Undeniably Married (Boston’s Irresistible Billionaires Book 4)
Undeniably Married: Chapter 34

Sweat clings to my brow, and I lick my lips as I survey the field. Somehow, we’ve managed to eke our way down into their territory, small play by small play. They’ve been gunning for me this entire series, practically blitzing on every down. I’ve never had to run so much inside the pocket in my life. Good thing Stone and I work on my speed, or I’d have been sacked a dozen times already.

“Shove it down their throats.” My father’s voice rings through the speaker near my ears, and I grin. I’m tired of playing this their way—or should I say Brody’s way. Wanting to throw the defense off, I go straight to the line instead of huddling up and call out the play to my guys on either side of me. I line up behind the center and bark out the hard count to try to draw these jumpy fuckers off-sides, but when that fails, I hike the ball.

It snaps into my hands, and I draw back and curl to the side. Time slows and my vision clears. Defenders are coming straight for me, but I can’t let myself focus on that. They can go fuck themselves if they think they’re going to scare me out of throwing.

I sidestep, spot my guy, and let my arm go. The ball sails through the air, and a moment later, I’m pummeled to the ground in a hit that instantly knocks the wind from my lungs. A helmet clips my face guard, and I go down hard, unable to stop it or slow my momentum, only to smack the back of my head on the turf.

Instead of climbing off me, the defender—the same asshole who was mouthing off to me about eating grass all night—presses his weight down, digging himself against my ribs, and growls, “That’s for Brody, and if you’re able to get up and walk after this hit, there’ll be more coming for you. But here’s a little message from him. Remember that threat he gave you because it’s about to become your reality.”

Whistles blow, and thankfully he’s pulled off me. Absently, I note some of my guys pushing and shoving with the other team, but I can’t quite get myself up yet. It was a dirty hit. No doubt about that. Helmet to helmet, yes, but I’d already released the ball, so there was no need for it other than to hurt me.

Yellow flags are scattered on the field for roughing the passer, and suddenly I have faces all over me.

“Mason, can you hear me?” It’s my mother beside one of the athletic trainers and the team neurologist. She’s not even supposed to be out here, since she’s my mother and orthopedics, but no one was going to tell her that. Fuck, I wish she hadn’t seen that hit.

I sign with my hands, I can hear you. Because I’m not sure I can talk yet. My chest feels like an elephant landed on it because essentially one did, and I need a second to wrap my muddled mind around that message. No, that threat. That was the word he used. It wasn’t idle, and it wasn’t about him making sure my clock got cleaned.

Something else is happening.

I just don’t know what.

I catch my father standing behind my mother, the coach over his player, but his eyes are the eyes of a father.

“Don’t move,” the neurologist commands. “We need to check you out. Do you know where you are?”

“I’m fine,” I manage. “I didn’t hit my head.” Too hard.

“No, we have to⁠—”

“I’m good,” I grit out, pushing his hand off me when he tries to keep me down. “I’m in New York, though it’s technically New Jersey. I’m playing football, and no one is taking me out of this game. I’m not dizzy, I didn’t lose consciousness, and I’m not hurt.” Too bad. “I’m fucking fine. Dr. Reyes, tell them I’m fine,” I demand from my mother.

She doesn’t want to. Not even close, but she knows me enough to know I wouldn’t say it to her if it weren’t true. She’s my mother and would kick my ass all over the city if I lied to her about that.

“If he says he’s fine, he’s fine.”

Reluctantly the trainer and neurologist back off, and slowly I sit up. My chest hurts like a motherfucker, and I think he got my shoulder beneath my pads because now that I’m moving it, it stings something fierce. I glance to my left and catch Brody standing among the other coaches and players on his side of the field, a hint of a smirk subtly curling the corner of his lips.

“Reyes?” I snap back to my wide receiver who holds his hand out for me. “You good, man?”

I slap my hand in his and let him haul me up. I need a second after that, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone know it or see it. “I’m good,” I tell him, then look at my dad and the training staff again. “I’m good,” I reiterate with more force.

“You still have to sit out one play,” the trainer tells me.

I know this already. That’s the rule if the training staff come on the field.

“One play,” I agree.

Shouting and movement draw our attention over to the back and forth still going on between the players.

“Hey! Back it up,” my dad yells since my guys are still shoving and we’re a hot second from a physical fight breaking out. Referees are trying to get in the middle of the shoving and name-calling, and I strut my way over there and put my hand on an offensive lineman to hold him back.

“Not worth the penalty,” I tell him, meeting his eyes. “Come on. We have a game to win. They’re not worth it, man. I promise you, they’re not.”

“I said now!” my father yells, and heads back to the sidelines with my mother and the training staff following after him.

My guys step back, the skirmish cooling ever so slightly, but as the chief referee walks to the center of the field to announce the penalty and the fifteen yards and first down that asshole just graciously gave us, I head toward the sidelines of New York. Players and coaches run in toward me without stepping on the field of play. They have no clue what I’m up to and likely think I’m about to start a fight. Some of my guys surround me in case I need backup, only I’m not as stupid as that.

“Hey, Brody,” I call out with a grin. “I’m mic’d up.”

Everyone on the sidelines pauses, their heads swiveling in Brody’s direction. And just as I predicted, that hint of a smug, fucking smirk falls.

“Maybe before you send an assassin to hurt me, you should tell him not to reveal who ordered the hit. Now everyone knows you’re not just a dirty cheater but a dirty coach too. You tried to have him take me out of the game. No such luck for you tonight.”

I don’t address his message or the threat he sent my way. I can’t. Not right now. Not even as I want to run off the field, call Sorel, and make sure she’s okay. If she saw that hit, she’d be upset. But if somehow Brody did something or is trying to get to her, things could be much worse for me right now.

Then it hits me.

The woman. My shirt. Her phone in her hand.

Fuck!

Except I can’t do anything about it right now.

Adrenaline flows through my system and brings my blood to a rapid boil. I want to pound his face in. I want to destroy him. And I will. My way.

With that, I head off the field, forced to sit out my one play. But that’ll be all Brody gets from me.

I’m going to make him and his team pay for that.

“Mason.”

“Mason.”

“Mason!”

One reporter after the other shouts, vying for my attention as I walk into the post-game conference. After the game—or should I say after we destroyed them—I made a little thank you speech to my guys—something even Tony Clark was moved by as he gave me a fist pound after it—and then I was swept up by the neurology staff. I didn’t even get to my locker.

My mother and the team ripped into me and demanded a full neuro and physical exam—for which my mother stepped out since, you know, she is my mom. After they deemed I wasn’t concussed or broken—I did play the entire game and played it well after all—they let me shower. I’m bruised from the hit, and I won’t lie and say I’m not already hurting from it, but no one needs to know that. The moment I stepped out, my dad was there, telling me that we had to do this conference on the quick because we were set to fly home after it.

I didn’t get a chance to tell him about the woman last night or what Brody’s threat meant if he’s even heard the threat. I have no idea if the network will play any of the audio. I can only hope.

I haven’t checked my phone.

I haven’t checked the media to know what’s happened.

I’m entering into this blind, and I’m not happy about it.

I give them all my patented cocky smile and address the podium and the sea of cameras and press beyond it.

“What a game,” I start and get a small wave of chuckles that quickly turn into another barrage of my name being thrown at me.

“Mason, can you tell us what happened out there with the hit from Tweo?”

And this is why I wish I had been able to check my phone first.

“It was a hell of a hit.”

That obviously doesn’t satisfy anyone.

“It most certainly was,” a guy from ESPN states. “We saw you address Brody Clear on the field. What was it you said to him? Is it your belief that the hit was orchestrated by him?”

So I’m assuming no one aired or leaked the recording. Awesome. If that stands, Brody is free to do as he pleases and won’t be fired or fined. I don’t know for sure if he hired that girl or if he was in on it, but my gut is telling me it’s too coincidental and his message too well-timed and pointed for it not to be. Which also means he could send whatever he has to Sorel.

No sense in lying or beating around the bush. “Yes, I believe the hit was orchestrated by Brody Clear, as that’s what Tweo said when he tackled me.”

Murmurs rumble through the room.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“They wanted to take me out of the game. Tweo bluntly stated that they were aiming to hurt me. He explained that the hit was from Brody, relayed a direct message from him, and informed me that I could expect more if that particular hit didn’t knock me out of the game. It didn’t. But given the final score, I’d say we had the last laugh with that.”

Microphones are shoved closer to the podium, which feels ridiculous because the thing is airing on live TV as I speak, and I’m talking directly into a microphone.

“Do you believe that’s because you’re now married to Brody Clear’s former fiancée?”

I shrug. “That would be my guess, but I can’t speak directly to Mr. Clear’s intentions and thoughts. I only know what was said to me, and my wife’s name wasn’t mentioned.”

“Do you feel Brody was justified in his retaliation since you stole his fiancée?”

Nice. Real nice. Clearly a New York reporter.

“I don’t think there is ever a justification for trying to hurt another player, and I didn’t steal anyone. Brody cheated on her and she left him. Next question.”

“Mason, are the reports that Sorel Fritz is pregnant true?”

Well then. At least they didn’t ask if it was Brody’s or mine.

I stare down at the reporter for a long moment before I dismiss them with my gaze and move on to the next.

“Mason, you and Dr. Fritz? Is it real or simply a publicity stunt?”

Jesus. What the fuck?

“Mason—”

I hold up my hand to stop them. “Listen, I love my wife. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. I don’t care about publicity, and I never do anything as a stunt. I love my team, and I will fight for both them and my wife to my last breath. That’s all anyone needs to know. Tonight, we played a hell of a game against a tough opponent. My guys showed up and played their hearts out, and I want to thank them again for the effort. If anyone has any questions about the game tonight, I’m happy to answer them. But I’m done answering questions about Brody Clear or my wife.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, and I take that as my opportunity.

“Great. Thank you all. Have a wonderful rest of your night.” I throw my hand up and get my ass out of this box of a room, even as the reporters start an encore of my name. I’m too anxious. I need to get to my phone. I need to call Sorel.

The team is already heading out of the stadium toward our bus, and my dad hands me my bag and phone.

You have about a dozen missed calls, he signs so no one hears or understands us. What happened out there tonight?

I explained everything from the woman last night to the hit from Tweo to what I said to Brody.

“Hmm. Does Vander know about this, or should I call Lenox?”

I smirk. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll let you know.” I hold up my phone at him and jog onto the bus. It’s quiet and dark. Most of the guys are tired and ready to go home to their families.

“Four and fucking O, motherfuckers!” I shout as I take my seat and receive a loud round of roars and cheers in reply.

With a fleeting smile on my lips, I check my phone to find a group chat with Vander and Stone. A few texts from Owen and even Katy, but nothing from Sorel. My gut sinks.

Stone: I came home from the hospital to find Sorel upset and crying in the hall. Eloise paid her a visit and returned your shirt to her. Eloise had pictures and audio, but before you fly off the handle, relax. We’ve sorted it out, and Sorel knows you didn’t cheat.

Fuck. I drag a hand through my still slightly damp hair. So the woman was Eloise. I should have guessed that, but I’d never met her before, so I didn’t know.

Vander: Face ID required to read this message.

I roll my eyes. Only freaking Vander.

I hit the link and have my phone scan my face for biometrics before his message shows for me.

Vander: I’ve wiped both Eloise’s and Brody’s phones, as well as their computers and other devices of any photographs, videos, and audio that star you. As far as I can tell, they haven’t sold or released them to anyone. It was blackmail and to manipulate Sorel. Brody promised Eloise that if she fucked you or at least made it seem as though she did, it would be the revenge they both deserve and that they could start hooking up again. In another message from Brody to his dad, he stated that once Sorel learned you cheated on her, she’d come running back to him and all would be good.

Jesus hell. I read through the message again. Brody had this whole thing figured out, didn’t he? A plan he was sure would work. At least Sorel knows the truth.

Me: I owe you each a case of something expensive. Thank you for taking care of that. I was mic’d up. Do we know where the audio is?

Vander: We know you were mic’d up. The broadcasters mentioned it, but they didn’t play the audio on air. It’s with the NFL as we speak.

Me: Perfect. How’s my girl?

Stone: Sleeping. She was very upset about what happened, and then she saw you down on the field with a team of trainers and doctors around you. But she trusts you and believes that you didn’t cheat. She knew you didn’t even before I got there.

I blow out a relieved breath, but I won’t feel settled until I have her in my arms and she doesn’t push me away.

Vander: There’s more, but we can discuss that in person in the morning.

Oh goodie. I always love it when Vander tells me stuff like that.