One last play, p.1
One Last Play, page 1
One Last Play
E.B. Neal
Cover Art by
Mya Saracho
Copyright © 2023 by E.B. Neal
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Also by E.B. Neal
Regency Series
A Truth Universally Acknowledged
A Defiant Devotion
For the readers stuck on the couch during football season.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Cover Artist
Prologue
It had been years since Miguel had heard the crowd. But tonight, he heard it.
There was someone in the seats near midfield whose voice squeaked like a parakeet. A squeak, followed by a scream. Let’s go Bolts! It was making his tight-end and tackle giggle, or it would’ve, if their heads weren’t in it. If they weren’t watching, eyes down, hearts in the grass, cleats in the turf.
For a second, weirdly, Miguel just wanted one of them to laugh. Someone to cheese and nudge, make some sort of stupid joke.
Around him, around them, the stadium boiled. It was a hot night. Los Angeles in February. Miguel’s knees had told him it was going to rain, but that had been a lie. Always lying, his joints. Instead the air was balmy. Dry and unrelenting against what little of his skin was exposed beneath the stadium lights.
His hands were cracking. Full and ruddy. Miguel looked down at his palms, and squeezed them into fists.
“All right!” he yelled, his voice booming out of his chest, knocking against his roiling stomach. His ears rang with the noise, the shrieks, the chanting. Bolts! Bolts! Bolts! “Focus up!”
Around him, the eyes. The faces. Watching.
He couldn’t feel his cheeks. His mouth. If he opened his hands, they would shake.
This was the moment. He tried not to think about it, but it was. And the words were fading in his throat.
“Jefe.” The face beside him blurred, then came into focus. TyRell. Shining with sweat. Tape on his fingers. His voice was low, steady; their teammates would not have heard him. “Call the play.”
Around them, the crowd. Above them, the lights. And beyond them hovered something that Miguel could not rely on and could not name.
He looked at his team. Felt his team look at him. Waiting.
Tonight, he thought. It could be tonight.
One
Miguel stared into the depths of his glass, counting the bubbles. He was up to thirty-eight, and it helped a little. Bubbles and Coke. Fizzing. Thirty-nine, forty. Treinta y nueve. Cuarenta.
His stomach rolled again and his throat squeezed. Miguel swallowed hard, shoving down the gaping pit in his belly, and blinked a few times, waiting until his vision cleared, until his face stopped tingling.
You cry with your gut, his mom had always said. De tus pies a tu cabeza.
Silently, a fresh drink appeared next to his half-empty glass. This bartender was a smart one. Pity. Miguel knocked back the last of his drink, lifted his hand.
The poor man appeared as if from thin air, nerves evident on his face. “Yes, sir?”
“I would like a bottle.” Miguel pulled two hundred dollar bills from his wallet, pointed to the Plantation XO lurking in the shadows of the rack. “And close the tab.”
Cash, always. Cards, hardly ever. People got weird, sometimes. Seeing his name on the thickest, heaviest card that AmEx could offer.
Miguel sat, sipping his fresh drink, unopened bottle waiting at his elbow. The bar was quiet, almost empty; he was in the corner, hidden, but directly across from the entrance. This meant he could smell the air when the front doors of the hotel beyond opened. Such money, such luxury, and still the scent of Los Angeles could not fade. Could not be kept away. Asphalt, lime, gasoline, cigarette smoke. And he could hear the shouting in the streets, the energy, the anger, the ecstasy. Mega Bowl LVI, and the Los Angeles Bolts had failed to bring it home. But the Phoenix Firebirds had done a damn fine job. Winning for the first time in twenty-six years.
Historic. Fated. Legendary.
He could hear it even now, the crowd. The weighted silence, then the sound. A wave of emotion and release as the scoreboard changed, as the Phoenix quarterback, Alex Warren, lifted his arms out of the end zone, pointing into the sky, his foot propped on the game ball.
There, again. The feeling in Miguel’s stomach, rising from his ankles to his shoulders. He fought the urge to heave, to bend with it, to succumb. He clenched his glass, his jaw, his body. Felt an answering ache in places he could not name.
A bath. That was what he needed. A bath. A terrible, greasy pizza. Half this bottle of rum, just so he would sleep.
Then, the doors. Asphalt and smoke. Voices that lifted then faded. He looked up, and the entrance to the bar grew dark.
And then his stomach fell out of his ass, because Alex Warren walked into the room.
Alex needed a drink like he needed a haircut. The itch was in his feet, his hands, his face. Like ants under his skin. He wanted to run laps until he fainted. He wanted to sprint into a pool and swim until he couldn’t breathe.
Instead, he would drink.
The bar was dead, and the bartender looked like he was about to have a stroke. Alex glanced around, his gaze landing on the back corner, on the booth tucked away from sight, and understood why.
Just his fucking luck. Miguel fucking De Santos.
De Santos was staring at him, and holy shit. On the field, Alex always swore he could feel that gaze, rolling over him like thunder. That sheer energy, kept so tight and so hidden behind that thick frame, behind the mask and the helmet and the sound. But now, without the lights and the padding and the jerseys, the full throttle of De Santos’ fury was pouring out, steady and seething. None of it showed on his face. All of it was in his eyes.
Alex looked away, ignoring it, as well as the tremor that slid nice and low to a place he wasn’t thinking about. “Hey,” he said, walking up to the bar. “How’s it going?”
The bartender swallowed. He was a young guy, and sure, this hotel probably saw more than its fair share of celebrities, but he had both Mega Bowl quarterbacks in here at once, and there had to be some Murphy’s or Schrödinger’s law about this kind of thing.
“I’ll do a Sierra Nevada,” Alex said, nice and friendly. He handed over his card, saw the bartender’s hand shake a little as he poured the pint. Poor kid.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Alex tugged it out, frowned at the flurry of notifications that featured what had been his hotel suite, and now resembled a circle of Dante’s Hell. Debauchery and nonsense. More skin than he’d ever wanted to see, especially from his defensive line. He swiped them all away, turned on Do Not Disturb. Glanced behind him at the scowling monolith whose glare could curdle milk.
Don’t do anything stupid, he’d said to Daniels before dipping from the after-party. Wise words, especially when it came to Daniels. Words that Alex really had no business saying, because he sure as shit couldn’t take his own damn advice.
He sipped his beer. It was bitter, cold. Stood there for a moment, looking into the white foam, his body on fire. Then he picked up his glass, slid away from the bar, walked up to the booth. Pointed to the seat opposite De Santos. “May I?”
From behind him, a quiet squeak. The bartender, imploding.
And yeah, sure, maybe he had a death wish. De Santos’ glare was a lost wonder of the world. It had not cracked, not even once. So Alex felt it all the way in his feet when De Santos looked away, his gaze falling, and gave a single nod.
Alex took his seat. Set down his beer. Noted the half-finished drink in De Santos’ hand — the glass looked like a child’s toy in his massive paw — and the unopened bottle of rum at his elbow.
Sure. Alex had been here a time or two. Bury a loss. Rather, drown it.
He took a swig of his beer and realized that he wasn’t nervous. He was sitting across from his biggest rival, the man he’d spent the better part of his career working to defeat in some way or another, the man whose future he’d crushed just a few hours earlier, and he wasn’t nervous.
De Santos’ frown was all but etched into his craggy features. He was older than Alex by a good chunk, old enough to already be retired if he’d wanted. His hands were swollen and bruised. ‘EL’ on the middle knuckles of his right hand, ‘JEFE’ across the knuckles of his left. A thick, Gothic, intimidating font. His fatigue seemed to roll off him, pooling on the table.
And yeah, sure. De Santos was a good-looking man. Enough that he’d made a few “Sexiest Man” lists back in the day. Alex wasn’t blind. Never had been. There was something about De Santos’ features, about those deep, speaking eyes and how soft they were compared to the hard lines of his brow, his chin, his jaw. The brutal mottled black and gray of his beard, the short haze of his hair.
And he hadn’t said a word. They’d been sitting together for a while in absolute, steady silence. De Santos took a sip of his drink and the clink of the ice cubes was like gunfire.
This was another thing, something else Alex had seen in all those write-ups, all those Instagram features and Twitter by-lines. De Santos was a man of few words. So reclusive he was basically a shadow. Showed up and did his job, sure, and did it well, but off the field, it was like he disappeared. And nowhere, except maybe in the locker room, or in the huddle, did he say much of anything at all. Even when he was on camera, giving those post-game sound bites, he kept it short and sweet, saying things in that low, rolling voice that had clearly been fed to him by his publicist. And there was no shame in that — plenty of guys didn’t like the spotlight, the attention, and Alex never judged them for it. But sometimes, he had to wonder. And sometimes, he had to envy.
How could you be one of the most recognizable faces in the country, one of the biggest football players in history, and manage to fly under the radar? Alex was absolute shit at it. Still learning even after all these years of messing it up. And here he was, sitting across from a guy who, for all intents and purposes, was a ghost.
For a second, Alex smiled. Just at the thought of saying, Some game, huh?
But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Somehow, he felt like they were having a conversation. Reaching some kind of ground, whether it be in the middle or beyond the goalposts, as they drank together. Doing more than they ever could with words. And thank God, De Santos didn’t ask him why he wasn’t celebrating. Why he wasn’t at one of the after-parties, why he didn’t have a lap full of girls and a belly full of champagne.
Maybe it was tangible, his gratitude. His relief. Maybe it was just as present as De Santos’ sorrow. And maybe that was enough for the middle ground.
Alex finished his beer, stomach growling. Took note of De Santos’ empty glass and the way he was looking at it like it held all kinds of hidden answers. Felt a stab of something, some emotion he could not name.
Alex cleared his throat. “I was gonna order a pile of room service and watch Forensic Files. If, uh.” He chewed his lip, fighting apprehension. “If you’re hungry.”
That look again. Dark, impenetrable. Then, to his surprise, De Santos nodded, pushing away his glass.
Alex swallowed and forced himself to his feet. Put his empty glass on the bar, felt De Santos standing behind him. Alex was tall, yeah, over six foot, but he felt tiny next to this man, who had a good couple inches and at least a hundred pounds on him. He smiled at the poor bartender, closed out his tab, leaving a two-hundred dollar tip. Walked out of the bar and into the lobby, and shit, De Santos was following him, bottle of rum in hand.
Good thing this place was practically deserted. Alex fielded a smile from the manager at the desk, headed for the elevator. Stood next to De Santos as they waited and tried not to look at him. God, the guy was big.
The elevator music somehow made the silence worse. Alex swiped his room key and the doors slid shut. De Santos watched him. So Alex said, “My teammates got a little carried away, threw a party in my suite. This was the only place I could find a spare room on such short notice. Well,” he added, “the only place my manager approved of.”
De Santos watched him some more. It wasn’t like Alex was bullshitting — he was telling the truth. The party had started the second he’d scored that touchdown and hadn’t stopped since. And he’d had the nicest suite, up in the penthouse, so of course Daniels had swooped in with the music and the booze and the girls. Alex had been lucky to grab his shit and his shoes before they were flooded with Bacardi and God knows what else. A quick phone call later and he’d had a new suite at the hotel down the street — the same hotel the Bolts were staying in. That won’t matter, his assistant, Brenda, had assured him. Most of them went home.
Except this guy. Apparently.
Once they were on the top floor, Alex led De Santos down the hall, swiped them into his half-dark suite. It was a big place, a full open-concept living and dining area complete with a built-in fireplace and a flatscreen like a bay window. The bedroom was even bigger, the bathroom practically decadent. The tub filled from a spout in the ceiling, for Christ’s sake.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Alex, toeing off his shoes. He went into the bedroom to make sure they’d brought his bags up; in his periphery, De Santos copied him, kicking off his shoes and pushing his socked toes into the plush carpet. Alex hid a smile and went into the closet, pulling out the lush, fluffy robes this hotel was famous for. “Turn on the TV if you can,” he called out, peeling off his henley. “Damn thing’s like a supercomputer.”
When he wandered back out in his robe and sweatpants, De Santos had gotten the TV on and found Forensic Files. He did all but a double-take when he saw Alex; Alex just smiled, holding out the other robe. “If you want.”
De Santos hesitated. Then he took the robe, almost as if he were afraid of it.
Alex went to the room phone in the entryway. “Anything in particular you want to eat? If you’re allergic to something, tell me quick. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll get you to the ER and everything, I just don’t want to be the guy who poisoned Miguel De Santos.”
“Not allergic.” De Santos turned away. “And pizza, please. Pepperoni.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
And then something in Alex’s chest rolled over and died a little, because De Santos tugged off his hoody.
Skin. Muscle. A back so big and wide it was like a warm boulder. His triceps and traps just kept going. And those tattoos. Black ink, snaking over him like he’d been born with it, highlighting the warm brown of his skin. His back was dominated by a relief of the Virgin Mary, but the art was abstract, somehow. Real and unreal.
Alex looked down, fought off a shiver. De Santos pulled on the robe, his muscles rippling before they were swallowed by the fluffy white fabric. Thank God.
In Alex’s ear, the phone rang, bringing him back to earth. The kitchen was still open. He ordered two pizzas, nachos, two six-packs, two dozen wings, a couple pints of ice cream. Did not watch as De Santos settled himself into one corner of the couch, muffling a groan and a wince.
Alex wandered over, offering a smirk. “Sore?”
De Santos nodded. He’d tried to tie the robe shut, but it barely fit him, leaving a long, decadent triangle of his chest exposed. The ink tangled across his pecs, up his neck, featuring some Gothic letters that Alex couldn’t read. “Damn Michaelson,” De Santos grumbled, in a friendly sort of way. “He’s like a tank.”
A genuine grin broke free as Alex settled in the opposite corner of the couch. “Yeah, he really rung your bell, huh?”
“I would say you’re lucky to have him,” said De Santos, “but mostly I just want to smack him.”
“That’s par for the course. He’s a shithead even on his best days.”
They settled into silence as they listened to Peter Thomas narrate a terrible reenactment. And there they sat until the food arrived. De Santos tore into the pizza like it owed him a debt. Alex offered him a beer, but he shook his head, cracking open his bottle of rum and pouring it into a mug. They ate, and Alex didn’t watch when De Santos licked his fingers, sucking grease and sauce off his thumb. When he chewed, the tattoos on his neck pulled and moved, like they were hungry too.
