Page 17 of The Defender
“Vincent!” Coach’s voice yanked my eyes back to him. His brows settled into a frown so deep, I was afraid his face would get stuck that way. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Not particularly, no,” I hedged.
“So someone didn’t break into your house after the Holchester match?”
Fuck, I was going to die—wait, what?
I was so sure he was going to bring up Brooklyn that it took my brain a beat to process his words.
The intruder.Thatwas the secret he’d discovered—not the fact I was living with his daughter.
My lungs expanded with air again. “It’s not a big deal,” I said, trying to hide the relief in my voice. “I filed a police report and they’re looking into it. They’re not too worried. Neither am I.” That wasn’t totally true, but I wasn’t going to whine about it to Coach.
Coach’s eyebrows rose at my response. “Then why aren’t you living at home?”
How did he—Adil. He was the only person who would’ve spilled to Coach. That little rat. I was going to murder him.
“I’m waiting until the contractors finish upgrading my security system,” I lied. “They’re backlogged, so it’s taking longer than expected.”
“Where are you living now?”
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
“The Hyde Regency.”
Coach’s eyes narrowed. A minute ticked by, followed by another. Beads of sweat dotted my hairline, and right when I thought he’d call me out on my bullshit, he gave a curt nod.
“Next time something like this happens, I want to hear it straight from you,” he said. “We don’t keep secrets on my team. My players are my responsibility, and I’m invested in your well-being on and off the pitch. So any time you run into trouble, you come to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my office. And DuBois?”
I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t be too hard on your teammates,” he said. “They’re just looking out for you.”
Translation: don’t kill them, or you’ll have to answer to me.
As annoyed as I was with Adil, Coach was right. Adil didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. If he told anyone about my situation, it was out of genuine concern.
I sighed. I couldn’t even be angry in peace.
“I know,” I said. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Coach.”
Another nod, then I was gone.
BROOKLYN
Damn him.
I thought I could put Vincent off with his ridiculously pink room and a list of strict chores, including a full cleaning and laundry day every week, but the man was like Teflon. Every attempt I made to get under his skin bounced off him and backfired on me instead.
I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. The hum of the vacuum filled the flat as Vincent moved through the flat, oblivious to my presence. He wore nothing except for a pair of sweatpants, which hung just low enough to toe the line between casual and criminal. His arm and back muscles flexed every time he pushed the vacuum forward, and I hated that I noticed.
Chores weren’t supposed be sexy. They were supposed to be mundane, but watching a shirtless, slightly sweaty Vincent DuBois be domestic on a Friday night was anything but mundane.
