by RC Boldt
From my periphery, I see his curt nod. “You think I could get her number from you? I know you two are friends and all…”
His words hang between us, and I fight against the urge to press a hand to the center of my chest to soothe the unusual tightness suddenly there.
“You plan to hire her?” There’s no mistaking the hard edge that works its way into my tone. “Thought you weren’t in the market for anything serious.” I look over at him. His expression is thoughtful, attention centered on the buses idling a few feet away.
“She just seems like someone worth getting to know better.”
“Yeah. She is.” That’s all I can manage to say.
“So… yeah?”
I release a slow exhale and draw to a stop, moving off to the side to let the others pass. Watson follows suit, and I turn and pin him with a sharp look. “Look, if you’re just bored and want someone to pay you attention, Darcy’s not for you. She’s…” I trail off, faltering for a moment. “She’s amazing. Has so much to offer.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Don’t fuck around with her.”
He raises his palms as if surrendering. “I hear you loud and clear.” His eyes narrow on me as though he sees something intriguing. My spine immediately stiffens, and I spin around and continue heading toward the bus.
I quietly climb the steps and amble down the aisle to find my spot. Only once I slide in to take a window seat and sink into the cushions do I allow my eyes to fall closed. No one normally sits in the available seat beside me, so at least I’ll have some peace and quiet.
The exact instant a person drops into the spot beside me, I whip my head around with a glare.
Only to see Watson.
I stare pointedly. “There’re other seats available.” I practically grit out the words from between clenched teeth.
He answers with an easy grin.
I jab a finger in the air between us. “I want peace and quiet.”
“You were in a good mood after the game.” One eyebrow arches. “What happened?”
You started asking about Darcy.
I turn away and face the window. “Just tired.”
“Uh-huh.” Brief silence. “That was a brutal hit. You’re lucky he didn’t get you head-on.”
“Yeah.” Trust me, my body’s feeling it just the same. These are the moments I can’t deny it’s nearing time for me to retire. My body can’t endure this wear and tear forever. Luckily, I have my communication and broadcast degrees, so I’m hoping I can slide into a spot with ESPN once I retire. That way, I’ll still be a part of what I’m most passionate about: the game of football.
With a sigh, I pull my earbuds from my pocket and plug them into my phone. It’s sort of a tradition for me to call my parents after a game. Really, I think it started because Mom worries about me getting injured and needs the confirmation that I’m okay.
Tucking them in my ears, I swipe the screen of my phone to pull up the number. Except I falter, my thumb hovering over the last two numbers in my recent call list.
Mom & Dad
Darcy Cell
Before I can press the call button—for my parents, of course—my left earbud is tugged free, and I jerk my head around to find Watson watching me with a touch of apprehensiveness. His eyes flick down to the earbud in his hand as though he’s surprised he took it from me.
With his focus back on me, he appears apologetic. “Uh, sorry. I just…” He sighs, and I can tell something’s bothering him. His features tense, and he glances around before lowering his voice. “I was just wondering if I could talk to you about something...”
He lowers his gaze to his lap and… dammit, the guy actually looks like a sad sack.
With my upturned palm, I wait for him to give me back my earbud. He sighs again before handing it back.
I groan internally and can practically hear my mother lecturing me to be the leader everyone needs. The one others can look up to. As captain, I shouldn’t dismiss my teammates when it seems like they’re dealing with shit. Even when my damn bones ache down to the marrow. When the last thing I honestly want to do is play therapist to someone else.
Fuck.
I raise my eyes to the ceiling of the bus, silently praying for guidance from above. Plucking the other earbud from my ear, I offer, “What’s up?”
He still doesn’t meet my gaze but shrugs and mumbles, “Sometimes this sucks, you know?”
“You mean going on the road? Or…?”
He settles back in his seat, his eyes locking with mine. “Wondering if people are my friends. Or if the women hanging around are because of me or because of the job.”
Ah. Now this, I understand. All of us have been there in some capacity.
I shift in my seat to center my attention on my quarterback. “You won’t like what I have to say, but I’m being honest.” I hesitate, but he watches and quietly waits for me to continue. “Erring on the side of caution with a fraction of suspicion is the best way to proceed. Because some people do it well. They play along and can be misleading as hell. Time will show you who the genuine ones are.”
He appears thoughtful as if mulling over my words. “But… Darcy’s not like that, right? She’s the real deal?”
I just got gut punched by the fucking Hulk. I swear, that’s what it feels like right now. I stall while desperately trying to fill my lungs with air.
Is Darcy the real deal?
He wants to know if the most genuine woman I’ve come to know—aside from her sister, of course—is the real deal. The woman I’ve held in my arms because she’d never had a mother figure genuinely hug her. The woman who hates asking for help because it means depending on someone else. A woman whose work ethic has built a company that’s quickly forming into an empire, giving other business moguls a run for their money.
Do I warn him that she’s fiercely independent and hates asking for help? That she’s adorable when she tries to keep up in Zumba class. That she’s just as adorable when rumpled after waking up, and gorgeous as hell when dressed in those pencil skirts or dresses or… just about anything. How her blue eyes light up even brighter when she discovers something she can harass me about.
A few deep breaths later, I finally manage to answer. But I can’t look him in the eyes. I can’t witness the hope that will likely light them up.
“Yeah, man.” I swallow hard and stare out the window. “She’s the real deal.”
Without realizing it, I find myself rubbing the center of my chest, where a fierce ache radiates.
“Well, if you think she’d be okay with you giving me her number, let me know.”
My nod is barely noticeable, and I don’t turn. “Will do.”
He quiets, and I plug in my earbuds, silently begging for the conversation with my parents to distract me from that persistent ache in my chest.
“Gotta be fucking kidding me.” My filter is out of order. I’ve got an ice pack along the left side of my rib cage and just want to be left alone on the flight back to Jacksonville.
“Now, son. That’s no way to treat the man who saved yo’ ass today.” Tank’s brows slant in admonishment, settling into the seat beside me. He’s referring to the double block that enabled me to make a twenty-three-yard run for a touchdown. Without a doubt, my man brought his A game today.
“I thanked you earlier.” I tip my head back on the seat and close my eyes. “I just want peace and quiet.”
“Got handled pretty rough when I got tangled up.”
“Mmm.” That’s all I can say. Exhaustion and pain are warring for who will come out on top, and it’s a battle for the ages. The hit I’d taken at the end had been brutal.
“What’d yo’ woman think of that hit?”
I barely crack open my eyes to squint at him. “Who?”
His toothy grin flashes back at me. “You know who.”
Jesus. I close my eyes, barely holding back a groan. “I can’t take this shit right now.”
Tank releases a dramatic sigh, and I feel
him lean in close. “Bet Darcy’s worried ’bout you. Should probably call her.”
I tense at the mention of her name before I force a casual tone. “I don’t think she even—”
My phone, screen side down on my thigh, begins to vibrate with an incoming call. My movements are slow, and I bite back a groan at the sharp bite of protest my body puts out at the minimal shift. At the sight of the caller ID on the screen, a strange sense of warmth passes through me.
Tank practically preens. His tone is full of satisfaction. “Told ya.” I shoot him a sharp look.
“Hey.” I try to keep my voice low, hushed, when I answer since I don’t want an audience from the rest of my teammates.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I wanted to just… check on you and see if you were okay.” Darcy’s words are rushed, nervous, and so unlike her that I find my lips curling up in a hint of a smile.
“I’m okay, Duchess.” My words come out soft, gentle, because I don’t want her to worry. “We’re waiting for takeoff.” I pause. “Guess you saw the game, huh?” The idea of her watching me play fills me with an intense pride.
Because we’re friends. That’s all. I mean, it doesn’t have the same weight as when Becket watches, but that’s just… different.
“Yeah.” She interrupts my thoughts. A wispy-sounding sigh passes through the phone. “That looked like it hurt, Dax. Is there anything you need once you get home?” Before I can answer, she rushes, like she’s second-guessing herself. “I mean, you probably already have someone who does that stuff for you.”
“I just plan to relax with an ice pack. Nothing too crazy. I don’t think there’s anything I need.” It would be weird to request you, right?
I mentally shove away that question. She’s just being nice; being a good friend. But I can’t get too attached. Especially if she and Watson start dating.
I’m unable to restrain the groan that rumbles from my throat at the disturbing thought. Darcy interprets it differently and immediately apologizes.
“I’m sorry. I should let you go and rest…” She hesitates before finishing with, “Talk to you later, Dax.”
I close my eyes and breathe out a sigh at the sound of my name on her lips. “Later, Duchess.”
Eyes remaining closed, I sit with my phone in my lap, half-asleep when the flight crew announces preparation for takeoff.
I still don’t open my eyes when I feel him lean toward me. The whisper-hiss is low and taunting. “Not yo’ woman, my ass.”
19
Darcy
Two weeks later…
Dax’s mixer is scheduled. I have fourteen women lined up for him to meet with on Friday since this is his bye week and he doesn’t have an upcoming game. We’ve only exchanged a few text messages here and there. I’ve been busy with other clients, and Dax’s practices as well as filming another Under Armour commercial have monopolized his schedule.
Since The Lemon Lounge in Jacksonville Beach caters to elite clientele who expect discretion, it’s the perfect location for the mixer. Management is strict, and they have zero qualms about kicking anyone out or banning them if they fail to follow the rules, which includes prohibiting violence, drugs, and paparazzi.
The Lemon, as the locals refer to it, is normally teeming with familiar faces and celebrities of various levels—local, national, and sometimes international. The owner, Grant, is a friend of mine and allows me to use one of his private rooms for my mixers. He understands that I have a strict two-drink maximum for both the women and men who are in attendance.
Today, though, I’m sitting at the bar in The Lemon. Alone.
At one thirty in the afternoon.
On a Thursday.
It might appear to some that I have a drinking problem. That I’m obscenely pathetic. Or maybe a little of both. It’s actually neither.
Okay, well, maybe it’s a little pathetic, but I can own it.
Today’s my birthday, and I received news first thing this morning that one of my clients I successfully matched is now engaged and thrilled to begin planning her wedding. Marisa Bastania, the famous Food Network chef, has countless cookbooks to her name as well as a kitchenware product line sold exclusively at Williams-Sonoma, on top of her famed show, Everyday Italian with Marisa.
Initially, she hadn’t been on board with my suggestion that she be more open-minded when it came to Trey Turner, business mogul and frequent Forbes magazine contributor. I don’t always inform a client of my opinions on a match they’ve shown interest in after they’ve made their choices once the mixer ends. However, when I get that undeniable sense about two people and their personalities, I feel it’s my duty to give a little nudge.
So, I did. And it clearly paid off. Another match soon to be immersed in wedded bliss. My business is flourishing, bank account far more secure than it’s ever been in my life, and my clients are happy. I’m happy for them—I really am—but things seem to be hitting me hard today. Mainly the changes over the past two years and how the dynamics have shifted.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Becket. He’s a great guy, the best brother-in-law anyone could ask for, and he and Ivy are perfect for one another. My sister deserves all the happiness in the world and more. But right now, especially today, I’m reminded I’m still alone in the world. All over again, like I was before Ivy and I were thrown together in our final foster home. I’ve grown lax, accustomed to having my sister by my side. I realize how selfish it sounds, but it’s just… hard.
She’s always been the one to celebrate milestones like birthdays or client successes at our designated frozen yogurt joint. It was our thing. As kids, we’d never been granted indulgences like going out for ice cream or frozen yogurt, so we’d instituted our own tradition.
Now, though, it’s just me. I feel worse having this pity party since my sister’s at home, dealing with the aftermath of a newborn who had a severe tongue and lip tie and couldn’t nurse properly. I shudder at how Ivy described the pain before little Ella was able to have the procedure done to release the ties. Things are much better for them now, thankfully.
And here I am. Sitting in a bar, I’m celebrating a successful matchmaking and my birthday with a dirty martini while silently bemoaning my pathetically pitiful existence once again. No family, no match of my own. Not to mention, this dreadful tightness in my chest at the prospect of Dax finding his match at the mixer.
My feelings are unequivocally inappropriate. He’s been blatantly genuine about us forming a friendship, so that’s obviously what he wants. Otherwise, he’d likely have canceled my services and asked me out. Since he hasn’t—nor has he shown any interest in doing so—I need to stop mooning over a freaking client, no matter how amazing he is, and find him his match.
It’s frustrating when men bide their time in the friend zone, simply waiting for a chance to be more, and don’t take advantage of the time to enjoy the friendship for what it is. I don’t want to be a hypocrite, so I need to focus.
That doesn’t mean I don’t need this dirty martini to take the edge off…
Oh, and let it be known that I’ve never ordered a dirty martini before today, and, well… I’m regretting it. It tastes god-awful; it’s salty and just gag. It’s utterly disgusting, but I thought maybe it would make me feel more sophisticated if I ordered it. That it would boost my spirits.
No dice.
This serves as further proof of my unsophisticated upbringing. I’d much prefer a sweeter cocktail or a good beer. Instead, here I am, hell-bent on finishing this murky glass of what I swear is the equivalent of ocean water because I’m not a quitter, dammit.
The vibration of my cell phone on the sleek, lacquered bar top draws me from my inner musings. My shoulders slump in response because I’d hoped to escape for a bit with no one to catch me somber and utterly pathetic. It’s a gift in and of itself that this place is practically empty aside from four other patrons—well-dressed businessmen—seated clear on the other side of the bar at a small table and l
ikely discussing work.
When I catch sight of the name on the caller ID, I hesitate to answer but end up giving in. If Dax needs to reschedule tomorrow’s mixer, it’s best I know now so I can contact the women as soon as possible.
“Hello?”
“Well, hello there.” Amusement laces Dax’s tone. “How’s my favorite matchmaker doing today?”
It doesn’t escape me that I happen to be his only matchmaker, but I’m just not in the mood to chat. “Doing well.” When he doesn’t say anything more, I prompt, “What can I do for you? Are we still on for Friday’s mixer?”
His end goes quiet, and if I didn’t detect the slight noise of his turn signal clicking, I’d think the call had dropped.
“What’s wrong?”
Dammit. The protective papa bear version of Dax has emerged, it seems.
I attempt to inflect some enthusiasm in my tone and twine my middle finger over my index finger in preparation for my dishonest answer. “Nothing’s wrong.”
That was a total fail. God, even my voice sounds weary.
“What’s that noise in the background?” His sudden question alerts me to the fact that the bartender, Sam, is restocking glasses.
Shit.
“Um,” I hedge. “I’m at The Lemon.” I half speak, half mumble—okay, mostly mumble—the last part. Because this isn’t one of my finer moments, and the last thing I want is Mr. Football-but-I-also-bake-like-it’s-nobody’s-business/Mr. I’m-so-handsome-I’m-a-spokesperson-for-freaking-underwear-and-body-wash-ads/Mr. I-love-my-family-and-am-not-ashamed-of-it to feel like he needs to step up and intervene.
He lowers his voice, his tone careful. “Have you been drinking?”
I let out a huff of exasperation. “I’m in a bar, Dax. Of course, I’m drinking.” My eyes flick in Sam’s direction, and I swivel my barstool away. With a hand cupped to the side of my mouth, I hiss into the phone, “I happen to be drinking the most disgusting thing known to man. In fact”—I toss another glance at Sam to be sure he hasn’t overheard me—“I’m certain they dredged the ocean to make this martini.”