Page 50 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Dex

I don’t go home. I can’t.

Rolondo takes me to his apartment. I head straight to his guest room and into the shower. I hadn’t bothered washing up at

the stadium, just sat on a flimsy chair in front of my spot until the guys came back in and Rolondo hustled me out of there.

Now I stand beneath cold water, letting it pummel me. Images flash through my mind: Fi’s smile. Fi crying. Norris’s ugly grin,

blood running down his nose. Fi arching beneath me as I take her. Fi and me laughing in a grainy picture. Fi telling me she

wants to go to London.

She asked for the money.

Black rage, thick, hot and choking, surges up my throat. My shout shatters the air as my fist smashes into the tiles. Pain

explodes in my hand, but it takes me a moment to stop.

Slumping against the stall, I stare down at my split knuckles, the blood thin and pale as it mixes with the water beating

down on it. Tentatively, I make a fist. The skin stings, but nothing else.

Stupid. Fucking stupid to risk a busted hand. I ought to be horrified. I’m not. My mind’s on that picture of Fi, a once-beautiful private moment reduced to something ugly and cheap. Does she hate me for giving that chick the opportunity to steal my phone?

Was that why?

It makes no sense. Nothing does. I think of Fi and everything she told me last night.

She wouldn’t do this. There has to be more.

Chest tight, I run my uninjured hand over my wet face, and my fingers tangle in my beard. Again comes the rage, sticky and

thick, as if it’s coated my insides like hot tar.

Pushing away from the wall, I wrench off the shower.

When I emerge from my room, Rolondo has stepped out, probably thinking I need to be alone.

He’s right.

The pain in my busted knuckles keeps me focused. For so long, pain was the one real thing in my life. Taste the pain, ignore

the rest.

By the time I find what I’m looking for under his bathroom sink, the room is a mess. I don’t give a ripe fuck. My chest heaves

as I stand and look in the mirror. For so long, I didn’t know who the fuck I was. Only with Fi did I feel right, at ease within

my flesh. The world has tainted that too.

To hell with it.

Grimly, I lift the razor and press it to my skin.

Fiona

With an excess of nervous energy zinging through me, I decide to bake some biscuits. Ivy was right; I do know how to bake.

I just tend to do it for emergency purposes only. Right now, baking is the only thing I can think of to calm my shaking hands

and reaffirm that Ethan’s home is my home too.

It’s been a weird day between demanding my money from Bloom and setting up an interview with the press to explain why I did it. Ivy helped me with that, choosing a sympathetic sports reporter—a woman so I would feel more comfortable.

We held the interview through Zoom. Ivy had joined from her home in San Francisco, acting as Dex’s agent and my moral support.

I was so nervous I feared I might throw up just seconds before we went on air. But then a strange sort of cool calm came over

me as I told the reporter of my plans for the money. I didn’t speak about the pictures or how it felt to be exposed, and Ivy

shut down those questions every time they were asked. The truth is, none of that mattered.

What matters is that Bloom’s dirty money will be put to good use. One million dollars to help stop childhood hunger and homelessness.

I went as far as throwing down a gauntlet to Bloom, daring them to double their money and do good for once. I don’t expect

them to, but it was satisfying to make them squirm.

Ivy thought it was a most excellent fuck you to Bloom and all the haters. I’m just happy it’s over. I want to get back to my life, to focus on my furniture making and

most importantly, on Ethan.

There hadn’t been time to tell him what I was doing and why. He was at his game, and I was too anxious to wait, afraid I’d

chicken out.

But it’s done now. I feel lighter, free. All that remains is to explain it to Ethan and tell him I’m staying right here where

I belong.

The joy I feel in knowing he’s mine, in being with him, is so strong it scares me. I want to guard it with my entire soul.

I want to tuck big, strong, capable Ethan Dexter to my side and protect him from the world.

It makes absolutely no sense; he doesn’t need my protection. But the desire is there just the same. I don’t want him to be unhappy or vulnerable to the vultures out there. I want—need—him to know how much he’s loved.

I know he feels the same about me. It’s in his every touch, every word, look and smile he gives me. With him, here in this

home he’s made, I feel that safety.

Only now I’m afraid I might have fucked up by not warning him. Highlights from the game show him being ejected for starting

a brawl. I’ve watched the footage over and over, my mouth gaping. Ethan never fights, never really loses his temper at all.

God, but he looked so angry, blood and sweat running down his face as he pummeled the shit out of a player on the other team.

At first, I thought maybe he was fighting because of a disparaging remark the guy made about me. But now I’m not so sure.

Because the game is long over, and Ethan still isn’t home.

When I tried to call him, I found his phone sitting on his dresser, forgotten in his haste to be on time today.

Short of roaming the city for him, I can only stay here and bake and wait.

I’m pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven when I hear him come in. “Ethan?”

The sound of his car keys falling into the bowl on the front console fills the silence.

Then he speaks, his voice deep. “Yep.”

One word. I shouldn’t read anything into it, but he sounds off.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I say in a bright voice, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m making biscuits and was thinking about getting

some gumbo from down the street.”

Footsteps thud across the floorboards, and Ethan appears.

A biscuit drops from my fingers to the floor as I behold the man standing at the threshold of the kitchen.

He’s tall, broad and muscular, his eyes jewel bright.

The line of his jaw is a clean sweep, his smooth chin stubborn, firm and unfamiliar to me.

This man doesn’t have a beard. Or much hair.

All that glorious, sun-streaked brown hair has been shorn off close to his skull.

And he stands there—hands shoved in his pockets, a gray cotton button-down shirt straining at his shoulders—looking so different

I hardly recognize him. Younger, more vulnerable. Exposed.

“Why?” I warble, my heartbeat thudding in my throat.

He shrugs, his gaze sliding away. “Felt the need for a change.”

In a daze, I walk to him. He keeps his head down, the squared-off hinge of his jaw bunching as if he’s grinding his teeth.

“Ethan.” My hand touches his smooth cheek. God. His beard. His thick, lustrous beard is gone. A deep pang of mourning rips

through me. “Why?”

He shakes his head. Once, as if to say, don’t ask me. Don’t make me say it .

But I know. With a cry, I fling myself on him. And he gathers me up, holds me against him as I press my face into the warm

hollow of his throat. He smells the same. Exactly the same—like birthdays, Christmas morning and pancakes at midnight.

I’ve needed to feel his solid strength and hear his steady breath, more than I realized. Tears well hot and heavy in my eyes

as my fingers find the back of his shorn head.

I must be choking him, my arms are wrapped around his neck so tightly. But I can’t stop. I want to be closer, under his skin,

or maybe tuck him under mine where I can keep him as safe as I can. Sobs burst out of me, rapid-fire.

Ethan’s arm wraps more snuggly around my waist, his big, warm hand on the back of my head. “You’re crying over the loss of my beard.” He doesn’t sound upset, but as if he’s confirming a long-suspected belief.

And it breaks my heart. Somehow, I manage to let him go enough to look up at his face. His eyes are solemn, sad, as if he

hates seeing me cry but doesn’t know what to do about it.

His thumbs brush my wet cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets me look at his now-smooth face.

I cup one of his cheeks, press my palm against skin that’s warm and tight. “I’m crying because you thought this outer shell

meant more to me than what’s inside of you.”

His big body jerks in surprise, but I cling, not letting him go. As if he’s too tired to keep his head up, he bends down and

buries his face in the crook of my neck.

Gently, I stroke his head, his close-cropped hair bristly yet soft. “You think I kissed you that first time—that I wanted

you—because of a beard? You couldn’t be more wrong. It was because you were a sexy-as-fuck, sly-as-all-hell charmer who grabbed

my attention and held it.”

A muffled grunt blows into my hair.

“I mean, look at you,” I say, even though we’re still clutching each other and I can’t see anything.

But my memory is just fine. I think of his solemn eyes and that mouth of his, that soft, wide, pouty mouth. “I’m in serious

danger of having a young Marlon Brando Street-Car-Named-Desire moment here. I kind of want you to tear at your shirt and shout ‘ Stella! ’ Or I guess it should be ‘ Fiona! ’?”

Ethan snorts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Still, tension vibrates along his strong body, and I know he remains

upset.

When he finally answers, his voice is raw. “Rather hear you shout my name, Cherry.”

“So make me.”

He doesn’t move, only grows stiffer.

“Ethan, I loved your beard, but I love you more.”

He blinks down at me, then he swallows hard as if trying to clear his throat. “I love you too, Cherry.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Feels like I’ve loved you forever. I thought you knew that.”

There’s an accusation in his voice—soft but there all the same. “I do, Ethan. You’ve been so good to me.”

His grip flexes on my hips. “Then why did you do it? Why did you take the money?”

Surprise freezes me to the spot. He stares down at me, no longer soft but completely hard, stark devastation and cold anger

in his eyes.