Page 13 of Hold Me Closer

Teo

" H oly shit." Tyson stops in front of me on the sidelines halfway through practice, doing a double-take. "Are you smiling, motherfucker?"

"Nope," I lie, flipping him off.

He grins at me, flashing his teeth. "Lying prick. You took my advice."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I toss him a bottle of water.

"Uh-huh." He pauses to drink, his eyes locked on my face. "I suppose you also have no idea why your face is all over the news again?"

"No clue," I say cheerfully.

"Right," he says, drawing the word out. And then he laughs, shaking his head. "Good for you, man. It's about goddamn time you figured your shit out."

"Thanks, brother." I hold my fist out for him to bump.

Coach blows a sharp blast on his whistle. "Kirby! Over here, now!"

"Damn, you in trouble again?" Tyson cocks a brow.

"Fucking probably. Shit. When am I not in trouble?" I groan, hauling myself off the bench.

Tyson's laughter chases me as I jog over to Coach.

"Your publicist is here," he says. "Go see her."

"Is everything okay?"

Coach shields his eyes against the sun, scowling at me. "I should be the one asking you that, Kirby. You're the one giving me a new goddamn headache every day."

"I've been on my best behavior for the past few days, Coach."

He snorts. "Your face is all over the gossip pages, Kirby. Your definition of best behavior and mine clearly differ."

"I'm not allowed to date?"

"You going to get into bar fights over her often?"

"Depends on how often creeps twice her size trap her against the bar, call her names, and threaten her," I say bluntly. "Because I won't be tolerating that bullshit."

Coach stares at me for a long moment before he laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"I don't know why I even asked. You're too damn honest for your own good," he mutters.

"Tell her to hire a fucking security detail, will you?

It might actually save your career. And go see your publicist before you piss me off. "

I don't bother responding before I turn to jog across the field.

I swear to Christ, I can't figure the man out.

Half the time, I'm convinced he's on my side.

The other half, I'm convinced he wants to see me crash and burn.

He's a conundrum. But I'm not going to lie to him.

If motherfuckers insist on harassing Nadia, I'll handle it.

Don't really give a fuck what the league or anyone else has to say about it.

They can fine me, fire me, whatever. It makes no difference to me.

Emelia is waiting for me under the awning just outside the practice field, watching my teammates. It's too early for her to be dressed in a suit and stilettos.

"What happened?" I ask, instantly on alert.

"Why do you have such a suspicious mind?" she asks, cocking her head to the side.

"You're dressed for battle." I motion at her clothes. "The suit is never a good sign."

"I had an early morning meeting."

"With who? Beelzebub?"

"Close enough. Management."

"How'd it go?"

"My day is going great. Thanks for asking," she says, snark in her tone. "How is yours?"

"Cut the shit, Emelia," I growl. "What happened?"

"You're still on the chopping block," she says with a huff. "But they might be willing to let you off."

"What do they want?"

"Alcohol education and for you to pair with a charity for an image overhaul."

"Fuck no."

"Why not?"

"The charity is fine; I'll give them that. But I don't need alcohol education," I growl. "I'm not a damn alcoholic."

She eyes me doubtfully.

"I'm not," I snap. "I haven't even had a damn drink since the other night."

"Alcoholics can be functional, Teo. Some can even go for long periods between drinks."

I scowl daggers at her. "Do you know how often I drink?"

"More often than you should."

"Not that often," I snap. The problem isn't how often I drink. It's that most people assume I'm fucking wasted when I get into fights. I'm not. Most of the time, if I drink in a bar, it's one drink, never more. The few times I do get wasted, I do it at home, usually to drown out memories of Nadia.

But I'll never drink enough while I'm out to risk getting behind the wheel of a car. Our families almost lost Nadia in an accident that wasn't her fault. I won't put them through losing me in one because I was stupid enough to drink and drive.

People never want the truth, though. They just want a story. They never want to know why I hit an asshole in a bar. They just want to report that I hit someone else. And I'm not saying I should be hitting assholes in bars. Obviously, I fucking shouldn't.

Assholes in bars shouldn't be spiking drinks, harassing women, or otherwise being rapey pricks, either. Smacking around the rapey asshole in a bar I overheard talking about spiking a drink is better than half the shit I could have been doing. At least I'm using my issues to do the world a favor.

But why report the truth when an out-of-control, drunk football player starting bar fights sells better than a football player who smacked around someone who deserved it?

"And they've sent people to rehab who have never even picked up a drug," Emelia says.

"It's about optics, Teo. You've become a problem for the league.

As far as the world is concerned, you're an alcoholic with anger issues.

If you didn't want to wear that label, you shouldn't have allowed them to brand you with it. "

I mutter a curse, bouncing my helmet against my thigh pad. "So this is my only option?"

"It is if you still want to play next year," she says quietly. "They're not going to budge on this one. You don't have to announce it to the world, but they want you in an alcohol education program."

"Fine," I mutter. "Whatever."

"You'll do it?"

"I'll think about it."

She smiles at me, relief coloring her expression. "I'll let them know. And it won't be so bad, Teo."

I snort, not buying that bullshit for a hot second. She knows damn well it'll be bad. Someone will inevitably get ahold of the news that I was forced into alcohol education. It'll serve to confirm exactly what everyone already thinks.

I'm not a fucking alcoholic.

"How are things going with Nadia?"

"Fine."

She kicks me in the shin.

"What the fuck?" I growl, scowling at her.

"You spent half the day at the studio with her yesterday. It's all over the gossip sites," she snaps. "Don't give me fine , Mateo Kirby."

"Jesus Christ. Do you have any business of your own?" I ask.

"Yes. It's called being in yours. Now, spill."

My lips twitch with amusement. "We're working shit out. It's private, Emelia. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have told the press that you're dating." She gives me a dirty look. "You did not run that by me."

"I was hedging my bets."

"You're lucky she didn't kill you."

"She loves me."

Emelia smiles, genuinely happy. "Good. Then don't fudge it up. Team management is willing to back off for now if you take the classes and partner with a charity for image rehab, but we still have to convince the league that you're a changing man."

"I want Nadia left out of it," I remind her. "She isn't something to dangle in front of them like proof."

"I'm aware. But she's good for you. And what's good for you is good for the league. So don't fudge it up," she repeats.

"Fuck it up. It's fuck it up ."

"Go play sportsball, and leave me alone."

I laugh quietly, shaking my head as I turn back toward the field.

"Oh! By the way, is there anything in your past you don't want the press to know?" she asks me.

I turn a questioning look on her.

"With the two of you back together, they're going to dig," she says. "Is there anything we need to worry about them finding?"

"Nadia's accident," I say softly. "I don't want them splashing it all over the goddamn news. She shouldn't have to relive that."

"I'll see what I can do," Emelia says.

"Thanks."

" J esus," I rumble, staring at Nadia. She's sitting on my doorstep in a little sundress, her hair pulled up in a bun, her head tilted back so the sun hits her face. She looks like a goddamn angel.

"Hey," she whispers, smiling up at me sweetly.

I stumble toward her, unable to take my eyes off her.

My heart pounds against my ribcage, beating a frenzy.

I feel jittery, nervous energy humming through me in a way it never does when I'm on the field.

Out there, shit never really mattered much to me.

But this right here? This moment? It's everything.

She's here right now, willing to give me another chance.

I've spent so fucking long fantasizing about this day, but I don't think I ever let myself believe it could actually happen.

In my mind, I was the reason she almost died, and she knew it too.

She fucking hated me for it. How could we ever get to this point after that?

And yet…we're here. She doesn't blame me. I'm not sure I'll ever feel the same way. But hearing her say that shit last night—that she never blamed me, that it wasn't my fault…Christ, I needed to hear that. More than I've ever needed to hear anything.

"I thought you had to be in the studio this afternoon, butterfly." I hold my hand out toward her.

"Brogan decided to get the band back in today," she murmurs, allowing me to pull her to her feet. "So I decided to come here instead." Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, her gaze dancing across my face. "Um, if you have things to do, I can go."

"Fuck no," I growl, pulling her into my arms. "You aren't going anywhere."

"Okay," she whispers, her shoulders drooping with relief, as if she really thought I might tell her that I'm too busy for her. Fuck that noise. I'll never be too busy for her.

My gaze lingers on her pouty lips for a long moment before I groan reluctantly. "I want to kiss you, but there are still camera crews outside the gates."