Page 44 of Defending her Heart

I wait a few minutes for his response. When ten minutes have gone by, I plug in my phone and set it on my nightstand. I toss and turn, get up to pee, then check my phone again. Nothing. Maybe he’s already asleep. It’s ten o’clock and he probably didn’t get home until close to one in the morning.

Or maybe he’s ignoring me. I finally fall asleep, and my alarm wakes me hours before I’m ready to get up. The first thing I do is check my phone. When I see a notification from Nash, I bite my lower lip and open it.

NASH POTATO:Sure.

Fuckingsure? Sure?What the hell does that mean? Sure. Sure it was my pleasure to spoil you with gifts and treat you like you matter? Or sure thing, just doing my duty to cover my ass after being a dickwad?

Fucking hell. I stomp across the hall to the bathroom and scrub a little too vigorously at my scalp. I have two options when getting dressed. Throw up my hands and sayfuck itand slick my hair back in a ponytail, skip the makeup, and dress as comfortably and slovenly as professionally acceptable. Or I sayfuck youand go all out with my hair and makeup and dress in something that will make me feel wanted, yet still professional for a kindergarten class.

I decide onfuck youand blow dry my hair and add soft curls. I don’t apply my clubbing makeup, but I don’t skimp either. Tight skirts, low-cut tops, and pointy heels aren’t conducive for teaching kindergartners, and I have recess duty today, so I tug on my electric-blue tight pants that make my ass look like a ripe peach. I top it with a cream-colored sweater and slide into my tall beige boots.

I’m almost Instagram worthy. Figuring I’ll need to work out my frustration at the end of the day, I pack my Pilates things in a duffel and text Rowan, asking if she wants to join me in the four o’clock class.

I used to teach at Boston Strong, Riley’s sports performance center, but with all the donations coming in, she’s been able to expand and offer more services and support—free of charge—to low-income kids.

The room where I used to teach is now used for physical therapy for kids. I’m proud of my girl and the difference she’s making in kids’ lives.

It’s funny how Rowan, Riley, and I formed our friendship one day over Pilates. It was then we learned we each had a passion for helping kids. I teach, Rowan gives athletic trainingand support through her foundation, and Rowan’s about to be a pediatric nurse. Yet, we’ve never talked about the desire to have kids. It’s not that we don’t want them either, but our conversations have never been about finding Mr. Right, settling down, and popping out kids. I can totally see Riley and Rowan wanting a dozen or so of their own. They have a gentle, nurturing touch.

I mean, I guess in some way I do as well since I haven’t gotten fired after ten years of teaching littles, but I’ve never thought about having my own family because I spend so much time helping my mom take care of Dani.

I poke my head in her room before leaving, and seeing she still asleep, curled into her stuffed pink horse, I make myself a coffee to go and head to work.

There are no more gifts this week, and I’m surprised how sad I am about it. Nash doesn’t owe me anything else. He was raw and honest with me. And I blew him off.

Hell. The plan I came up with Sunday night is still sitting in the back of my head, but now I think it’s the stupidest thing to offer. I’ll keep it on the backburner unless he gives me a sign that we could possibly be on the same page.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

NASH

It’s been a media circus this week with the possibility of me getting my hundred and fiftieth sack in this afternoon’s game against New York. Their offensive line has been weak, and with the injuries they faced last week, it’s leaving a gaping hole that every sports reporter is banking on me taking advantage of.

Making the record books is a dream for any athlete, and that’s what should be on my mind, not the leggy brunette wearing my jersey in the stands behind our bench. Walker hooked his bride and her friends up with season seats close by, and for that, I’m truly thankful.

But hell. I didn’t think seeing the number fifty-six on Kendall’s chest would cause this kind of reaction. I didn’t like seeing Buck’s number on her, but that didn’t mean she had to havemine.I’m all kinds of fucked up.

It’s cold as hell out and steam is literally coming off the D-line’s heads as soon as they take their helmets off. I’m keeping mine on because the cameras have been lasered in on me all game, and I don’t want the media to catch on that my attention is behind me and not on the fucking field.

We’re four minutes into the third quarter and I’ve had two opportunities for a sack, but I was too slow at the snap. My quick feet and ability to steamroll past the O-line is what has gotten me this far. But tonight, my feet are heavy.

Declan and our offense are on the field now with a third and goal. The crowd is on their feet, and when I hear the disappointment, I know we didn’t cash in. Trenton Miller, our kicker with the golden foot, runs out onto the field.

I hop up to my feet and Darius head butts me. “It’s go time, Hump. This is it. Make fucking history tonight.”

“Fuck yeah!”

Even with the roar of the crowd as Miller makes the kick, I’m pretty sure I hear Kendall’s obnoxious whistle followed by, “You got this, Nash Potato!”

Hell if that doesn’t make my lip quirk. I don’t turn around cause Coach would have my ass for not being focused on the game—if he only knew—and wait for our special teams to come off the field before running out and lining up.

I’m zeroed in on the quarterback, waiting for his call. Not a fraction of a second passes after the ball is snapped before my feet zip left then right around the lineman. My pulse quickens. I can taste it. The quarterback. The sack. The records. Kendall.

Shit. The QB stretches his arm back to throw the ball and I waste no more time, leaping through the air and tackling him to the ground. The ball loosens from his grip and I see Darius scramble for it.

He picks it up and runs into the end zone, but the QB was already down so we didn’t get the fumble or the touchdown, but I got the fucking sack.

“You fucker!” My teammates slap me on the back and Darius scrambles back, picking me up at the waist and twirling me around like a fucking princess.

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