Page 101 of Game Plan

TWENTY-NINE

Finn

At least she’s home.

I zip into the driveway a little faster than is reasonable and pull to a stop next to Poppy’s car. My pulse has been racing for an hour now, ever since one of the linebackers pulled me aside after practice and showed me his phone.

My head spins as words from the article race through it on a torturous loop.

Exclusive: Finn Miller’s Fiancée’s Ex-husband Accuses Poppy Quinn of Battery and Financial Exploitation

“There’s a monster buried in that woman.”

“I just hope Miller figures out who she really is before it’s too late.”

It’s all bullshit—complete and utter bullshit. And Jordan fucking Callahan better be glad that I don’t know where to fucking find him or I’d be on his doorstep and not mine.

Not calling or texting her was a feat I didn’t know I was capable of. But the last thing I wanted to do was to interrupt her meeting with Ann Walsh about this, and I didn’t want to blindside her while she was driving. I didn’t even return one of Layla’s dozens of calls.

All I need is to understand what happened to Poppy before I hear anyone else’s interpretation.

I need to know she’s okay.

Taking a deep breath as the garage door opens, I try to steady my pulse as I make my way around the workout equipment where a vehicle should be and into the house. My eyes dart around the kitchen, then into the living room, until I find her.

My bag hits the floor with a thud. The sound makes her bristle … and I hate it.

“Hey,” I say, moving toward her. Tears stain her cheeks and her shirt, and my heart splinters at the sight. “Are you okay?”

She sniffles, her eyes wary and swollen. “Finn, I’m sorry.”

You’re sorry? I sit beside her, hauling her onto my lap. As soon as my arms wrap around her, she buries her face in my chest and sobs.

Fuck Exposé.

Fuck Jordan.

Fuck everyone involved in this.

Each whimper cracks another piece of my heart. All I can do is hold her, trying desperately to be the glue that keeps her together, and wait until she’s ready to talk.

Seeing her so devastated is worse than anything printed on that fucking website. I have no clue what happened—what really happened—but I know there’s a damn good reason she hasn’t told me.

Slowly, she pulls away, releasing my shirt that’s been bunched in her hands. I brush the remaining teardrops from her soft cheeks with my thumbs, trying to get her to look me in the eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” she whispers.

“I’m glad you think so.”

She tries to smile but comes up short.

I’m not sure how to ease her fear, but it’s written all over her pretty face. She’s never looked at me like this—scared and leery. Once I figure out what this is about, we’re going to make one thing clear: no matter what, this will never happen again. She’ll never have to fear my reaction to anything.

Ever.

Again.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” I say as she slides off my lap. I want to pull her right back. Maybe for me, but more for her because I know how much physical contact means to Poppy. But because I don’t know what this is about, I don’t want to make her any more uncomfortable. “But to get it out of the way, yeah, I saw the Exposé headline. In case you think I’m mad about it, I’m not. But I am scared shitless, because I can’t help you if I don’t know what all this is about, and I hate not knowing what you need.”