Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Thirteen
Britney
There’s a charity game organized for the Jacksonville Jaguars which I’m scheduled to attend. I wouldn’t know the difference between a charity one and a normal one, because I’ve never been to a football game. Rather than fretting over what’s to come, I use the morning to catch up on other work projects in my hotel room.
I’m trying to focus when a message flashes on my phone. I don’t have to guess who it’s from, she has a sixth sense for when I’m procrastinating and when I’m keeping something from her. As I’m doing both, the pull must be strong.
Jess: The powers that be would like an update on the article’s progress.
Me: You’re using them as an excuse to find out gossip now?
Jess: Possibly.
Me: You have no shame.
Jess: What choice do I have? You keep screening my calls. Now, tell me something about the big blond giant. Besides how he takes his coffee and what his daily schedule is.
At least she’s being playful; it means she’s in a better mood than the other day.
Me: There’s nothing to tell.
Jess: If there wasn’t anything to tell you would answer my calls. It’s lucky you’re all the way in Florida.
I roll my eyes, thankful for the distance and that she can’t see my reaction.
Jess: I know you’re rolling your eyes.
Damn it.
Me: Honestly. Progress is poor.
Jess: What do you mean progress is poor? There isn’t a never-ending timeline on this. You have to produce an article. Soon. I can’t keep putting the deadline off. People want to know when it’s going to run.
Me: Things are complicated. We’ve barely spent any time together and the time we have has been a catastrophe. This would have worked a lot better if we’d done the interview over the phone or by email. You know, like we do with most clients.
Jess: But Becket isn’t a normal client. He set his own terms and he wanted you in Florida. Sorry B. This will be the first big interview he’s done in years. It’s exclusive and it’s huge. It has the potential to be a bestselling issue, so you need to think outside the box.
Me: It’s an article with a football player how exactly am I supposed to think outside the box?
Jess: I don’t know but it’s your job and what you’re getting paid for.
Jess: P.S. Is he as sexy in person?
I pause before replying, wondering whether I should let Jess in on the mixed feelings I’m having. The professional part of me wants to hold back. She’s my boss, but she’s also my best friend and if I can’t speak to her, I have no one.
Me: He’s as sexy.
Jess: You’ll be dropping your panties in no time. But I didn’t say that. As your boss I do not approve. However, as your best friend, I say ride that horse.
Me: Slightly inappropriate …
Jess: You gotta lose that V-card someday baby. Might as well set the bar high.
Me: I’m ending this conversation now. I have a football game to get ready for.
Jess: Wear something skimpy, have fun and don’t forget to think outside the box.
***
There’s apparently one perk of doing the article: Free seats. At least it would be a perk if I followed football. I shuffle along my designated row, smiling to myself that I’ve managed to score another point. Becket wanted me to be in one of the boxes where all the VIPs go. I outright refused, especially after the charade at the masquerade ball. The last thing I wanted was to be around people who were there and witnessed my embarrassment.
Now that I have a great seat, even I can appreciate how great it is, close to the field, where I can see Becket clearly. It might be out of season, but I can feel the fans’ excitement in the air. The stadium is buzzing and alive. I’m beginning to understand why he fought so hard for his career. When he walks out onto the field, he has the unwavering support of his fans, but it’s not just that. Looking around, taking in the enormity of the stadium, the excitement, the feeling of being a part of something much bigger, I realize he does it for the love of the game. Nothing else could compare.
I feel out of place in my black suit pants and white blouse. I don’t know why I opted for my standard New York uniform; it’s the first time I’ve worn it since the day I arrived. Maybe it was to try and keep some distance between our worlds. Something to serve as a reminder of how different we are and why we can’t be together.
The crowds start to chant as it gets closer to the start of the game, waiting for each team to run onto the pitch. When the Jaguars appear, the stadium erupts so loudly I think I might have burst an eardrum. My eyes hone in on Becket and become glued to his broad chest and spandex-covered legs, watching as he runs across the field with the crowd screaming their appreciation. He’s in his element.
Before running off the field with his teammates at halftime, Becket’s eyes scour the crowd until he finds me. He cocks his head to the side as a signal for me to follow. Even behind his helmet I can see the playful glint in his eyes, and my body starts to hum.
I maneuver my way along the row of seats and head inside the stadium, walking the same corridors I did just a few weeks ago when everything felt different between us. The corridor leads to the locker rooms and is clad with giant security guys, making sure no crazy fans get past.
“Ma’am,” a particularly burly one says as I approach.
“Britney Shaw,” I respond, knowing it’s my name he wants.
He looks down the list he has in his hands and when he finds my name, lets me through. It’s like wading through treacle the closer I get. I’m almost at the locker room, when a hand reaches out and pulls me along a dark corridor. I go to yelp, but a large hand covers my mouth, silencing me.
“Don’t scream, it’s just me,” whispers Becket.
He spins me around and the first thing I notice is that he’s removed his helmet, then my eyes lock on what he has in his hands. “What’s that?”
“Hello to you too.” He smirks.
I nod at what he’s holding, and he takes a step back, holding up a Jaguar’s jersey.
I frown. “What’s it for?”
His eyes burn each part of my body they pass over. “You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion. You look like you’re ready for a day at the office.”
“It’s called being professional.” I sniff.
“Consider it a gift.” He goes to pass it to me, but I shake my head.
“I’m not wearing it.”
He takes a step forward.
I gulp. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer, just takes another step closer and then another, until he has me backed up against the wall. I’m not sure if it’s with fear or excitement, but my heart races and every part of my body feels jittery. When he grasps the edge of my blouse in his hands, his smirk is back and I look up into his eyes, hoping he will give away the next part of the game. I get nothing, he’s a closed book.
Without any warning, he rips my blouse open, and I squeal as the buttons scatter, bouncing when they hit the floor.
“What the hell!” I slap a hand against his chest. It’s wasted effort because he’s in his football gear, pads and all. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Ow,” he says, making fun of me. Ignoring my scowl, his eyes travel south, taking in the white, lacy bra I chose to wear under my now ruined blouse.
“That was my favorite shirt.”
“It’s now my favorite. I like the buttonless look. I was going to make you put my jersey on, but I think I prefer you like this.”
Where is this even coming from? Becket couldn’t have been more closed off since our kiss back at the fight club. I’m not sure what’s happened but it feels like a switch has been flicked and he’s done a complete U-turn.
I have no choice but to snatch the jersey out of his hands. Game on, I think to myself, making painfully slow work of stripping away the blouse and covering up.
He lets out a groan when the jersey with his number settles over my frame. “I like seeing you with my number on.”
I roll my eyes at the typical jock comment. “How cliché. You need to come up with something more original.”
He raises a brow and holds my gaze. “My fame doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“Nope. If anything, I prefer you behind closed doors.” My eyes widen when I realize what I’ve said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Of course, you didn’t.”
He’s being an asshole, but this time I don’t hate it, quite the opposite. The ache between my legs is back and I’m dying to feel what it would be like having him rip away my thong in the same way he ripped away my shirt. I want to know what it would feel like having his fingers slip inside me, rubbing at the spot I want only him to touch.
I’d never tell him that though.
Instead, I lift my head defiantly and say, “Confident much?”
“Very much … Admit it, Brit, you want me as much as you did the night we first met. I know you can’t forget about that kiss.”
Which one? Each time his lips find mine I feel more alive than I ever have in my life. I’ve forgotten what life felt like without him in it. A lump forms in my throat as I imagine leaving him behind. I don’t want to.
His lips hover, millimeters from mine. I’d only have to lean in a fraction to give in to what we’re both feeling. I’m torn between my head and my heart. Temptation proves too much and I’m about to close the gap when there’s a noise along the corridor.
We both turn to find Coach Langford standing with his hands placed firmly on his hips.
“Is this a new thing we’re doing at halftime, Becket?” he barks. “Last time I checked, we recovered with the team and went through plays, which you don’t appear to be doing. Unless Miss Shaw has some insight into your performance that I don’t?”
Knowing better than to challenge him, Becket steps back. I shiver when I’m hit with cold air as he walks away, after being surrounded by his body heat.
I hear him mutter, “Sorry, Coach,” before he heads back to the locker room.
I don’t move and neither does Coach Langford.
His expression is stern, clearly not impressed with the little show we just put on. “I didn’t know a sports article required you to get so up close and personal.”
“It was a mistake,” I say, my voice low.
“It would appear this whole thing could be one big mistake. I asked you to help him, not screw him. Are you purposefully trying to mess up his life … again?”
I shake my head, I can’t believe he’s jumping to these sorts of conclusions. I don’t know what it will take for people to move past what happened and accept that it’s just that, in the past. “No! I swear that wasn’t what this was,” I exclaim.
“Britney, he’s only just got his life back on track after you so kindly messed it up. You have one job. The article. When you’re done, move on and let him live his life without his past following him around.”
What he’s saying stings, but he’s right. It’s what I need to hear to bring me back down to earth and remember why I’m here. He leaves without saying another word and I walk back to my seat before the second half begins. This time, I pull out my notebook, determined to get some work done. Sitting, I make notes to take my mind off what almost happened between us, again. I need to finish up this article and get back to New York as soon as possible.
The Jaguars return to the field and I watch Becket interact with the other players, beginning to understand what he’s about. He’s loyal and caring in his own unique way and the team is his family. He will do whatever he can to protect them, even from his own actions. I should stay and watch him play but I suddenly don’t want to be here. The game we’re playing is confusing and I no longer know which team I’m on. The need to be with him, feel him, get to know every part of him, is getting stronger.
The Jaguars begin running their next play and I decide to go while Becket’s distracted and won’t notice me leaving. Shuffling along my row again, I apologize as I move past fans, disgruntled I’m disturbing the game. I’m almost at the exit when the noise of the crowd changes, and excitement fills the air. Maybe there’s no harm in watching one last play. I should keep walking and leave Becket behind, but I don’t want to miss the moment, so I stand and watch as the ball is passed between players. Becket catches it and begins sprinting along the field. The speed he moves at is incredible, and I jump up and down with excitement. At the same time the crowd goes wild and does the same.
That’s when a flash of black catches my attention. It’s the calm, eerie movement that makes it stand out, where everything else is frantic. Time slows as I swallow, then turn my head, taking in the figure in a black hooded jacket, standing, just a few feet away. I place a hand on the wall beside me, trying to keep myself upright as my legs tremble.
That’s when I hear it. Everyone does.
There’s no mistaking the almighty crunch that fills the night, and my attention is drawn away from the figure as I quickly look back to the field, praying it’s not as bad as the churning in my gut tells me.
I don’t know if it’s me or the crowd screaming, as my eyes take in Becket, lying on the grass, lifeless.
When I manage to turn back, the figure is gone.
***
Becket
“Sorry Coach,” I mutter, as I walk past, leaving him and Britney alone in the corridor.
When I get to the locker room, I open my locker and pull out my phone, choosing to ignore the missed calls and messages from Shauna my PR rep. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything in the public eye, and she no doubt wants an update on how the article is going, but I’m not in the mood. Frustrated at Coach for interrupting my moment with Britney, I slam my locker shut and bang my head against it. Dramatic, even for me.
Brad wanders over, not picking up on the vibe that I need a bit of space. “What’s up your ass?”
“Langford. He interrupted something with Britney.”
“Something,” he says, air quoting with his hands.
“Yeah, something.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? The two of you,” he asks, frowning.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
He looks at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. “Dude, she outed your secrets and leaked a sex tape which she set up! Are you sure you can trust her?”
I bend over and pick up my helmet. “There’s something about her. I felt it back then and I still feel it now. I don’t know. Something doesn’t add up.”
“You think she didn’t do it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a conversation we still need to have.”
“What? You’re actually planning on being mature and having an adult discussion about it?”
I smirk. “Maybe.”
Coach Langford steps back into the locker room, the delay of his following doesn’t go unnoticed. After a quick pep talk for the second half of the game, he sends us on our way, refusing to give me any kind of eye contact. I’m not the only one who’s annoyed.
Stepping out onto the pitch my eyes find Britney in the crowd. I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image of her in that lacy, white bra. It was an asshole move I pulled, but it was worth every bit of her anger. I could spend all day staring at her body if she’d let me.
We’re a couple of plays in, when out of the corner of my eye I see her stand to leave. I wonder where she’s going but now isn’t the time to focus on her. I catch the ball, tuck it under my arm and begin sprinting along the pitch. I can hear the crowd roaring in my ears. I block them out like white noise, staying focused, my eyes on the target. The line at the end of the field. Nothing else matters.
One flicker of my eyes in the wrong direction is all it takes for everything to go wrong.
I turn my head slightly as I run, wondering if I can still see Britney before I make the play. But it’s not her I find. It’s a figure in a black hooded jacket, one I haven’t seen for years. One I thought was in my past. My blood runs cold, my focus on the game gone.
I’m catapulted through the air, then everything goes black.
