The National Football League had disagreed. Loudly.
Years after his death, in the big class-action lawsuit against the league brought by retired players, Aleki’s brain and his seventeen years of pro football playing had been cited by more than one attorney as evidence of the link between football and CTE.
“Are you gonna try to get a piece of the settlement?”
Samson shook his head. “Joe wouldn’t let me contribute any money toward his health care, so I’m okay, financially. I might have tried to navigate that mess for him, but he was lucky enough to have Annabelle. When his savings ran out, she took care of him.” Everyone thought all football players were rich, but money went fast when illness kicked in.
Harris drained his beer. “Okay, good. ’Cause I was gonna say, you know that settlement fund is a clusterfuck, so you’d have to lawyer up hard.”
“You know how it goes. Deny—”
“Until they die.” Harris finished the dark rhyme one high profile former player had applied to the claims process. The NFL might have settled the class-action for a billion dollars to compensate retirees exhibiting symptoms of CTE, as well as late players’ families who came with posthumous diagnosis in hand, but they were notoriously heavy-handed when it came to denials. “Hey, speaking of . . . You know, Trevor was asking me about you.”
Samson’s sneer was immediate. “I have nothing to say to Trevor.”
“That’s what I figured.” Harris patted Samson’s back gently. “It’s okay, man.”
Dean walked out of the bedroom, his baby’s face smooshed against his chest. “Thank God, she’s asleep,” he said, sotto voce. “You want to order dinner now? Or we can go out. Heard there’s a cool new vegan place on Melrose.”
“You can’t do those fucking lunges around a trendy restaurant if she starts hollering,” Harris said bluntly.
Dean covered his sleeping daughter’s ears with one hand. “What did I fucking tell you about swearing around her?”
Samson chuckled softly and slapped Harris’s back. Christ, he’d missed this. His brothers. “Okay, come on. Dean, there’s a family-friendly vegan place not too far from here. Let’s go there.”
Dean sniffed, his feathers still ruffled. “No swearing around the baby.”
Harris sighed when Samson glanced at him. “Fine! Fine. No swearing around the nonverbal, sleeping baby. For fudge’s sake.”
Chapter Eight
RHIANNON RESISTED the urge to check her face in any reflection before she walked inside the huge historic hotel. There was no need. She hadn’t bothered with makeup or her hair or changing out of her usual casual day hoodie.
She’d dressed up for this man once before, had slicked on some tinted Chapstick even, and he’d left her high and dry. Extenuating circumstances or not, she wasn’t about to repeat the mistakes of her past.
Eye on the prize.
She walked inside the trendy place and glanced around with some interest. Matchmaker had chosen a good location to film their first spot in their Win a Date with Samson Lima contest or promotion or whatever it was. The ceilings were tall, the architecture was gorgeous, and Samson and his date would pop in a luxurious setting surrounded by expensive views.
How Lakshmi had gotten information on this, Rhiannon wasn’t sure. She’d intended to casually stroll into a bar or a club that Samson was at some night, but Lakshmi had said the man didn’t seem to be much of a party animal. So here she was. Crashing his date.
If this was solely about shedding her anger and finding inner peace or closure or whatever Katrina wanted to call it, she might have already left. But this was also about business, so she was all-in.
She bypassed the reservation desk and made her way through the chandelier-lit lobby to the hallway that connected to a restaurant. There was a discreet sign in the window that said the restaurant was closed, but Rhiannon ignored that and tested the handle. The door easily opened.
The film crew was small, only about five or six people, but even if the room hadn’t been blocked off, she would have spotted Samson immediately. He towered over the other occupants, his broad shoulders big enough to block out the sun. He wore another suit, but no tie this time.
A shame. The sexy factor of a perfectly tied knot was undeniable, even to a casual dresser such as herself.
A small blond woman bopped her way, perky ponytail bouncing, a polite smile on her face. “I’m sorry, the restaurant is closed—”
“I’m not here for the restaurant,” Rhiannon said gently. “I’m here for your star.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?” She blinked at Rhiannon, and recognition dawned in her eyes. “Hey, aren’t you—?”
“Tina, it’s fine.” Samson appeared behind the sentry and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I asked her to come.” His dark eyes were warm when they rested on Rhiannon’s face, and she could almost believe he had asked her to crash his date. Or whatever it was called when a film crew was present.
Rhiannon tilted her head. “I was hoping I could have a minute to talk privately.”
“Absolutely. Tina, how much time do we have?”
“Um.” Tina looked back and forth between the two of them. “Your date is going to be here in a half hour. But you said you wanted more prep . . .”
“I’ll wing it.” Samson nodded at Rhiannon. “There’s some space to talk outside. Let’s go there.”
She exhaled long and low as they walked away from Tina and the rest of the curious group. She’d expected Samson to be a number of things: shocked, panicked, annoyed. At the very least, she’d thought she might need to explain why she was here. She had a fast-talking spiel lined up and ready to go.
This had been relatively easy.
They exited to the patio, which looked out over a paradise of rolling hills and sprouting spring flowers. The view was designed to nourish and calm, but it had the opposite effect on her, ramping up the low-grade anxiety that had been humming under the surface since Lakshmi had told her where she could find the man.
Weird. She’d run from him and fought with him, but she supposed this was the first time since they’d been in her bed that they were alone with each other. She cast about for something to say. “Nice choice, filming here. Pasadena’s picturesque.”
Samson glanced at the surroundings and smiled. “Yes. Quieter than downtown for sure.”
“Is that where you live?”
“Yeah. Not permanently, Matchmaker put me up. What about you? I know Crush is in L.A., but not sure where.”
“Not far from there. Silver Lake.” She hadn’t wanted to be a Silicon Beach company, and the area had been more affordable when they’d established Crush.
“You live in that area too?”
“Part-time.” If not for Katrina, she’d live and work in L.A. full-time, but she cared about her best friend more than the city. Santa Barbara had its own charms, and she could commute down easily after each weekend. “Why?”
“No reason. Making small talk.”
She rolled her neck, trying to ease the tension there. “I’m not really here to make small talk.”