by Liz Lincoln
Bree rolled her eyes. “Doctor. You don’t have to tell everyone I’m a doctor.” She turned to Quinn. “I’m not a medical doctor. I have a PhD in physics.”
That was kind of more impressive. But this was clearly a long-running argument and he wasn’t getting into it.
“And you worked damn hard to get it and everyone should know. You should tattoo it on your forehead.”
“Hang on,” Natalie interrupted. “Back up. Fiancée? When did that happen?”
Before Quinn could excuse himself, several conversations swirled around him, the two women discussing how Marcus had proposed—apparently a recent development—Kristen giving Marcus a huge hug, and Colin disappearing to get drinks for a toast. Quinn felt decidedly out of place. These people all knew one another, had been friends for some time. Whatever the connection, it was obvious Natalie and Bree were friendly on some level beyond the boundaries of Natalie’s job. And she clearly had good working relationships with most members of the team. A few months ago, Quinn hadn’t met a single one of them.
Except Natalie.
Their gazes connected across the table and for a second, he couldn’t breathe. Until that moment, he hadn’t let himself really look at her. He used to get lost in her sky blue eyes. And he knew himself, knew his weaknesses. He could so easily let himself forget everything she’d done and lose himself again.
He couldn’t let that happen. Yet when her pink lips curled into a hesitant smile, he couldn’t stop his own from doing the same. It didn’t mean they were friends; nothing was forgiven. It just meant in that moment, they had an understanding. In a few minutes they could go back to disliking each other.
Speaking of weaknesses, Kristen shoved a full champagne flute into his hand. Because of course there was champagne around and fucking champagne flutes. Weren’t there at every backyard cookout?
Before he could protest the drink, they were all raising their glasses. “To Marcus and Bree,” Colin said. Everyone echoed his sentiments and there was laughter and chatter and the sound of clinking glasses. And then they all took their sips.
Quinn’s chest felt tight, like he couldn’t draw a full breath. His mouth watered and he started to sweat between his shoulder blades. He didn’t even fucking like champagne, but it was a battle with his muscles to bend his arm away from his body and set the untouched drink on the table rather than lifting it to his lips and downing the entire glass.
“Quinn, come on. You have to…what?” Kristen turned to her husband with an irritated frown.
In his peripheral vision, Quinn could see Colin shaking his head at her. But for some reason, when he finally tore his gaze away from the ginger-colored bubbles in the glass, he found himself seeking out the one familiar face.
Her expression was serious but soft. Maybe understanding, but it felt too much like pity. He had to get out of here. He clapped his teammate on the back with a terse “Congratulations, guys” then hurried away from the pool.
Before he drowned.
* * *
—
Natalie flipped off the bathroom light and stepped into the hall. The inside of the Crosbys’ home was as extravagant as the outside, but she didn’t want to linger and take in the decor. An hour had passed since Quinn ran away from the group congratulating Bree and Marcus and she knew she shouldn’t, but she needed to find him and see for herself that he was all right. She’d tried to talk herself out of it, but it was no use. She’d even texted Annie asking her to tell her not to do it, but her friend hadn’t responded. She was at some fundraising event for an education charity.
Maybe Natalie could convince Crosby to donate to Annie’s reelection campaign for their suburb’s city council. The man clearly had the money.
But that wasn’t important now. She dropped down onto the wooden bench built into the hallway wall. For a minute, she let her mind drift, tracing the design in the stained-glass doors on the built-in bookcases along the opposite wall. From what Natalie had seen of the house, it stayed true to the Craftsman style so popular in the Milwaukee area. Just on a mansion scale rather than the eleven-hundred-square-foot bungalow two-flat Natalie lived in.
She took a moment to tweet about the event and post a few pictures on SLNT’s Instagram account. It was fun to not only be allowed but required to use social media to promote her exclusive access tonight. And the players all seemed to enjoy it too. She was careful not to post any pictures with their kids in them. Kids deserved privacy.
Then she flipped to text messages to send Jaron Edmonds a sweet picture she’d gotten of him cuddling his six-week-old daughter. As she did, a text came in from Annie.
Annie: Don’t do it. Unless you think he’s hiding with a bottle of vodka somewhere. Then go take it from him, crack it over his head, and walk away.
Natalie snort-laughed at her friend’s suggestion.
Natalie: You paint an intriguing picture. I don’t think he’s going to drink. He put the champagne down and walked away. I just want to make sure he’s OK. Which is dumb and masochistic, I know.
Annie: I get it. You were in love with him at one point. And it’s not like he did something to make you hate him. Just because you’re not still in love doesn’t mean you don’t care a little.
Exactly. This was why, despite their lives going in such different directions, they were still best friends. Annie got her.
Annie: But you still need to stay away from him. Your relationship with him is professional, not personal. Would you check on him if it were a different player?
Yes.
Maybe.
Who the hell knew? It depended on the player. A few she knew well enough that yes, she would. But did Quinn get to automatically jump into that category because of their history?
The ring of her phone interrupted her tangled thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, Natalie answered without checking the caller ID.
“Hello, Natalie Griffith.”
“What’s with the formal greeting? Your caller ID broken?” Ellen Blake wasn’t big on pleasantries.
“Sorry, didn’t even look. Hi, Ellen. The party is going great. I just took a break to post on Instagram. And I can throw something up on Facebook in a minute.”
“Oh, shit, you’re at that tonight. I forgot.” The tap tap of Ellen typing sounded in the background. She never worked on less than three things at once. The woman probably multitasked in her sleep.
“Did you need something else?” It was getting late and she had a forty-five-minute drive home. She still needed to make a round to say good night to some people. And even if she didn’t talk to Quinn, she needed to see with her own eyes that he was all right. Because he’d been anything but when he bolted from the pool deck.
“We’ll talk more when you’re available. You can call me tomorrow. I’ll email you a few times I’m free.”
Free. Hah. Ellen was never free.
“I know you’re doing your profile of Baxter in a few weeks, and I’ve been talking with his manager about doing that with another of his clients. Flores also manages Quinn Lowry. I know that little shit from All Access Dragons has been angling for some exclusive access to Lowry, and I want to beat him to it. So this is in the works. You and I can talk more about what it would entail. What we can do to make it different from your piece on Baxter. But given that your first article for us was the exposé on Lowry, you’re the perfect person to write this story. Not that sniveling prick Burgess.”
Natalie remained silent as Ellen went off on a tangent about her dislike of Roy Burgess and his boss. Natalie didn’t know details but she thought there was bad history between Ellen and the executive editor of All Access Football, which ran subsites on each of the NFL teams.
But Natalie didn’t care about Roy. Her brain was stalled out on the idea of writing a detailed profile of Quinn. Her blood felt cold in her veins, sluggish. Not quite making it
to her lungs.
In a few weeks she would start shadowing Matt Baxter as much as possible for two weeks. Gaining access to the behind-the-scenes of a professional quarterback in a way never done before, at least not in the modern NFL. The Dragons wanted to do something new, and they’d tapped her. It was a huge honor and she was excited. It was an amazing opportunity.
But even thinking about spending the same amount of time with Quinn was daunting. No, that wasn’t even the word. It was terrifying. She didn’t have the emotional fortitude to withstand two solid weeks with him.
“I think it would be a bad idea to have me shadow Lowry the way I am Baxter.” The words popped out before she could think better of it, interrupting Ellen’s rant about her nemesis at All Access.
“What? Why? That’s incredible research for your story.”
Natalie’s mind scrambled for a plausible reason. Because ultimately, Ellen was right. It was fabulous access and if it were any other player, she’d jump at the chance. “I just think, well, then the two stories will come out much too alike. Different player, different approach.”
Ellen made a thinking sound as she typed away on whatever else she was doing. “Maybe you’re right.”
Yes! Yes, she was right. Good. This was good.
“Come up with three ideas for a different approach to a Lowry profile. Send them to me by noon tomorrow. Get these right and I bet one of those promotion spots is yours.”
Before Natalie could respond, the phone beeped in her hand, indicating the call was over.
Shit. Shit shit shit. That was not how that was supposed to go.
Whimpering, Natalie propped her elbows on her knees and dropped her face into her hands. How was she going to get out of this?
And uuugh, it wasn’t fair. She wanted that promotion. But to have Quinn tied to it…
“This the line for the bathroom?”
Speak of the devil. Because of course of all the players in all the hallways at all the cookouts, Quinn was the one who would find her at this exact moment.
She straightened and slipped her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. Because she didn’t like how he towered over her, she stood. In her wedge sandals, she was up to his shoulder, which still gave him an advantage. But if she left enough space between them—which of course she did, she didn’t want to stand too close—she didn’t have to tilt her head back to talk to him the way she did with some players. He was only six foot one.
“No, just taking a little breather.” Her smile felt brittle and fake, but it was the best she could do. “Social media duties and such.” No sense telling him about Ellen’s scheming with his manager. He’d find out soon enough if they worked something out.
She should walk away. But she wanted to say something else. Something to bridge the gulf between them. And she still wanted to know if he was OK. As Annie had said, just because she was no longer in love with him didn’t mean she stopped caring completely. Besides, it was natural to give a fuck about her fellow humans.
“Are you doing OK? Because of…” What did she even say? Because of having alcohol forced into your hand? Not quite. “Earlier. With the toast.”
A dark scowl twisted his face. “Don’t worry, I’m not going in here to pop a bunch of pills or swig from my secret flask.”
He didn’t have to be a dick about it. She was trying to extend a little kindness. “I didn’t say you were. I just wanted to know if you were OK. Just trying to be nice.”
“Spare me your concern.” His voice was practically a snarl.
She wouldn’t lie to herself—though she might to anyone if they asked—but it hurt. She’d once loved this man. Thought maybe he was her forever. But she’d been wrong. And, given how everything went down, she probably did deserve his ire.
She shoved a hand into her hair, gripping a handful and tugging lightly to ease some of the tension pulling at her forehead. “Look, maybe we should sit down and talk about this. Grab coffee after practice one day this week and clear the air.” No matter what she and Ellen came up with, she wouldn’t be able to profile him if they couldn’t have a civil conversation.
“Thanks, I’ll pass.” Under his frustratingly sexy stubble, the muscle in his jaw twitched.
She hated that she had that effect on him. “Quinn, we have to be able to work together.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Not in my contract. I don’t have to work with you.”
Stubborn ass. She admired his tenacity, except maybe in this moment right here. “Crosby wants more media transparency. Dragons front office is requiring more availability.”
Tension rippled through his big body. That strong, sexy, lickable—
Stop! Bad Natalie. Focus.
“There are fifty-two other guys on that roster. They can be as transparent with you as they want. But I think you’ve gotten quite enough material from me.”
She couldn’t help wincing. A low blow, but another one she probably deserved.
“And there are plenty of other reporters I can talk to. I’m not the only player, you’re not the only writer.”
Definitely not the time to mention that her boss and his manager were working on changing that for one article. “So, what, you’re gonna sit down and have a heart-to-heart with Roy Burgess? OK. Sure. Because whether you like it or not, you’re a story. Your recovery and comeback is a big story. And you’re nuts if you think management will let the season go by without someone telling it.”
He took a step toward her, his eyes narrowing. They were nothing but gray-blue slits as he took another step and leaned down into her space. “Not. Your. Concern.” His voice was low and intimate. Dangerous.
Goosebumps rippled over her skin. The urge to grab the front of his shirt and pull him the rest of the way in was strong. She needed to step back, to where she was out of his orbit, where she couldn’t smell the clean sharpness of his deodorant, where his breath didn’t ruffle the hair at her temple.
She lifted her head to look at him and her nose almost brushed his. He was so close. The last time he’d been this close to her, eight years ago, they’d been naked and he’d been inside her. The memory flashed in her head like a high-definition movie, sounds and smells and feelings. God, the feelings.
Three hours later she’d dragged herself out his front door, back to her own bed, and called Annie, sobbing.
Now time stretched between them endlessly, neither moving, neither blinking.
Finally the sound of a door slamming elsewhere in the house broke the spell. They both moved backward, away from the other. Quinn looked as confused and frustrated as Natalie felt.
At least there was that.
“Don’t worry, it’s not you. I’m not going there with anyone. I don’t need any distractions. Nothing but football for me.” He turned and started for the bathroom door.
Desperation bubbled up her throat, a need to have the last word in this conversation. Because despite what he said, the Dragons were demanding something different from their players this year. “That’s why we need to talk this out, Quinn. Clear the air between us. So we can both do our jobs.”
The bathroom light flipped on. He glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression hard and impassive. Gone was the hot, desperate look he’d given her moments ago.
“I can do mine just fine. What happened is history. I’m moving on. You should too.”
The door slammed and she heard the click of the lock.
Natalie tipped her head back and let out a long, silent scream. It helped a little, but not as much as a real scream would have.
As she wandered through the crowd, saying good night to everyone, she couldn’t shake one thought.
If Quinn really had moved on, why did shutting her out matter so much to him?
Chapter 3
Maximo’s Steakhouse was a cacophony of noise and lights
and smells. Even as someone used to constant activity around her, the restaurant nearly overwhelmed Natalie. Which was exactly what she expected from a Vegas hotel restaurant, even one this far off the Strip.
Tomorrow, the Dragons opened their regular season against the Las Vegas Scorpions. So tonight she was having dinner at her hotel with her old friend and sometimes hookup Ryan Dennis, a photographer for the Scorpions. They’d been sex buddies for a few years whenever their jobs put them in the same city. She liked Ryan, enjoyed talking to him, and the sex was great. But for some reason, the idea of going up to her hotel room with him tonight left her antsy and uncomfortable.
For some reason. Yeah, as if she didn’t know what that reason was. Quinn’s stricken face as his coach’s wife shoved champagne into his hand had been stuck in Natalie’s mind for the past two days. As was the way his voice had gotten so low and husky when they talked in the hall, the way his breath across her skin had given her chills of the most delicious sort.
She knew it was ridiculous. It was just sense memory. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t had an intense sex dream about him last night. Usually when she’d dreamed about Quinn over the years, it was tied to their past together, back in college. Last night, he’d been in her home, Sweetness parked in her driveway. It was very clearly the present.
But with her head and her emotions so tangled, how could she let go long enough to enjoy a night with Ryan? Plus, it wasn’t fair to him if she wasn’t fully present while they had sex. Maybe he wouldn’t mind as long as he got laid, but she would. She simply wasn’t cut out for trying to forget one man by fucking another.
But she had no idea how to tell Ryan any of that. She obviously had to tell him something, but for now she sipped her sangria and ate her perfectly prepared filet mignon and made small talk. He was telling her about how much fun it was to photograph the Scorpions’ newly drafted cornerback, because he was such a ham. She nodded and laughed and paid attention enough to keep up. But her mind was elsewhere.
Because of course, of all the restaurants in Vegas, Quinn and seven other Dragons had picked this particular one for their dinner. Probably because their hotel was next door so they could walk over. But still. Her dinner with Ryan was already uncomfortable enough as she tried to think of a nice way to reject him for the night. Did the universe really have to make it worse by putting the object of her ridiculous obsession right in her line of sight?