Scrimmage Gone South (Crimson Romance) Read Free Page A

from my quarterback. I’ll be watching you.”
    Without acknowledging that Nathan had spoken again, Tolly hiked up her skirt, jumped down from the monstrous truck, and clicked on her high heels all the way back to her Mercedes. She never looked back once.
    And that was hard.
    • • •
    Nathan parked his truck in his reserved space between the stadium and the field house. Before getting out, he picked up the vanilla milkshake he’d bought at Dari-Delish and fished his knee brace from behind the seat. He was going to need both. After that spectacular row, he didn’t feel like eating but he knew better than to take ibuprofen on an empty stomach — and he definitely needed that. As he unlocked his office door, he couldn’t decide which throbbed more, his head or his knee. After changing into his Merritt High Bobcat shorts, he strapped on the brace and settled into his chair. The Coke can sized bottle of ibuprofen was in his bottom desk drawer. Four ought to do it.
    He had some prescription pain killers, but they made him sleepy so he seldom used them. In fact, he hadn’t taken any since last June after that wedding where Luke Avery’s mother had walked Townshend up to him and told them to go dance. No one, least of all Gail Avery, knew of their history and it had been impossible to say no without publically humiliating Townshend and drawing attention to them both. He had known when he walked on that dance floor that he would pay for it, but his pride wouldn’t let him take it easy. He had to prove to Townshend that he was the same man he’d been the few times they’d danced before. And he’d done that. He hadn’t spoken to her, but he had danced. Then he’d swallowed those pills and slept sixteen hours.
    He didn’t live in constant pain, but close enough. The doctor had warned him of that the morning after his first surgery thirteen years ago. He could still remember how he couldn’t look at the doctor because he knew what he was going to say. Instead, he had focused on the wall of balloons, flowers, and signs, arranged under a huge crimson banner that said,
Fly Back To Us Soon, Angel!
    The Angel.
A female sideline reporter had christened him that during his freshman season because, according to her, he had the face of an angel, and no one without wings should have been able to leap so high with such precision. The name had stuck, but he had never liked it or what came with it — the fans in the stands wearing halos and wings, the jersey clad Christmas tree toppers in his likeness, the band playing Aerosmith’s
“Angel”
when he ran on the field. But never had he hated it more than the morning after his career ending injury when all the sports headlines read,
Fallen Angel
. Of course, by then he hated everything.
    He’d learned that day how to master his emotions. The key was absolute control. And damn it all to hell, he’d forgotten that today and had all but accused Townshend of being a child molester. He was ashamed of that. Truth be told, watching her with Kirby had reminded him of how sweet she’d been to him before he found out what a lying scheming spoiled brat she was. And there was no doubt she was those things, but that didn’t make her a child molester.
    And what had made him threaten Townshend with the thing he hated more than anything else — a scene? Dear God, there was nothing worse. He’d learned a long time ago to keep private things private. Don’t give a sports reporter anything to punish you with. Don’t let an irate parent rattle you. Don’t respond to smack talk.
    Don’t get into a pubic argument with Townshend Lee.
Yet he had — or close enough — and he’d threatened her with worse. The look on her pretty little face told the tale of just how much she didn’t want that. They were apparently alike in that regard. Might be the only way.
    What scared him was it had not been a threat. If she had not gone willingly to his truck, he would have said everything he had to say to