After Hours. Karen Kendall

      TROY WATCHED HER DRIVE AWAY in her ridiculously cute munchkin-mobile. She herself was ridiculously cute. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who had scars or worries; she looked like the all-American girl. Freckles, adorable little upturned nose, big blue eyes.

      He thought about three thugs—her fellow ball players—attacking her in a shower stall and wanted to be sick. Team spirit took on a whole new sinister dimension. They’d gone as a posse to rape the little upstart, show her who was boss.

      Troy threw the contents of his glass into the kitchen sink and stared down the black hole of the disposal. He whirled and splintered the same cabinet door that Peggy had kicked. It didn’t matter, since he’d be gutting the whole damn kitchen within weeks, anyway.

      Fury at three unknown men pulsed through him; he knew a desire to pound their faces into pulp, hear the sickening sounds of their bones cracking. The potential for extreme violence shooting through his body and psyche scared him.

      He’d managed to stay calm when removing Sam’s derelict husband from her house, and that had been tough—but last night’s situation came nowhere near the sheer rage that consumed him right now.

      The creep punched holes in walls and created scary scenes. But as far as Troy knew, he’d never tried to gang rape a defenseless girl.

      Troy began to systematically destroy every cabinet door in his entire kitchen with his bare feet and fists.

      The cheap wood and laminate splintered, screws popping loose and veneers peeling back. The old hinges didn’t stand a chance of holding up under his assault, nor did the thin panels in the middle of the frames.

      When he was done both the room and he were a mess. He got a hold of himself and stared around the shambles, feeling no better than Sam’s ex, who’d only kicked in the bottom of one door.

      Troy rinsed off his bloody knuckles under the tap and grabbed for the roll of paper towels. At least the cabinet doors hid only dated pots and pans, not a frightened woman and her crying children.

      Troy headed for the bathroom off the master bedroom, sat on the edge of the bathtub and poured hydrogen peroxide over his feet. “You are one stupid sonuvabitch,” he said aloud, looking at the scrapes, bruises and abrasions. They were evidence of something even stupider: he’d gone and developed feelings for Peggy Underwood, and they were more than guilt feelings for sneaking around trying to break her business’s lease.

      He told the feelings—whatever the hell they were—to get lost, but he knew it was a losing battle. He thought about the times he’d been a little rough with her sexually, and was deeply ashamed. He weighed twice what she did. How could he have not been gentler?

      And where the hell did he go with her from here? No wonder she’d once told him that she wouldn’t date him. I don’t date football players. Not ever. He recalled her saying that.

      A wave of protectiveness washed over him, and as he sat in the tub and watched the cuts on his feet bleed, he resolved that no matter what happened between him and Peggy in the end, he was going to change her viewpoint on football players. He could help heal some of the wounds of her past.