Breaking Cage Page 2

  “Dixon! Leave her alone.”

  The room falls still, and hushed whispers spiral through the air. I search for the source of the deep, penetrating voice and meet the eyes of a man, standing in front of a locker with the name Cage, the number 18 prominently displayed on a white plaque above the open locker.

  Derek Cage.

  He’s here, and he’s magnetizing. His stare is intense, almost frightening. He’s enraged, like an animal ready to spring forward and rip Colt Dixon’s head off. His chiseled jaw ticks, his nostrils flare, and his broad chest rises and falls in rapid successions. He’s terrifying . . . and stunning.

  Colt laughs from deep in his belly, throwing his hands up in surrender, breaking the tightrope of tension electrifying the room. “Sorry, Rage, didn’t know she was already spoken for.”

  Derek Cage isn’t paying attention to Colt. He isn’t bothered with the reporters that are stepping up to grab his attention. He’s too busy glaring at me with turbulent blue eyes that remind me of the ocean on a stormy day.

  Unable to move or barely breathe, I stare back. This man is dripping in sexiness. He’s a virtual poster boy for tall, dark, and handsome. With his chiseled jaw and endless amounts of smooth, beautiful skin, he has my undivided attention. An impeccable six-pack leads to narrow hips divided by a tantalizing dark trail of perfectly placed hair that modestly escapes into a thick white towel. Damn.

  A platinum chain hangs around his neck, and tattoos line his sides, coiling around him like a rope. Ink that’s written in what must be Sanskrit.

  I can’t tear my focus away, mesmerized by the sheer presence of him.

  A combination of curiosity and annoyance crosses his face. His gaze travels deliberately along the length of my body, stopping for a beat on my mouth and again on my chest. My heart pounds, as my veins hum with electricity. I take a step forward. His eyes meet mine. A slight hesitation shadows his expression as though he doesn’t know what he’ll do if I speak to him.

  The room erupts in chaos, breaking the invisible moment we’ve just shared. Reporters clamor for a shot at the stunning man before me, their bodies surrounding him, holding recorders in front of his face as they lob questions in his direction.

  Derek gazes past them, lifting his chin to spot me over the crowd, but it’s futile. There are too many people interfering. I watch a frustrated scowl appear on his lips, and a crease form between his eyes. He faces his locker and pulls a black T-shirt over his head, then tosses a Cubs baseball cap over his dark mahogany hair. I watch in fascination as he pulls on a pair of track pants under his towel, going about his business as though fifteen microphones are not pointed in his direction. Tossing his towel in the hamper, he grabs his duffel and pushes through the crowd, keeping his head cast down.

  I can’t move, my feet frozen in place, as the most captivating man I’ve ever seen begins to leave the room. Groans echo around me, snapping me back to reality.

  “Wait,” I rasp out.

  Derek keeps walking.

  “Mr. Cage. Can you wait a second?”

  His head swivels in my direction, and with a heavy sigh, he confidently strides over to me. Breaking all codes of personal space, Derek Cage enters my zone. His body is radiating heat, his smell intoxicating, his male presence overwhelming. I swallow hard, my mouth too dry to form words.

  Under thick dark lashes, he studies my face, an obvious interest softening his features. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Hannah Black, Mr. Cage, and I was wondering what you thought about George Cox missing his assignment and leaving you vulnerable on the field today.”

  Anger darkens his expression and a tick flickers under his eye. It’s hot, and I can’t keep my pulse from quickening, my stomach from fluttering. I get the urge to slide my fingers along the pulse that’s beating in his throat, feel the life that runs through his veins. What the hell, Hannah? I grew up surrounded by beautiful and sexy people. I should be immune to someone like Derek Cage, emphasis on should.

  “You’re a reporter.”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Same difference. Here’s the thing, Freckles. I don’t answer questions, and I don’t acknowledge reporters. But I was raised to be a gentleman, and I can’t ignore you either. I’m going to say this one time only. Stay out of the locker room. It’s no place for a woman like you.”

  “Like me?” I think about the other female reporters occupying this space. What sets me apart?

  “Yes, Freckles, like you.”

  The continual mention of my least favorite attribute is beginning to piss me off. “And what exactly is like me?”

  He leans forward. Close enough that I see the hazel rim around his ocean-blue irises. Close enough to feel his breath skirt across my skin and smell the fresh scent of his laundered clothes. My body responds, sending liquid warmth through my veins. It’s impossible not to be affected by him in some way.

  “Sexy and innocent with no idea what you just watched outside, hoping to snag something for your gossip column and drag our names through mud. You don’t belong here.”

  “I don’t write for a gossip column. If you knew anything about my business—”

  “I know plenty about your business, and I’d prefer not to have to kick the shit out of one of my teammates, so if you’d mind not stepping foot in this locker room again, I’d kindly appreciate it.”

  He is an asshole.

  “I don’t need protection.”

  Derek scans me from head to toe, his appreciation clear.

  “You about . . . one-twenty?”

  “It’s rude to comment on a woman’s weight, Mr. Cage.”

  “So, one-twenty, five seven, and the only thing to protect yourself is a recording device you haven’t even turned on.” I look to see it is, in fact, turned to the off position. Damn. “Stay out of the locker room.”

  “Meet me somewhere else.”

  His brows shoot to his hairline.

  “Not like that. Meet me somewhere for an interview.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek closes his eyes and takes three deep breaths. “Ms. Black, I don’t grant interviews. I don’t answer questions. I won’t meet you somewhere else. I will escort you through those doors and make sure security sees you safely to your car.”

  “No thanks. I’ll take my chances with your teammates.” I turn my back and find someone else to interrogate, my heart hammering, my voice shaky. I get the story. I always get the story. Derek Cage is not going to be my first failure. He’ll talk, and he’ll do it willingly.

  “Thousand bucks says you hit that tonight.”

  I glance over at the eager blond who’s been eye-fucking me since Reggie and I walked into Johnny’s Bar and Billiards Room. “A thousand bucks says I don’t.”

  Taking the cue stick from Reggie, I set up my next move. I’ve been back in Chicago for six months, training with my new team, attempting to acclimate to life in the Midwest. It hasn’t been a cakewalk. But Reggie Maddox and I have been friends for fourteen years, and it’s been fun seeing him on the regular.

  “Dude, she’s hot. Those tits? Damn, you could have a lot of fun.”

  I study the table for my next move.

  “I don’t screw cleat chasers.” My hit is perfect, the six and ten balls gracefully sliding into the far right pocket. “You know that.”

  Reggie slaps me on the back. “Derek, your last name alone will have women dropping to their knees. Take advantage of it.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be discouraging me from that type of behavior?”

  Reggie shakes his head. “I’m your PR rep, not your priest. As long as you don’t do anything to land your ass in jail, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I look over at the blond. She takes that as an invitation to move closer. Reggie’s right, her tits are off-the-chart phenomenal. Taking her home would be easy, losing myself between her legs, giving in to a night of meaningless no-name sex, a needed distraction. Being the starting quarte
rback for the Chicago Bears, the expectation to have a different woman in my bed, to take the stress of my daily life out inside the body of a beautiful woman is encouraged. But my life isn’t as cut and dry as most professional athletes. My last name keeps me isolated and held to a different standard.

  My great-grandfather made millions in the stock market crash of 1929, his investments tripling the wealth he’d already secured, the real estate he’d purchased, making us one of the most recognizable names in the state. His political career soon followed, creating a dynasty the public looked up to, and a new family for the media to swarm. Texas has the Bush family, Massachusetts the Kennedys, and Illinois has the Cages, our name synonymous with Rockefeller and Walton.

  Our elitism is worn on our sleeves, but our secrets run deep. If the public knew the lies buried in our pasts, their arms might not open so wide.

  The pool game forgotten, Reggie turns his attention to a brunette who’s been lingering all night. It’s been this way since high school, football and girls our top priority.

  Ten years later, and Reggie’s game hasn’t changed, but mine has.

  American royalty in the form of an athlete takes on a mother ship of responsibility. I was born into a life separate from the rest, whether I like it or not. I don’t fuck random chicks. Ever.

  The blonde makes her move, and with one shot, I sink three balls and then the eight ball. Game over.

  I feel her body heat, and within seconds, she’s beside me, curling her long, slender fingers around my arm, her intention clear.

  Looking into this girl’s clear blue eyes, I smile. “Excuse me. I have to make a phone call.”

  She pouts. They all react the same when I reject them. The women I fuck are vetted, and like me, have something to lose if things go south— husbands, reputations, pride; this woman’s not worth the risk of seeing my name on the front of Us Weekly.

  I leave the pool room and walk to the bar. Johnny spots me and ignores the pleas of other customers, focusing his full attention on me. “Derek, you ready for another?”

  I nod and hand him my empty glass. The place is busy for a Monday. People sit shoulder to shoulder watching NASCAR on the screens above. The pool tables are all in use, and every chair in the joint is taken. “The Bears needed a change like you, Mr. Cage. I’m glad you finally came home.”

  “Thanks, Johnny. It was time.”

  It’s the same bullshit lie I use on everyone, but facing my demons is a private matter.

  My deal to be traded to the Bears was kept tight-lipped. Keeping my name out of the press is a priority. I don’t like anything about fame except getting to play football for a living. I’d gladly leave the rest behind for a life of privacy.

  When my contract with the 49ers was up, and I told my agent I wanted a change, they held meetings behind closed doors, kept my move a secret. The 49ers wanted a chance to draft a rookie, someone they could groom and keep for years to come, and the Bears wanted the senator’s son. If they knew how that title curdled my blood, making it hard for me to breathe, maybe they’d have thought differently.

  A Super Bowl title, and six years of hard work and dedication can’t erase two shitty seasons. The Bears needed a boost, and I needed a career move. It seemed like the foolproof plan.

  It’s my chance to start over, my year to bring another team up in the ranks. Chicago celebrated when the 49ers traded me. Derek Cage returns home. Sounded like the ideal outcome for Chicago’s most famous family, the residents forgetting they once turned their backs on me. The shunned villain returned a hero, a quarterback to save their beloved Bears. Interesting how quickly one forgives the sins of the past.

  “Johnny, any chance you can turn that channel to—” What the fuck? I’m shoved from behind, my hips digging into the hard material of the bar, my drink spilling all over the surface. I turn around and come face to face with the wide-eyed brunette I recently left at Soldier Field. Wavy dark hair flows across her slender shoulders, and her pink lips form a perfect O of surprise.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I just tripped on something.” She looks behind me to the pool of liquid all over the bar. “Oh my God, let me buy you another drink.”

  This woman is going to drive me insane. First, she shows up in my locker room and now my bar? I don’t believe in coincidences. “Hannah, was it?” I ask, for clarity.

  Her head jolts back startled. “Mr. Cage?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. My annoyance wavers when her cheeks blush deeply in embarrassment.

  “That is you. I didn’t recognize you with that baseball hat on.” She holds up an empty shot glass and begins to ramble. “I’m not a big drinker. But my friend is having a bad day and so . . . well, I agreed to go out with her and . . . obviously I should stick to my no shot rules. I’m sorry, Mr. Cage. I didn’t mean to fall into you.”

  “I’m expected to believe that?”

  She mimics my stance, folding her arms across her chest, which moves her breasts higher. It’s impossible not to peek. They’re impressive, but I’m not surprised. Hannah Black is a knockout. If she had a different occupation, I might find myself interested.

  She glares at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ah, a question answered with another question. Typical journalistic shadiness.”

  Her brow rises in a challenge. “Are you always this friendly, Mr. Cage, or should I be flattered?”

  “You’re not unique if that’s what you’re suggesting, Ms. Black. But there are many ways to get my attention. Shoving me against a bar and spilling my drink isn’t one of them.”

  Her shoulders drop, and the tough girl act begins to slip. “That wasn’t on purpose. I had no idea you were here. It’s not like there’s a crowd of groupies surrounding you.”

  “No. Just one.”

  Anger flirts across her face, and her jaw tenses. It’s an unexpected turn on, and I have to fight a smile.

  “Typical,” she mumbles.

  I lean in, unsure I heard her correctly. “What did you say?”

  “Typical athlete. Arrogant, narcissistic, but entirely insecure.”

  I don’t have a comeback. As insulting as her words are, they’re true. She’s tough, and her steel exterior is at odds with the light and sexy cadence of her voice. It’s almost impossible to stay frustrated with her.

  Johnny hands me a new drink.

  “So you weren’t stalking me?”

  “No. I told you, my friend Gwen was having a rough day, and we met for drinks. I’d never expect to find you in a bar like this.”

  “What’s wrong with Johnny’s?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “It’s not exactly high class.”

  Johnny’s is a far cry from the prestige associated with a professional athlete, not to mention a Cage. But I’ve been coming here since I can remember. It feels like home.

  “Hannah! Get over here.” Her face quickly flashes to panic as a redheaded woman, who must be Gwen, begins to shout at her from across the room.

  “Please don’t tell anyone about this. I’m a terrible drunk, and my friends already have enough ammunition to make fun of me for the rest of my life.”

  Her ivory skin blushes, masking the freckles that dust the edge of her nose. I feel a little sorry for her. “I won’t spill your secret, but I expect the same treatment.”

  She cocks a brow, and I realize I might not be so lucky. I hate reporters, but Hannah Black is adorable. She’s feisty and different. Most likely not from around here.

  “What’d you think of tonight’s game?” I ask. The question slips out, surprising me, surprising her even more.

  “Extremely entertaining.”

  “That’s it? No stats to throw at me, no questions about why I passed to James Freemont instead of Devon DeLong when we had five minutes left in the third?” I don’t know why I’m encouraging this, but I’m not ready to let Hannah go back to her friend.

  “Are you offering up an i
nterview, Mr. Cage? Should I timestamp this and turn my recorder on?” Her mouth drops open in feigned shock, and her eyes widen in humor. We both begin to laugh.

  “In your dreams, Freckles. I don’t grant interviews.”

  She walks up to the bar and stands beside me, close enough to feel the heat of her body, smell the feminine scent of her shampoo. Her arm grazes my abs as she places her empty shot glass on the bar, and my stomach tightens in response. Lust sweeps through me, a desire to touch her, to feel her. What the fuck?

  I’ve always loved women. Loved to run my hands along their soft curves, tangle my fingers in their hair, and discover the different ways to drive them wild. Each one is unique, a puzzle created to challenge the arrogance of a man. Women hold all the power. Unraveling that power is a gift and a curse.

  “There’s a first time for everything, Cage.” Her velvety voice brings me back to the present. Her big brown eyes are taunting me, and it doesn’t go unnoticed that she’s dropped the formal prefix of my name. It makes me smile. She’s only a few years younger than me, probably around twenty-five, but she’s confident, and she’s really fucking pretty.

  “Was that your first football game?” I ask. Her question today was amateur, and she hasn’t brought up any of the plays or other players.

  “No!”

  “Why would your boss assign you to a sport you know nothing about?” I continue.

  “I just told you it wasn’t my first game. I’m extremely knowledgeable in the world of football.”

  “What’s a backfield?”

  Her clueless face entertains me.

  “A chop block?”

  Still no response.

  “Please tell me you at least know what a fumble is?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Everyone knows what a fumble is, Cage. I’m going back to Gwen now. I’ll see you on the field.”

  “Hannah, you need to know these things if you’re going to be a successful sports reporter. You can’t go in blind. They’ll eat you alive.”

  Widening a hopeful eye, she says, “Are you offering a tutorial?”

  I belt out a chuckle. “No. But Google has some great resources. Again, I don’t want to have to kick someone’s ass, so if you’re going to invade my sanctuary, come prepared.”