Page 12 of Protecting Player #73 (Portland, Settlers #1 | Gridiron Warriors)
T.K
S omething’s wrong. Brea is acting weird today.
She’s avoiding eye contact with me and keeping to herself when she ordinarily teases and jokes around with the team.
She’s guarded, and her shoulders are hunched, which tells me she’s closed herself off.
Even Kace and Cash, who she’s close with, share looks and are hesitant to approach her.
“Hey, man, your girl okay?” Cash eventually asks when Brea moves to sit in the stands, likely editing the footage she caught from today’s practice.
“She’s in a mood,” I agree, because I haven’t a fucking clue.
“Line it up, boys!” Coach yells at us, annoyed that we aren’t paying attention.
Jogging out to position, I drop down, one knee on the ground, the other leg outstretched, ready to blast through my O-Line and touch the QB but wanting to plow through them all.
Restless energy pumps through my veins because I can’t get inside Brea’s head, and it makes me reckless.
The craving to cause pain has me unhinged.
As the whistle blows, I zone in, and my body reacts swiftly.
Pushing off my back leg and brushing through two players, too fast for them to catch, I lock my sights on the quarterback.
In a split second, my brain clicks into practice mode, and instead of tackling him, I tap his hip with my hand.
Tucking and rolling, I land on my feet and whip off my helmet, immediately pinching the bridge of my nose.
I feel eyes on me and spin around. Brea is there, her sky blue orbs wide open and focused on me, while worrying her lower lip with her teeth.
She subtly shakes her head when she notices I’m about to take a step towards her.
Frustrated, I stop and turn my back because if she keeps looking at me like that, heart on her sleeve and desire in her eyes, I’ll act on it and blow her world wide open.
“Weston, get your head in the game!” Coach shouts at me, and I can tell from his tone that he’s had enough of my shit.
When I turn back around, Brea is gone, and I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or fucking panic.
I’d prefer her always within my sight, but she’s clearly a distraction, and the only one to blame for that is myself.
Not contacting her when we came home after our Texas game was a mistake, but I needed time to figure my shit out.
I kept an eye on her from a distance. Watched her as she slept, broke into her house to swap out her birth control, and set up cameras in her room.
I stole her fucking panties and plotted her friend’s death because that asshole rubs me the wrong way with how he lurks around her so much.
When he invades her space by touching her, getting closer than friends do.
I contemplated how and where I’d bury his body so nobody would find him.
When it comes to Brea, the sickness inside me knows no bounds and will never find relief.
I mutter to myself, “Get this fucking over with,” and a few guys look at me.
I ignore them and get back in position, resolute for the rest of practice.
Giving my best moves and encouraging my team to step up their game so that when we head to Vegas at the end of the week, we’re ready to kick some ass.
Staring at my phone, waiting for Brea to answer my text is driving me crazy.
I could just check the cameras I installed in her room, track her phone, spy on her in one of the many ways I’ve violated her privacy, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
My need for Brea to want me is driving my obsession to the point where I’m not sure I care if she wants me the way I want her.
The woman is mine. There’s no question about it.
My entire life has led me to my girl. The hard work in football, in college, in working to build financial stability, all of it has been to ensure Brea will have anything she wants, so long as it’s with me.
Bubbles pop up in the text box, and my body goes rigid, sitting up straighter, buzzing with anticipation. They disappear, then pop up again. This happens over and over before finally getting two little words… I’m fine.
The fuck she is. I may not know a lot about Brea, but I know damn sure when she’s bullshitting me, and that’s just not going to fly for me.
Shooting her a message back, I tell her I’m on my way to her house and toss my phone in the passenger seat.
I don’t give a shit whether she wants me there or not.
If she wants space, she can have it…
In my condo.
She can take one of the guest rooms and turn it into a studio. I’ll get her anything she needs for her role as our social media manager, but today is the last day she lives with this clown in a house I can’t control the comings and goings from.
The drive takes longer than usual due to construction, and while I fight to remain patient, the closer I get, the angrier I become because this shouldn’t be an issue.
Throwing my car into park when I notice a flower bouquet on her front porch, I slam my door shut and storm up the sidewalk to the entrance. The porch light is on, and lights are glowing inside the house, so I know someone is home.
Picking up the flowers, I search for a card but don’t see one, so I knock on the door. It’s more of a banging, really. I want Brea’s attention and hope that asshole doesn’t open it, or I might sock him in the face.
“Coming!” My heart races at the sound of her voice.
I hear her hand touch the doorknob, but it takes a few seconds before she opens it, so she must have checked the peephole.
As the wood panel pulls back and the light from the entryway surrounds her like an angel, all I want is to drop to my knees and worship her.
The neutral expression on her beautiful face is the only thing stopping me.
“Flowers?” Her head tilts curiously.
“Not from me.” Disappointment dulls the shine in her eyes, and I hate that I didn’t bring some for her. “They were on the step already.” The fact that she doesn’t light up is all that keeps me sane because it means she isn’t distracted by another man.
We stand there awkwardly for a few minutes before she finally invites me in. As I close and lock the door, I offer her the bouquet, but she immediately sneezes. Her eyes water and swell, and hives break out on her hands, neck, and face.
“Jesus, pup.” Taking back the flowers, I open the door and toss them out, then scoop her up in my arms and carry her to the kitchen to wash off the pollen as she wheezes and coughs. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”
Honestly, I’m ready to run out of the house with her in my arms when she shakes her head and points to the cabinet above the fridge. Grabbing a box of prescription allergy meds and a nasal spray, I hand them to her before grabbing a clean glass and filling it with water.
Waiting as she swallows her pill, sprays her nose, and then points at a bottle of eye drops that I grab for her, she finally inhales deeply after a couple of minutes.
“I think you should go to the hospital.” That was one hell of a reaction.
“I’m fine. I don’t normally react like that unless it’s redwood violets, and I stay clear of them for obvious reasons.
” The flower is mainly found on forest floors and is not something ordinarily sold in stores around here.
“I just need a minute. They must have been mixed in there good for me not to see them.”
Observing as she squeezes the drops in her eyes, my anger grows because this was intentional. There’s no way it was accidental.
“Who knows about this allergy?” I ask, trying to keep my tone in check. From the narrowing of her eyes, I don’t think it’s working.
“Mostly everyone. I did a segment about flora and fauna allergies for one of my projects in class a couple of years ago, and after it was graded, I posted it to my ReelShotz page to help educate others about what allergens can look like.” Her innocence is something I love about her, but it has left her open to this type of situation.
“Move in with me.” Blurting it out wasn’t what I had planned, but I couldn’t hold back anymore.
“No sex, I know. I’m happy to wait, but, pup, I can’t sleep another night without you.
Not when I know our future is written in stone.
Not when I know there is someone out there doing nefarious shit to hurt you, and definitely not when I know I’m meant to be yours and you, mine. ”
I expect a fight–dirty looks and arguments, justifying everything I want with her. What I don’t expect is for her to say okay so easily.
“Yes? That’s a yes?” I’m stunned and elated. Cupping her cheeks, I drag her close and plant my lips over hers.
“One condition,” she mumbles under my smooshy mouth. I stop and hold my breath. “Tuesdays are Kitchen Nightmares nights, and I never miss an episode.”
“Deal.” Christ , I’d have said anything so that she agreed.