Song for a Cowboy Page 8

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  Yes, Brock was pissed.

  Pissed that Ames didn’t get how life-changing this opportunity was—or maybe he just didn’t care? Pissed he didn’t show one iota of appreciation. Pissed that Ames was wasting Russell’s time making an ass out of himself for Emmy Lou. Pissed as hell that Ames was looking at Emmy like she was a piece of meat.

  Pissed that this little fuck was on his field, period.

  And, from the look on Emmy’s face, everyone could tell just how pissed he was.

  Her green eyes darted back and forth between the two of them while she chewed the inside of her lower lip. The tension was undeniable, but he had it under control. Correction, he’d get himself under control. He’d been mentally preparing himself all morning. Work out. Help Russell run drills with Ames. Try to do some mentoring shit. Generally, be the professional his coaches wanted him to be.

  He’d even made peace with missing the first few games. He’d have Ames up to speed, ready to play, until Brock was released.

  All that went out the window the minute he saw Russell’s face.

  Russell worked his ass off to make their defensive line impenetrable. He knew his shit and he took no shit. He pushed until he got the best out of his player and then pushed some more. And he was waiting on Ricky fucking Ames?

  Brock closed his eyes, rolled his neck, and shook some of the tension out of his hands. Get it together. The kid was trying to assert his dominance, control the dynamics, and get in Brock’s head. And it was working. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, slowly. No way he was going to give Ames the upper hand.

  “What’s your problem?” Ricky kept going. “I get that it sucks to be replaced, but that’s the game, man.”

  Every muscle in his body clenched.

  “This is, what?” Ricky shook his head. “Your third injury?”

  A dull roar started, growing louder and louder each second Ames kept staring at him.

  “I could be wrong, but isn’t there some saying about three strikes?” Ricky’s smile grew, the dig unmistakable.

  “In baseball. This is football. You should know that.” Brock’s smile was tight. “I get that you feel the need to prove yourself.” Brock kept his voice low and steady. “But the only thing you’re proving is that you have a lot to learn.”

  Ricky’s jaw muscle bulged, but then he laughed. “And, what, you think you’re going to teach me?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.” He shook his head. “Football or respect? As far as I can tell, you need a lesson in both, kid.” It took effort to turn and walk away. But Brock managed, even though the roaring in his head kept going. The little shit wanted to get a rise out of him. To make him break in front of the team? The coaches? No way he was going to give Ricky Ames what he wanted.

  “What did you call me?” Ricky Ames stepped in his path, cutting him off.

  “Kid?” Brock wasn’t sure if the kid had an overdeveloped sense of pride or if he was just stupid. “If ‘kid’ bothers you, you don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”

  “Talk about trying to prove something. Can’t play so you’re trying to put me in my place. Trying to make sure people don’t forget who you are.” Ames bowed up, chest-bumping Brock. “That’s sad, man.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Emmy Lou. The wide-eyed terror on her face was enough to make him pause, step back, and issue a warning: “I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re not me.” Ames’s eyes narrowed.

  “Believe me, I know.” You’re some kid playing second-string hoping to have a career with a record half as good as mine. He paused long enough to maintain his calm. “You take a swing, you better be ready for what happens next.”

  Seconds before Ames moved, Brock knew it was coming. Ames’s fist, a sledgehammer blow to his jaw. He had to give it to him, it was a solid punch. Busting his lip, whipping his head around, and making him see stars. Don’t do it. Do not lose it. He moved his jaw slowly, spit out a mouthful of blood, smiled, and took a step closer to Ames.

  For the first time, Ricky Ames stepped back.

  “What the hell is going on?” Coach McCoy was red-faced and mad as hell. “What the shit was that?”

  Brock didn’t say a word.

  “He’s got a problem with me.” Ricky Ames pointed at him.

  “He has a problem with you?” McCoy asked, running a hand over his face.

  “Yeah. He does. Knowing I’m faster and younger and better, maybe? Guess the competition’s too much for him?” Ames had no idea what was about to happen.

  Brock did. Had he goaded the kid? Maybe. Did he regret it? Not so much.

  “Go home.” McCoy’s eyes were laser focused on Ames. “I don’t tolerate this sort of thing on my field or on my team.” He shook his head. “Go home.”

  “Are you serious?” The shock on Ricky Ames’s face was almost comical. If he wasn’t spitting blood, Brock might have laughed.

  “Are you seriously asking me that?” Coach McCoy pulled his cap off his head, bent forward, and threw it across the field. “Get off my field! I don’t want to see you until Monday.”

  “Monday?” Ricky echoed. “That’s a week—”

  “Wanna make it two?” McCoy asked, so red Brock feared he might have his third heart attack right here on the field.

  That shut Ricky up and sent him running off the field.

  “Is this a problem?” McCoy asked, reaching up to tilt Brock’s face.

  “Ricky Ames? Or my jaw?” Brock asked. “I’m the one bleeding here.”

  “Yeah. I saw that.” McCoy smiled. “I admire your restraint. I was hoping you’d knock him on his ass.” McCoy shook his head. “Get some ice.” He headed back to the middle of the field, clapping his hands and telling everyone to get back to work.

  “Are you okay?” Emmy Lou’s hand—on his forearm.

  He nodded, all too aware of her touch.

  “Your mouth.” She reached up, winced, then pressed her hands together. “You’re bleeding.”

  He was bleeding and standing there, staring, like a fool.

  “That was restraint,” Travis King said, shaking his head. “That was the single most badass thing you have ever done on this field.” He blew out a harsh breath. “Fuck, that was intense.”

  That’s when it registered that all three of the King siblings were there, on the field—while he kept right on staring at Emmy Lou.

  “I was hoping you’d put the little shit in his place before your coach showed up.” Krystal was still glaring after Ricky Ames. “No one looks at my sister that way,” Krystal added. “No one.”

  Krystal’s words kicked up the ebbing fire of his temper, but he managed to nod.

  Which earned him an odd look from Krystal. “So, that was something. How’s life?” she asked. “Haven’t seen you in the tabloids recently, so I’m guessing nothing new.”

  “Good to see you haven’t changed.” Brock took the handkerchief Emmy handed him. “Thank you.”

  Emmy smiled. Damn but that smile. Sweetness and concern, all rolled into one. He almost believed it. He stared at the turf at his feet, pressing her handkerchief to his lip. It smelled like her.

  Krystal wasn’t done giving him a thorough head-to-toe inspection. “I’m surprised to say it, but it’s good to see you, Brock Watson.”

  He hadn’t expected her to hug him. From the look on her face, she hadn’t expected to give him one, either—but she did.

  “That was weird,” she said, stepping back. “I don’t even like you.”

  Where the hell had that come from? He hadn’t done a thing to Krystal—to any of them. Emmy included. His hand tightened around the handkerchief.

  “Jace.” Jace Black stepped forward to shake his hand. “Big fan. Hope you’ll be able to play this season.”

  “Me, too.” It had becom
e his standard answer.

  “So, that was Ricky Ames?” Travis asked. “He’s a lot smaller in person.”

  “That’s him,” he ground out.

  “He’s a shit. One in need of a good ass-kicking.” Brock didn’t disagree with Travis’s take on things.

  “Good thing you didn’t give it to him. You would have broken him with, like, one hit. Broken broken.” Krystal bent to scoop up a three-legged dog with a puff of fur on its head.

  “I’m not the violent sort.” Not that Brock hadn’t been tempted. But Emmy…she’d been standing there, looking so damn panicked, he’d managed to control himself. For her?

  Travis snorted. “Your face said differently.”

  “He was thinking about it,” Krystal said. “Thinking about doing something is not the same thing as doing it. He can think all he wants. You should take a lesson from him, big brother.”

  Travis rolled his eyes. “Wait a sec. Now you’re defending Brock? I thought you just said you don’t like him?”

  “He went all knight-in-shining-armor over our sister because the little shit wouldn’t leave her alone. I can’t hate on him too much right now.” Krystal pointed at Ricky Ames, the dog staring in the direction she pointed. “Besides, I don’t like Ames even more. He is a total dick.”

  Brock didn’t correct Krystal. Their confrontation had nothing to do with Emmy… No, dammit, that wasn’t true. Was he pissed that Ames was making Russell wait? Hell yes. But would he have confronted the shit if Ames hadn’t been outright leering down at Emmy? Best not answer that.

  “He’s just a…a kid. An egocentric, living-in-his-own-fantasy-land, totally rude…” But then Emmy sputtered to a stop. “You know what? He is that. Exactly what you said Krystal.” Her gaze met Brock’s. She was upset—cheeks stained red, green eyes flashing, and lips pressed tight.

  Hell, Emmy Lou was angry.

  He could count all the times he’d ever seen her truly angry on one hand. Sure, Travis had made a habit out of frustrating her, but that wasn’t the same thing. Agreeing with Krystal’s curse was probably the closest he’d ever heard her come to out-and-out insulting someone.

  Which made him wonder what the hell Ricky Ames had done or said to her before he got there. From what he’d seen, Ames had done most of the talking. “What did he say to you?” The words were out before he could stop them.

  She opened her mouth, then stopped. A slight crease formed between her brows.

  “Emmy?” He tried again, softer this time.

  “Nothing.” She glanced at her siblings, reminding him of the attentive audience gathered around them. “So, barbecue? Are you still hungry, Jace? Krystal?”

  “I could eat.” Jace tugged on Krystal’s hand. “Sweet tea?”

  Krystal smiled, leaning into him. “Sounds good. Don’t you think so, Clem?” The dog’s tail was wagging frantically.

  “I’m done. Food it is,” Emmy Lou said, all forced enthusiasm. “Ready?”

  She didn’t want to talk to him. Message received. He swallowed hard.

  “Wanna join us?” Travis asked, knowing exactly what he was doing.

  Hell no. Like it or not, Emmy Lou King was his kryptonite. The less time they spent together, the better. So even if Emmy Lou wasn’t so anxious to leave or Krystal wasn’t shooting daggers at Travis or Jace didn’t look so damned uncomfortable, he still wouldn’t go. “Practice,” he muttered. “Good to see you all.” Surprisingly, it was.

  “Next time?” Travis was getting under his sisters’ skin and enjoying every minute of it. “We’ll meet you and Sawyer there, Em?”

  Brock didn’t wait for her answer or goodbyes as he headed back across the field. Whatever this was, it was over. Time to get his head in the game. He had work to do. Even though Stan was going to give him an earful for running late, he was feeling pretty damn good. Ames might have given him a bloody lip, but it had earned him a week without the kid talking shit and baiting him. Brock could handle that.

  Emmy Lou brushed past him, running through the speakers, lighting equipment, and backdrop for tomorrow’s filming. Her ponytail swayed and there was an extra skip in her steps—she’d always had a certain energy, positive and enthusiastic and contagious. Even as she stooped to grab something from the ground, she sort of bounced on the balls of her feet. But when she stood, she took one step, teetered, and started to fall. She caught herself on one of the large speakers but her wince, her soft “ow,” had him changing direction. Before he figured out why he felt compelled to make sure she was okay when most of her family was here to take care of her, he was standing beside her.

  “My ankle.” Her nose was wrinkled. “I tripped. It popped.”

  Considering the web of cords on the turf, he wasn’t surprised. “Bad?” he asked.

  “Um…it hurts.” And yet she attempted to smile—with tears in her eyes.

  For some reason, her wobbling smile gutted him. Probably because it made him think of one of the worst mornings of his life. While he’d been rain-soaked and devastated standing on the porch of the Kings’ house, CiCi had bragged about Emmy Lou’s ability to smile through anything, her gift at performing—on the stage and off. CiCi hadn’t just broken his heart; she’d made him doubt every second he and Emmy Lou had spent together. That was probably the thing he hated most—all those memories tainted.

  Now, here she was. Hurt and still forcing a smile. “You don’t have to smile.” He hadn’t meant to snap.

  She blinked, sniffing hard, and stared down at her ankle.

  Yes, he was a dick. For both of their sakes, he needed to let her family handle this. But one look told him the Kings were leaving the stadium—out of earshot. There was no sign of her looming bodyguard. Some bodyguard. Or the woman with the tablet.

  Dammit. He sighed, running a hand along the back of his neck. “Can you walk?”

  She nodded, still staring at the ground—sniffing harder now.

  He held his hand out.

  “I can manage.” Her voice was soft but lined with steel.

  Stubborn. He kept his hand out and his mouth shut. From where he stood, he could see that her ankle was already ballooning up. She needed ice and some anti-inflammatories—and his help.

  Emmy pushed off the speaker to stand, hissed sharply, and immediately sat. Because she was stubborn. And I’m a dick. He stepped closer, too close for her to ignore his hand. She did—refusing to take his help or look at him. But his frustration faded when a wet spot formed on her shirt, then another.

  Tears.

  I am a fucking asshole. He’d rather feel irritated than the sudden hard tug in his chest. He didn’t have room for softness when it came to Emmy Lou. Then again, when it came to her, he’d never had a choice. “Emmy.”

  Her head popped up, and she furiously wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. The tip of her nose was red. And, dammit, she was still trying to smile.

  He crouched beside her, ignoring the sensory overload she triggered. “Let me help you.”

  “You need ice for your face. I don’t want to be a bother—”

  “Duly noted.” He stood, reached for her, and swung her up into his arms.

  “Brock, I can walk.” Her hands pressed against his shoulder.

  “I know.” He nodded at her ankle. “If you want to make that worse, you can. Don’t you have a video to make tomorrow?” That was pretty much all the guys could talk about—Emmy Lou King, her legs, her voice, and wondering what sort of getup she’d be wearing for the video.

  She was going to argue, he could tell. Instead she said, “I need my purse.”

  He stooped and let her grab her purse.

  “Thank you.” She stared at her purse.

  With his focus fixed on the door to the locker room, he carried her across the field. He didn’t think about the brush of her ponytail against his bare arms or the hitch in her
breath or the way she relaxed into his hold, her slight frame too fragile. She’d always done this—brought out his protective side. Little did he know, he’d been the one who needed protecting from her.

  “What about your leg?” She sniffed.

  “What about it?” He frowned.

  “Should you be carrying me?”

  No, definitely not. But that had nothing to do with his leg and everything to do with the effect she had on him. “I’m fine, Emmy Lou.” He would be—once her scent wasn’t filling his nostrils.

  “I wasn’t angry about Ricky Ames,” she said suddenly. “I mean, I was. But not about anything he said to me. Guys are like that sometimes.”

  I bet they are. Men tended to notice beautiful women. But noticing and acting like a complete prick weren’t the same thing.

  “I was upset because of what he said…about you.” Her words ended on a hiccup.

  Why the hell did she care what Ricky Ames said about him? He risked a look at her.

  “I get that the team has to bring in someone until you’re released to play. But…it’s like he doesn’t know who you are.” Her cheeks were going red again. “Doesn’t he know your record? Does he have four hundred and sixty-nine tackles? Ninety-one sacks? Does he watch Reggie White footage to be a better defensive end? Does he even know who Reggie White is? Or that this is your team? And you carry this defensive line? He really thinks he can replace you?”

  She was talking about football. His stats, but football. And he liked what he was hearing a hell of a lot. “Never pegged you as a football fan.” He waved Todd Flynn, one of the trainers, over and carried her into the game-day emergency clinic. Gently, he set her on an exam table and started unlacing her tennis shoes.

  “Thank you.” Her gaze shifted, meeting his.

  He nodded, carefully sliding the pink sequined shoe off her foot. Her hands fisted at her sides. “Sorry.”