rate picked up. Hell yeah he wanted to take it. He wanted to take the whole bottle and numb the pain that lived with him all the time.

“You know what?” Annabelle said, closing her fist around the pill. “Never mind, I'm not giving you this.” Then she stalked out of the living room and disappeared into the kitchen. He followed her, passing a snoring Staubach, who was completely unaware of the storm raging inside Blake.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded when she turned the faucet on and flipped the switch to the garbage disposal.

“What you should have done a long time ago,” she told him. “You're going to kill yourself, Blake.” She snagged the full bottle off the counter and shook them. “These aren't doing you any good.”

Even though he knew she was right, he couldn't stand the sight of her dumping the whole bottle down the drain. He'd been better about not taking them, knowing he had a problem of breaking his need for them. But knowing they were around, giving him that comfort to fall back on, gave him relief.

So when she unscrewed the bottle and turned it upside down, emptying every single last pill down the sink, he wanted to lunge at her. She stared back at him, daring him to protest, to beg her to stop because they both knew he wanted to.