She smirks when I don’t reply. “Guess you’re not a believer in the fairy tale, either, huh?”
“Nope. Which makes us perfect.” I pace around the sidewalk, shoving my hands in my pockets. I’m sure she’s seen how I clench them, and she probably thinks I’m ready to pounce on her. I’m not. I’m fucking nervous. More nervous than I should be. I never dreamed I’d ask a woman to marry me after Divina.
I grab a business card from my wallet and hand it over, avoiding our fingers brushing. “My number is there. You aren’t the only person I’m asking, so don’t take long. I’d like this handled by the end of the week. I also expect discretion. No one can know the details of what I’ve asked you—even if I marry someone else . . .” I let my words trail off as I raise an eyebrow.
She rubs the card between her fingers. “I have competition. Hilarious.”
The silence builds between us. My heart picks up. I expected her to say yes on the spot, but she’s got fire in her.
Which I admire.
I rub my jaw as unease trickles over me. I’m weirded out by what I’ve proposed, and I need to breathe some Emmy-free air.
“Don’t take too long to call me.” As I turn to leave, my hand brushes hers, and an electric thrill ghosts down my arm. I push it down and walk away.
Chapter 8
GRAHAM
Jasper throws me the ball, and I run for the goal line as the other team barrels toward me. I do a fake and dodge, but a beefy linebacker catches up and tackles me to the ground with a crash. My head explodes with pain, and the impact reverberates through my bones. The world spins in dizzying circles. A body rolls over mine. And another. I’m crushed, like I’m in a giant iron vise, being squeezed and twisted until my insides beg for mercy.
I can’t breathe.
I clutch my chest.
Icy tendrils of terror take over. I’m dying. And no one is here to help me.
I scream, but no one hears me, not a single soul.
But her.
Beautiful girl.
Green eyes.
Long blonde hair.
Champagne and sunlight—
I jerk away, my chest heaving as I shove away the dream. My hands clench the covers on the bed, grappling for reality. Sweat drips from my forehead. That feeling of dread from being tackled still clings to me as I get up and head to the bathroom. I splash water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. I look ashen. That’s the second time this week. How am I supposed to play in a real game if this shit is in my head?
After putting on joggers and a hooded Pythons sweatshirt, I pad out of the bedroom and walk to the kitchen with its orange cabinets and psychedelic yellow-and-black flower-themed wallpaper, giving it a frozen-in-time look from the seventies.
The carpet in the den is shag, and the furniture is avocado green, from the couch to the club chairs. Which are newish. Someone wanted this place to look like Elvis might have lived here. The dining room table even has a disco ball over it.
I recently bought this particular apartment because Brody and Cas live on the same floor, in a smaller two-bedroom. Jasper lives here as well, but his apartment is on another floor.
After coffee, I’m at a neurologist’s office on the Upper West Side, a doctor recommended by River Tate, our wide receiver. Apparently, Dr. Moreau is a superstar brain lady.
I pull my hoodie down over my sunglasses. Not exactly a disguise, but I don’t want to be recognized in the office, or worse, videoed. There’s already enough talk about my injury.
A receptionist smiles as she opens a door to a posh exam room. “This is our VIP room, Mr. Harlan. Dr. Moreau will be with you in just a moment.”
The room has a couch and two leather chairs. On the coffee table is a to-scale model of the human brain on a stand. Made of silicone, it jiggles.
“Please don’t fondle my brain, Mr. Harlan,” says a voice with a heavy French accent.
I jerk my hand off the model like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar and turn around to see a petite woman with short white hair. Small wire glasses frame intelligent blue eyes. Her back is slightly bent, but it doesn’t stop her from hurrying over to me.
I pull my sunglasses off and tuck them into my pocket. I feel massive next to her. “Sorry, I . . .”
“I’m Dr. Moreau,” she says, cutting me off as she holds out her hand, limp wristed.
Do I shake it or kiss it? I take her fingers in an odd embrace.
She sits in one of the chairs.
I look at the other chair and then back to the couch.
“Should I sit there, or over here, or . . .”
“Just sit. There is a couch, but this is not therapy.”
Yes, ma’am. I take the couch because it’s bigger, and I need more room than she does.
She pops open her laptop. “I have looked over your most recent charts and scans. You’ve seen some of the best neuro-specialists in the city. I also see we managed to fit you in today after a cancellation. Lucky you. Some people wait months. I am, what do they say, a little unorthodox but brilliant. I speak my mind and expect you to do so as well. Now. Why see me?”
I clasp my hands together, the tension in my shoulders making me twitch. “My team cleared me to play football, but I’d like a second opinion.”
The tight end coach, Marlon, gave me the news a week ago, while I was working out with Brody and Cas. I’d nearly wept in thankfulness. Being cleared was the best news I could have hoped for, but that night, doubts crept in, and the dreams.
She nods. “I am happy to do this. What’s their latest opinion—in your words?”
“That I’m healed from the concussion.”
“You want to play very much, yes?”
“Of course,” I say, eyeing her warily.
She taps her chin. “I saw your injury on television. I lost money on you; I bet your team would lose. You did not.”
A prickle of irritation buzzes in the back of my head, but I squash it down.
She looks down at her tablet and types a quick note. “I see my insensitive comment did not bother you much.”
I lean back in my chair. “Not everyone is a fan.”
“Would you say you are easier to anger now?”
Not really. I mean, sure, I wanted to pound on Kian a while back, but I would have anyway. “No.”
“Good. This is very good. I like this. So now continue. Tell me about the physical issues you suffered.”
“Headaches and dizziness mostly. I’m off the pain meds I was on, mostly Tylenol, and working out. I feel great.” I haven’t had one symptom since my headache at the diner in the desert.
“I see you were diagnosed with postconcussive syndrome, very common among athletes.”
“It made me want to punch a hole in the wall,” I say grimly.
“Don’t do it in my office. And your heart?”
“Passed all my tests. There was never an issue with it.”
She types in rapid fire. “I suspect your heart issue on the field was because of the violent collision to your brain.”