Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone
Page 23
My heart aches for her. “If you told Lincoln you wanted to break up, there’s no way in hell he’d be okay with that. No way. If he’s drafted, he’s going to fly you out there every weekend and break, and you guys will figure it out. And if he’s not drafted, you’re going to support him and remind him that he’s crazy brilliant and could likely do something with all of that random knowledge he has.”
Raegan smiles so wide all traces of her fear and sadness vanish. “I just want to focus on the here and now and make sure I’m being present and living in the moment as much as possible.”
“Exactly.”
We finish our lunch and wander through the mall, our conversation becoming lighter, filled with inside jokes, holiday gift ideas, and enjoying the time alone that has me feeling grateful I skipped my class. I find a long-sleeved shirt that’s supposed to hold in heat, and for some ridiculous reason, I look to see if they have them for men while Rae looks for leggings to wear under her jeans. Call it impulse, but I grab the men’s version of the shirt and bring both to the register and check out so I can’t question my decision or motivation.
“Let’s go find that candy shop,” Rae says as she finishes checking out.
The wind has us hurrying the several blocks to the candy store, where everything is printed with pink and brown boxes. We admire the cases of candies and then each order too many. “Chocolate-covered marshmallows,” Raegan says wistfully. “This is my kind of place.”
I check the time again. It’s only five, but with the ninety-minute drive and needing to check in to our hotel, I’m beginning to feel a sense of restlessness crawl into my thoughts. “Do you think we should get a car to head to Pullman?”
Rae nods. “Probably a good idea. I don’t think there’s anything else to see that’s indoors, anyways.”
We huddle in the store, sharing one of the small boxes of soft peanut brittle that quickly becomes my new favorite candy as we wait for our ride to arrive.
“I’m glad you two made reservations,” the woman at the front desk of the hotel says when we arrive to check in. “We’re booked tonight.”
“Because of the football game?” Rae asks.
“Probably,” she says. “I’ll try to put you on a different floor than all of them. I’m sure they’re going to be loud.”
We hide a grin as she checks us in, informing us she doesn’t have availability for us to be on the same floor, before she can tell us our rooms, the doors behind us open, and the team pours into the lobby, calling our names, then out to Lincoln and Paxton to announce that we’re here. My cheeks flush with the attention, but the woman at the front desk puts me to shame as her cheeks flare red.
“They are really loud,” I tell her, offering what I hope she interprets as a kind smile.
“I didn’t mean that offensively,” she says.
I shake my head. “We didn’t take it to be.”
An arm slides around my shoulder, drawing me back toward a strong, familiar chest. My heart beats unevenly, and I sink against him, smelling the faint scent of his cologne and the clean scent of soap that makes my stomach do funny things. “You guys got here early,” Pax says, his lips grazing my ear before settling on my cheek.
“It’s freezing here, and half of the suggested attractions had us going outside on hikes,” Rae tells him. “But we still had fun.”
“Did you want two room keys or just the one?” the woman at the front desk asks.
“Two,” Paxton says before I can answer.
23
Paxton
We sit in a conference room in the hotel, listening to Coach Harris. The classroom part of practice has never been a struggle for me, but tonight, everything feels mundane and repetitive. I’ve watched the tape for this team three times this week, met with Coach Baker and Coach Harris about our strategy, met with my offensive team, and even with Ian to compare notes, but with every win, the next game seems like the next most important game and this is worth all of the marbles.
“Enjoy the room tonight,” Lincoln says as Coach dismisses us.
I cringe at the idea of him spending the night with my little sister, but I hate him a little less because it means I don’t have to share a room. Not to mention, it’s the first time he’s trusted me out of his sight on an away game since the beginning of the season. Come to think of it, my chaperones have been lax lately.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, heading out of the conference room and toward the bank of elevators where several of our teammates are already gathered to get to their floors.
I turn early, heading toward the stairs, and take them two at a time up to the fourth floor where Poppy’s room is. I pass several doors before stopping at hers and knocking. Her key is burning a hole in my back pocket, though I don’t dare use it. That was mostly for show and also because it’s getting harder not to flirt with Poppy. It’s still new ground, yet it feels stable and strangely familiar. Sometimes her cheeks flush pink, other times, she laughs and cuts me down with her wit, and occasionally she flirts back.
The door opens, and Poppy appears, her smile hesitant and shy. “Hey,” she says.
I grin. “Hey.”
“I just need to grab my jacket,” she says, letting go of the door.
I step inside but hold the door open. “Aren’t you already wearing your coat?” I ask, looking at the black jacket she has zipped up.
She laughs, grabbing her snow coat. “It’s cold here,” she says. “I called the front desk because I don’t think my heater’s working. It’s not blowing.” Her eyes cut to me, “I mean, the fan’s not blowing air. Heated air.”
I release the door and walk into the room, trying not to smile as her cheeks color a light shade of pink. “Are you sure it’s on?”
“Pretty sure that’s what twisting it to ‘on’ was supposed to do.”
I smirk at her, appreciating the sarcasm that she pairs with a smile. Her room is meticulous, everything still in her suitcase that sits on the luggage rack.
I flip the cover of the unit open and hit a couple of buttons, but nothing happens. “We can stop by the front desk on the way out. Maybe they can get it fixed while we’re at dinner.”
Poppy nods, sliding on her puffy jacket. “Yeah.”
“What did you think of Spokane?” I ask as we board the elevator.
“Good candy,” she says, but before I can ask more questions, the elevator stops at the third floor, and a group of girls boards the elevator, sporting red and black Brighton gear. They’re giggling, likely on an emotional high because of the weekend away. It’s common that fans feel an energy when they come out on the road with us.
I take a step closer to Poppy to allow them more space.
“Oh my God. You’re Paxton Lawson,” one of the girls says, her eyes round and bright with enthusiasm as she turns from me to her friends and back again.
I grin. “Thanks for coming to watch the game,” I tell her.
“I’ve watched all of your games,” she tells me. “Every single game for the past three and a half years.”
“She’s your biggest fan,” her friend tells me as another girl nods.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“Will you sign my shirt?” the girl asks.
I pat my pockets. “I don’t have a pen.”
“I have one,” Poppy says, digging into her purse. “But I don’t know if I have a marker.” She pulls a small handful of pens out. “Oh, this might work!” She hands me a thin Sharpie.
The girl pulls the fabric above her chest tight.
“It works best on your shoulder,” I tell her. “The fabric doesn’t bunch.” It seems like an easy excuse to avoid having my hand on her boob.
“I don’t mind,” she says, grinning.
I glance at Poppy, guilt and apologies stacking faster than my doubts, but much to my surprise, she’s holding back what looks like amusement—a polar opposite reaction to how Candace used to react when a fan approached me for an autograph.
“We’re staying here,” one of the girls tells me, eyes wide with insinuation and purpose. “Is the entire team staying here?”
I cap Poppy’s pen and hand it to her as I move closer, placing my hand on her back. “Yeah, but we’ve got a curfew. It’s a big game tomorrow, being the last game of the season and all.”
“Can we get a picture?” The girl whose shirt I signed asks as we collectively step out of the elevator. The lobby is full. Loud voices and cheers ring through the space.
“Sure. Let’s get one, but then I’ve got to get going. My girlfriend and I have reservations.”
The girls release a chorus of coos that has Poppy’s cheeks burning and me grinning. Fans are the backbone of my career. When the fans love you, the school loves you, and when the university loves you, so do the coaches, and I’ve been lucky to receive a lot of support—an increased amount since the rumor site published my photos.
“I’ll take the picture,” Poppy offers.
One of the girls hands their phone to Poppy, and they gather around me, their grips tight as Poppy does a quick countdown.
“Thanks again, you guys,” I say, then pull up my hood and wrap my arm around Poppy.
“Are you trying to hide? I think you need some sunglasses and a mustache for this disguise to work,” she teases. “Maybe we can find some in the gift shop.” She peers at the small store next to the counter, where amenities and snacks are lined up.
“Just until we get outside,” I tell her.
“I figured fewer people would know who you were over here,” she says.
“These are our rivals since we’re both in Washington,” I tell her. “Lots of fans come over to this game when it’s here.”
I direct us to the front desk attendant who is on the phone, helping another guest. She smiles and holds up a single finger at us.
“Yes… Yes, sir. I understand. We’re trying to get the issue resolved as soon as possible.” She nods. “Yes. I will be sure to let you know.” She hangs up, and another call instantly rings, but she greets us with a tired smile. It reminds me of the same look my mom gave us when she got home from work, and I told her I was starving and had practice in thirty minutes and needed my jersey washed—exhausted and burned out. “How can I help you, both?”
“Her furnace doesn't seem to be working,” I tell her.
The woman at the front desk frowns. “Unfortunately, there seems to be an issue that’s impacting the entire hotel. We’re working on getting it resolved as quickly as possible. In the meantime, if you guys need extra blankets, we have them available, for no charge, of course.”
I glance at Poppy already bundled in two coats, her objection visible as she looks at me. “We’ll go grab some dinner, and I’m sure it will be fixed by the time we get back,” I assure her.
“Paxton!” Hoyt yells from outside the sliding doors. “I hope you guys aren’t planning to go anywhere. There are no rides, man.”
“There’s just a lot of you,” the woman at the front desk says. “This happens whenever a team travels here for a game. And from what I’ve heard, half of Seattle followed you guys here.”
I turn to Poppy. “How do you feel about ordering in?”
“Paxton!” another guy on the team calls. “You guys want to walk with us? It’s only a couple of miles.”
Poppy nods. “Ordering in sounds great.” She turns to the front desk attendant and thanks her before turning back toward the elevator.
“Stairs,” I tell her, placing my hand on her lower back and directing her toward the exit sign.
“Is it always this crazy?” she asks as we step through the door, the lobby falling to a quiet murmur behind the steel barrier.
I shake my head. “Not always.”
“It’s kind of weird … seeing you like this, I mean.”
“Like what?”
“Like a celebrity,” she says. “I mean, people are always excited to see you and recognize you, but that was…”
I glance at her to try and read her thoughts, wondering if she’s going to say it was overwhelming, terrifying, or something worse, but instead, she looks almost thoughtful. “It’s not always like this,” I tell her.
“But it will get more intense. Once you’re drafted, I mean. You’ll be recognized everywhere you go.”
“You’ve been talking to Arlo too much. There are millions of people who don’t watch football, and even many who do who couldn’t tell you what most players look like.”
“Yeah, but you’ll likely receive endorsements and be on commercials and sports shows and newspapers because you’re…” She waves a hand at me.
“Because I’m what?”
“Every time they do interviews, you’re their first choice because you’re one of the best quarterbacks in the league, and you’re not hard to look at.”
We still have two flights of stairs, but I stop and drop my head back to laugh at her backhanded compliment. “You mean I don’t scar your retinas every time you look at me?”
She shrugs. “Maybe a little, but it’s tolerable.”
I laugh again. “Spare me the knowledge of how you feel about kissing me.”
“It depends on which kiss,” she says, continuing up the stairs, her voice carrying a lilt that reveals she’s teasing.
“Only that first one was bad,” I say, continuing after her.
“But it was really bad.”
“It wasn’t that awful.”
“You knocked me over and caught me with your mouth,” she says, turning to look at me over her shoulder.
“Want to try it again?” I ask.
She laughs harder. “You think I’m kidding.”
“You think I’m kidding,” I say.
“Do all girls fall for your charm?” she asks.
“Some of them need a little shove,” I say, gently pushing my elbow against her. “But then I catch them with my lips.” She cuts her gaze back to me, and I wink.
She quietly laughs in response, allowing me to catch up with her as she pauses at the next landing. “It’s still weird as shit to me, too,” I tell her.
“Which part?”
“The recognition. Only the team knows it, but I still get sick before every game because it doesn’t seem real. I keep waiting for the game when my team isn’t there to make me look good … when we have to face a defensive middle linebacker who's as good and strong as Ian…” I shrug. “It still seems kind of surreal to me that I get to play football, and people want to watch me play. It’s always been my dream to play for the Seahawks, and the closer we get to graduation, and the more I realize dreams don’t dictate reality—they’re not premonitions or guarantees—the harder it gets not to find a bottle and someone who just wants to have a good time so I can mute those worries and continue living in this fantasy where people want my autograph and my picture because it makes that dream seem more real.”
“I can’t imagine the pressure you feel. When Rose wrote that story about how many hours you guys devote to practice every week and how many athletes have to change classes and majors to accommodate the sport, it was really eye-opening. I mean, I know from you and Lincoln that you guys are constantly having to work out and practice, but these past several weeks really put it into perspective for me. I think anyone would feel overwhelmed about the situation. You’ve poured years of your life into this sport. But, Pax…” She says my name with a smile, pausing as she sorts through her words. “I wish you saw yourself the way everyone else does. I’ve watched years of football, countless games, and I know you’re the total package. The way your team looks up to you and responds to you…” She shakes her head. “It’s like you step onto the field, and everything changes—I can feel it from in the stands and through the TV when it’s an away game. Everyone just seems to take a breath of relief, and your
teammates feel more confident, the defense feels uneasy. The tempo and direction of the entire game switch like that.” She snaps her fingers. “I don’t even know that much about football, I mean probably more than I realize as a product of…” Her words begin to fade, and I step closer to her, causing her to tilt her head back to look at me.
“You might be the only person who sees me like that.” And it’s fucking intoxicating. I know it’s my ego and pride who start the trip back to those thoughts of dark spaces and torn-off clothing, but the rest of my thoughts and intentions quickly follow.
Poppy’s eyes are wide, searching mine, exposing her nerves, though she doesn’t attempt to move or continue up the stairs. I try to be patient and allow her to weigh the decision, knowing I’ve already written between the margins and scribbled across the blank spaces in the rules we wrote. She deserves this time to make a decision that isn’t dictated by my actions. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who doesn’t see yourself this way. It’s why everyone’s so worried about you. You’ve worked so hard, and you’re so close to getting what you’ve always wanted, and we don’t want to see you lose it.” She places a hand against my shoulder and slowly lowers it several inches, stopping over my heart. “If anyone deserves to have their dreams met, it’s you.” Her touch feels like fire against my skin, burning through my shirt and making every inch of me burn with desire and want. Then her gaze lowers to my mouth, her eyes hooded with lust that makes me feel a hit of relief and a much larger dose of desire.
“Poppy, if you don’t want me to kiss you, you need to start walking or tell me this is just part of the act or something because I’m using every ounce of my strength to keep myself from kissing you right now.”
She swallows, maintaining her close distance, her eyes so familiar, yet her expression is new—a look of longing that consumes me until all I can think about is feeling her, kissing, her, consuming her. She leans forward, her fingers balling in my shirt, and it’s all I need to know before my mouth crashes against hers. We’re all hands and lips as we work to translate weeks—potentially years—of attraction into this single kiss that feels more significant than any football game I’ve ever played. My senses are dialed to an eleven as her perfume dances across my nose, and the heat of her lips pushes and demands more from me. A dare or a challenge—I’m not sure, but I’ve never wanted to succeed at something more than this question she’s asking in the way of a kiss. I place my hand on her waist and pull her against me, meeting the plush layers of her coats that tickle the bottom of my chin. I bury my smile because I’m not about to let this moment fade into laughter. I want to kiss her until she’s as drunk and desperate for me as I am her, until she doesn’t remember what it feels like to be kissed by anyone but me.