Page 67 of Game Plan
I might even cook. Okay,tryto cook.
I put my hand out for her, but the other side of the bed was empty. Cold.
I sat up, but couldn't see her. She wasn't in the shower. Shame, I would have joined her in there.
"Becca?" I got up, found my boxers and pulled them on. For all I know, she might have company in the apartment. I heard no voices, but just in case, I was ready.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open the rest of the way and peered out.
"Becca?"
"In here," she said from the direction of the kitchen.
I stepped out to see her, red reading glasses on her face, eyes on her laptop screen. She was seated at the table. By the look of her damp hair and half a cup of coffee, she'd been up for a while.
"Hey." I poured myself coffee from the pot and went to stand where I could see over her shoulder. "What are you working on?"
She closed the laptop with a start. Her face turned pink.
"It's… It's just a little something. I was going to show you when it's done."
I grinned and wiggled my eyebrows. "You wrote an article about my prowess in bed?"
She went a bit redder, but shook her head. "Not exactly, no."
"Great, because I wouldn't endorse that. Unless it's really, really flattering." I was joking, of course. Personal stuff was personal, and this was between her and I, and no one else.
"Can I see?" I waved the coffee in the direction of the laptop.
"It's not finished," she said. "No one has seen it." For some reason, that seemed important to her.
"You haven't told anyone I have a tiny dick, have you?" I gave her a sly smile, but my curiosity was piqued. And, honestly, my suspicion.
"You don't." She eyed my groin.
"True," I said smugly. "I'd hate to have to sue for defamation. Or libel. Whichever one says you made it up." I shrugged one shoulder. I left that stuff to the team lawyers.
"I wouldn't say anything about you that wasn't true," she assured me. She peeled open the laptop and turned it toward me.
The article started with the standard few words of introduction. Who I was—for anyone who didn't already know—the team I played for and how various people shaped me into the person I am today. The words could just about be copied and pasted from one article to another, although her phrasing made me sound more interesting somehow.
That was a good start.
I smiled, but the smile faded as I read on. There, on the page, were the details of my mother's illness, her death and how hard it all hit me. Some of it was what I'd told her, but other bits must have come from Vera and Brody.
The blood drained out of my face. With shaking hands, I set the coffee down on the table. I shook my head, my brow creased in a deep frown and took a few steps back.
"Hawk? Are you okay?" She reached for me, but I waved her off, palms toward her.
"Stop," I hissed. "Don't." I stared at the screen as though the words might change.
"What the fuck, Becca?" The words were a whisper. "I thought you got it. I thought you gotme." Shit, I got that wrong and then some. She didn't have a clue. Not the first one.
"I—" Her face was pale. She swallowed audibly. Her eyes were wide with concern and tears. For herself, no doubt. She obviously didn't give a shit about me.
Her voice wavered when she spoke. "I thought it would help if you talked about it. You could influence so many…"
"Influence?" I echoed. "What the fuck do I do when I step out on the field? What do I do when I letpeoplelike youinterview me?" I spat the words at her.
