The Unforgettable Kind

by Melanie Munton

  Of course, that train of thought bled into memories of our almost-kiss. Only this time, my imagination got the better of me and replaced the memory of me pushing him away with me pulling him closer. His outdoor spicy scent washed over me as he brought those firm lips to mine. His athletic hands roved over my body, kneading, stroking. His fingers traveled lower, to the button of my jeans. My stomach tightened—

  My tires skidded onto the shoulder.

  I jerked the steering wheel to the left, straightening back out in the lane.

  It took me the rest of my trip home to get my breathing under control. I couldn’t believe that a freaking daydream could get me so worked up.

  Trent was wrong.

  I was in the mood.

  Apparently, just not for him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You’re All I Need”

  by Mötley Crüe

  Now

  Kade

  Over a week after Sam drunkenly kissed me, I find myself back at her door.

  The first thing you learn about this job is that your days off never coincide with the weekends. Since most football games are played on weekends, we have to be at the studio for live tapings. We’ll all gather around the many TVs in the studio, analyzing the games and comparing notes before broadcasts. Our days off usually fall on Wednesdays and the first half of Thursdays.

  Today is Wednesday.

  It’s been over a week since that kiss, and I haven’t stopped obsessing over it. It took her a couple of days to get used to our reincarnated friendship, but she’s finally come around. And by come around, I mean she doesn’t give me quite as many caustic looks anymore. We’ve even shared a few laughs. Which is good. It means we’re on the right track.

  But I’m getting impatient.

  I mean, she kissed me.

  It’s obvious she wants me. The sexual tension between us has always been explosive. That fire clearly hasn’t died over the years. In fact, it’s blazing hotter than ever. Hell, I can even see it on camera every time we look at each other. I’m surprised no one else has mentioned it.

  But the lust is only part of it. Our connection has always been defined by so much more than that. The problem is that I decimated her trust in me until there was nothing left but a basic foundation of familiarity. Now, I’m having to reconstruct our relationship, one conversation at a time. She has to want me for more than just my dick, though that is a huge plus.

  Time to speed things along.

  That’s assuming she lets me through the door.

  She answers the door just seconds after I ring the bell, taking us both off-guard.

  “Uh, hi. What are you doing here?”

  Sweet Christ.

  Her businesswoman attire—those dresses, skirts, and sky-high heels—is undeniably hot and one change I’ve had no trouble getting used to. But this version of Sam? The leggings, oversized flannel shirt over a tank top, hair up in a messy bun, and large black-frame glasses?

  That’s my girl.

  The one who will always have my heart.

  I hold up the white paper bag in my hand. “Lunch.”

  “It’s almost three o’clock.”

  “Linner, then. If I recall correctly, that’s a meal you recognize.”

  She stares at the bag longingly before turning that green gaze back on me. “Yes, I do. You came here just to deliver me lunch and then leave?”

  The question sounds a little too hopeful for my liking.

  “Sorry to disappoint. If you want what’s in the bag, you have to take me with it.”

  “The side I never ordered,” she says on a sigh.

  I raise my brows expectantly. “You going to invite me in or not?”

  She moves aside to open the door wider, waving me inside. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  I remove my baseball cap as I step across the threshold. “Not really. Just sure of your love for meatball parm. And if it makes you feel any better, I mainly came here to see if you wanted to do some work.”

  The door slams shut behind me.

  “There’s a meatball parm sub in there?” She rips the bag out of my hand before I can answer.

  “I had to come with an offering.”

  She plops down on her couch and digs into the bag. Let me clarify, she plops down on the only clear space on her living room couch as she digs through the bag. The rest of the couch, the coffee table, and the surrounding floor is littered with piles of papers that look to be notes, both handwritten and typed. But instead of being thrown around haphazardly, they’re all scarily organized into stacks, rows, and columns. After working with Sam for over a week, I’d recognize one of her workspaces anywhere. This OCD version of her is another new thing that’s cropped up over the last eight years.

  She unwraps one of the sandwiches and bites into it, moaning in pleasure. “And to think I almost slammed the door in your face.”

  “I half expected you to.” I push a pile of papers on the loveseat aside and sit.

  “And let you keep both of these to yourself? Not a chance.”

  She throws my wrapped sandwich at me. We eat to the sounds of her television’s DVR playing an NFL game from last week that turned controversial due to some questionable calls by the referees in the second half. It had looked as if the Tampa Bay Buccaneers had the game won until those last few minutes, allowing the Cowboys to take the lead and secure the victory instead.

  I smile to myself. The woman never stops working.

  “You hear from Mike about the Super Bowl commentator job yet?”

  She shakes her head. “No. They’re supposed to have an answer by the end of next month.”

  I know it would mean a lot to her to be selected, and not just because there’s an unmistakable twinkle in her eye every time it’s mentioned. Getting that job would signify to her that she’s earned the respect of her peers and the network executives. Even though she’s already accomplished that, I understand the need for validation.

  Every time I think I can’t be more proud of her, I’m proven wrong.

  “Right there,” she suddenly blurts out, lifting the remote to pause the game. “Do you see that? That’s an obvious horse collar.” She walks over to the TV and points at one of the refs. “And look. Fernadino is looking right at the players. He can’t deny he saw that. The same thing happened two weeks ago during one of his games when he missed a clear face mask.”

  “What’s your point? Refs make bad calls sometimes. It’s part of their charm. Maybe Fernadino’s just been slacking.”

  She plants her hands on her hips, glaring at the screen and looking fucking adorable.

  “I don’t know about that. I was watching some games from last season I still have recorded and guess what.”

  “What?”

  “He had another bad no-call during a Patriots playoff game.” She shot me a pointed look. “At a critical point in the game. That no-call arguably gave them the win.”

  Of course, the Patriots later went on to the Super Bowl.

  I point at the TV. “Just like the horse collar.”

  She nods, reclaiming her spot on the couch. “Exactly. Same with the game from two weeks ago. And,” she waves her hand down at the numerous stacks on the floor, “I’ve found more instances of the same thing. I’ve only gone back two seasons so far, but there’s a disturbing pattern of questionable calls during his games. I’d say it’s more than a case of slacking at his job.”

  “You think he’s on someone’s payroll?”

  “I think it’s a possibility. He was briefly investigated for the same thing about nine years ago, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  Again, she waves down at all the papers. “It’s called research. Ever tried it?”

  I said I came here to see if she wanted to work, even though that was a lie.

  Careful what you wish for.

  Because working on our day off is sure as hell what I get.

  We
spend the rest of the afternoon and evening going over…everything. The upcoming games, season standings for college and pro, and every off-the-field news-worthy story involving any players or coaches. She gives me free lessons on the finer points of conducting research in this business—because yes, in this country football is a business. Sportscasters like us might be in front of the cameras making announcements, but we’re also journalists. We have to run the information we gather by Mike before broadcast, and if approved, it gets added to the news cycle.

  What’s shocking is that over the course of the afternoon, Sam connects Fernadino with a few other referees in the league who have all had some pretty memorable bad calls in crucial games, usually when the game itself is on the line. And that’s just in the last three seasons. We haven’t dug further back than that yet.

  I start getting a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me these incidents are more than coincidences. The implications are huge if our suspicions are proven true. But it can’t be, can it? Surely, someone else would have noticed if refs were being paid off.

  I try to block it all from my mind, assuming we’re both just being paranoid. I don’t want to spend the rest of the day with Sam entertaining outlandish scenarios involving liars, cheaters, and cover-ups. So, of course, we instead do what we seem to do best: argue.

  “Are you insane?” she screeches hours later. “Not even the Browns would take Monroe. That pansy ass couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn. I have a better arm than him.”

  “I do remember you having pretty good aim.” I smirk. “For a girl.”

  The comment has the expected effect. I can practically see the profane names she has for me, waiting on the tip of her tongue. “Granted, I’m sure you’ve gotten rusty over the years.”

  She crumples up a piece of paper and throws it at my head. I easily catch it.

  “You think so, old man? How about we go throw a ball around and see?”

  I whistle. “Challenge accepted. Where are we supposed to have this showdown? In the middle of the street?”

  “There’s a courtyard out back. I think it’ll be big enough for your beat down.”

  She throws on some tennis shoes and grabs a football from her hall closet, tossing it my way. “Afraid to be shown up by a girl?”

  I laugh. “Sam, how many times have you said those very words to me, and how many times have I made you eat them?”

  “Things change.”

  And some things don’t.

  As individuals, we might have made some changes over the years. But beneath it all, we’re still Sam and Kade.

  I’m pretty sure no matter what happens, that’s something we can never change.

  I hope.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I Was Made for Lovin’ You”

  by KISS

  Sam

  “Not bad!” Kade shouts after running a slant route and catching one of my throws.

  A perfectly aimed throw, I might add.

  He jogs back to me looking all kinds of gorgeous in his faded jeans, University of Florida Football T-shirt, and ball cap on backwards.

  Dear God, the man is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  I about had a heart attack when I opened my door to him earlier. I’ve had to keep a steady stream of hurtful memories on supply all evening just to remind myself why he’s not getting a free pass back into my heart—and why I can’t climb him like a tree.

  Hell, I’m avoiding even brushing fingertips at this point. Otherwise, I’m a goner.

  “Were you expecting bad?” I pretend to be offended.

  “Like the great Sam Lawrence could ever be bad at anything.”

  “At least you finally admit it.”

  I notice when he winces, though he tries to hide it as he subtly stretches his left side. “Is your hip bothering you?”

  “Nah, it’s fine. Just a little stiff.”

  There’s a reason the topic is awkward for us to discuss. That hip injury he suffered not only ended his relationship with football…it also ended his relationship with me. The former couldn’t have been avoided. Little had he known eight years ago, the osteonecrosis in his left hip joint was already advanced enough that he wouldn’t have had many years in the pros if he’d made it that far. The tackle in his sophomore year at Florida had just sped up the process. I can even vaguely recall him complaining of pain in his left hip back in high school.

  It seems cruel to think about that now. Like fate had been forewarning him with the inevitable back then.

  But that injury ending his relationship with me? Yeah, that crap could have so been avoided.

  I guess Fate the Bitch had been working her black magic there, too.

  “And yes.”

  His words drag me back from the past. I look at him questioningly as he spins the ball in his hands.

  “I think you do have a better arm than Monroe.”

  “Like that was ever in doubt.”

  “Hey! You’re Kade Jennings.”

  Our heads snap around to a group of kids standing at the edge of the courtyard in my condo complex, watching us. The tall black kid in front, who’s probably around fourteen or so, points in our direction but speaks to a shorter version of himself standing next to him.

  “Bro, that’s Kade Jennings. The wide receiver from Florida who still holds the collegiate record for most receptions in a season.”

  The younger kid smiles while the rest of the boys murmur in excitement.

  Kade waves. “Hey, boys. You guys want to play?” He looks to me. “Is that okay?”

  Okay, my heart does some pretty severe melting. Ever since I can remember, he’s always had a soft spot for kids.

  “Definitely. Let’s do it.”

  “For real?” the tall kid asks. “You wanna play with us?”

  “Yeah, come on,” Kade says. “How about some touch football?”

  The group doesn’t need to be asked twice. They run over to us and immediately divide into teams, introducing themselves as they go. The fourteen-year-old in front, Malik, clearly wants to be on Kade’s team, so I sidle over to the other side.

  Malik’s younger brother Malcolm, who looks to be about nine, does a double take at me. “You’re the lady on FNN! You’re always on TV, talking about the football games.”

  It’s like the rest of the group finally notices me for the first time, looking at me with wide eyes. Almost as awestruck as they are with Kade, but not quite.

  I smile brightly. “Yep, that’s me. My name is Sam.”

  “Okay, the fountain back there will be one end zone,” Kade instructs, pointing his finger. “And the sidewalk over here will be the other one. Who’s got the arm on my team?”

  A scrawny boy in the back eagerly raises his hand.

  “All right, my man, you can be quarterback.”

  “And who can throw on my team?” I ask my group. They all look at me like I have five heads. “What? No one wants to be quarterback?”

  A pudgy kid in front speaks up. “You’re playing? But you’re a girl.”

  “That’s right. I am.”

  “But girls don’t play football,” he insists, flabbergasted.

  I catch Kade’s gaze, and we share a smile. His is filled with a little more heat than I feel comfortable receiving in front of a bunch of middle schoolers, but I can berate him for it later.

  “Just because girls aren’t allowed to play football with boys doesn’t mean they can’t play at all. Or that they don’t know how.”

  “You know how to throw a spiral?” another boy asks. “’Cuz I don’t know any girls who can do that.”

  I just grin. “Huddle up, boys. Looks like I’m QB.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Something About You”

  by Boston

  Sam

  My stomach literally hurts, I’m laughing so hard as Kade and I enter my condo after our touch football game.

  “How does it feel? Having a bunch of pre-teen boys crush on you
?”

  I clutch my chest dramatically. “Like every woman’s dream come true.”

  He chuckles. “I knew it. You go for the younger guys. I never stood a chance, did I?”

  My smiles fades away, that comment hitting a little too close to home. Needing to break the tension, I turn to kick off my shoes.

  It doesn’t work.

  The question of what we do now still hangs in the air, resulting in unfamiliar awkwardness between us. I finally muster the courage to look back up at him to find him watching me with a level of intensity that actually forces me back a step.

  “What?”

  His breathing turns raspy. His shirt sticks to his sweat-slicked skin in all the right places, molding around his pecs, stretching over his biceps. And I thought he made a suit look good? He’s freaking mouthwatering in those jeans. That mussed up hair, that stubbled beard.

  Oh, God. Something’s about to happen.

  Heat spreads through my belly. My sex clenches, arousal pooling between my thighs.

  “I’ll apologize later,” he breathes.

  My heart is thumping hard. “For what?”

  “This.”

  The word is lost on me because the next thing I know I’m being shoved against the wall, and Kade’s lips are devouring mine.

  I don’t consider fighting him off. Rejecting him doesn’t even enter my brain. I need this too much. Today has reminded me of how we used to be—how damn good it used to be between us. Could things ever be that good again? Could we repair the connection we used to have? Or did that connection ever really break? Because after today, I could swear the years that have separated us have suddenly disappeared. Or never were.

  I want to fall to my knees and weep with how much I’ve missed him.

  For just this moment, I want to forget about what happened in the past. I want to forget how much he hurt me and how angry I’m supposed to be with him. Because what I’ve learned is that whatever he might have done back then, he’s still the same person I once fell in love with.