by Kendall Ryan
“I’ll get you next time,” he says, watching me. “And it’ll be for two weeks of laundry.”
“Oh yeah? Don’t think I forgot about my prize,” I coo, smiling devilishly. Me, forget about a bet? Not in a million years.
“What’s it gonna be, Royce? Anything you want, it’s yours.”
Anything? My thoughts immediately scatter to a hundred places they shouldn’t. I’ve been totally dropping the ball on my promise of staying away from Wes, but actually letting things go a step further . . . that’s not something I could do. I’ve got to come up with something a little more PG than what I really want.
Tilting my head, I look up at the ceiling thoughtfully and tap my chin for effect, but my train of thought is interrupted by the echoing grumble of Wes’s stomach.
“How about we discuss it over some lunch?” I say. “Sounds like you might need it.”
We return our rental shoes to the slack-jawed Hawks fan behind the counter as we discuss lunch options, eventually landing on the steakhouse across the street. Once again, the fact that it’s early afternoon on a Tuesday is in our favor—we’ve got our pick of just about any table in the restaurant.
After we’re seated, the waitress comes to ask what we’d like to drink, and Wes gestures for me to go ahead. We each order water with lemon, and then we’re left alone.
“Today was fun.” He grins at me.
I smile back, still unsure if he let me win on purpose.
The waitress returns with our drinks and pulls out a notepad. “What can I get you?”
Her gaze is on Wes, not an uncommon female response. I’m used to being completely ignored when in the presence of a pro athlete.
Wes suppresses a look of irritation and proceeds to order a T-bone steak dinner, a chicken sandwich, a large spinach salad, and a double order of cocktail shrimp. The waitress can hardly keep up, frantically scribbling down the order.
“Is . . . is that for both of you?” she asks, wide-eyed. I’m guessing she doesn’t serve a lot of football players here.
“Nope.” Wes grins proudly. “Jane, go ahead.”
“Just the chicken sandwich for me,” I say politely.
The waitress sighs in relief for the sake of her cramping hand, then rushes off to the kitchen to put in the order for more food than she probably eats in a week. I can’t blame her for being so surprised. With all the time I spend with the team, nothing surprises me anymore.
When our food arrives, we waste no time in digging in. I guess all that bowling helped us both work up an appetite. Wes puts away the whole steak, half the salad, and an order of shrimp before I’ve made it through my chicken sandwich. I almost feel like I should applaud.
“So, I’ve got to ask.” He wipes a napkin across his mouth. “How has the dating scene been for you? After, you know.” He fusses with his napkin, dodging eye contact. “I know that my love-life drama has been all over the tabloids lately. But what about you? Anyone serious?”
“Only one serious relationship. We were dating at the very end of college, and then for the first year or so after, but he wanted to move in together. And I, well . . .” I shrug, waving a steak fry through the air. “He just wasn’t the one, I guess. But pretty much nothing since then. A few blind-date setups, but that’s about it.”
Wes nods, his mouth pressed into a straight line. “Just can’t find anyone worth your time?”
“Whatever little time I have,” I say, then pop a fry into my mouth. “And I’m hardly even in town with all the away games during the season. I barely have time to take care of myself. Is it cliché to say I’m married to my job?”
Wes smirks and steals a fry off my plate. “A little. But I’ll let it slide.” He drops the smile and gets a serious look in his eyes. “You really should make some time for yourself, though. You deserve it.”
“Actually, that gives me a great idea.” I steal a shrimp off his plate, making us even for the stolen fry.
Wes only smiles.
“Consider it the first part of my prize. Now, you better hurry up and finish eating so we can get to the second part.”
Wes happily accepts my challenge, finishing the rest of his food in ten minutes flat, hardly leaving time to breathe between bites. Honestly, he might have a career in competitive eating if he ever retires from football. He grabs the check, which I don’t argue with considering the cost of his meal compared to mine, and we’re out the door.
Next stop—my apartment.
It’s a quick drive across town with Wes trailing behind me in his rental car, but I appreciate the few minutes alone to get my mind right. Spending time one-on-one with Wes in public felt shockingly natural, but being alone with him at my place is a totally different challenge. I know I have to be careful around him, and bringing him back to my empty apartment isn’t exactly the definition of being careful.
Still, a bet is a bet, and I’m not letting him off the hook without keeping up his end of the deal.
“Home sweet home,” I say as I swing open the front door of my apartment.
Much like everything else in my life, my place is all about the Hawks. Not in a man-cave way, of course, but the red and navy accents in every otherwise all-white room are a quiet nod at the best team on the planet. I gesture for Wes to grab a seat on the leather couch, then run upstairs and return with a bottle of bright red nail polish.
“Am I giving you a manicure?” Wes asks, one eyebrow cocked.
“Close. Pedicure,” I say with a satisfied grin. “After all, you said I should make more time for myself. So you’re going to help me do just that.” I slip out of my wedges and take a seat next to Wes, wiggling my toes and holding out the bottle of polish. “Ready when you are.”
It takes him a minute to figure out how to even get the bottle of polish open. The little red bottle looks so funny and small in his big, fumbling hands. He looks up at me several times, seeking help, but I’m having way too good of a time watching him try.
Once he finally gets the bottle open, he slips down to the floor and grasps my left foot. A shiver runs through me as he cradles it in his hand, the pads of his fingers pressed gently into the arch.
Wow. It’s been way too long since a man has touched me. Something I clearly underestimated the need for until this precise moment.
He gets to work painting in slow, shaky strokes. You’d think he was painting the Sistine Chapel with that kind of laser focus.
Despite his best efforts, he’s getting nail polish on the skin next to my toenails, but I’m too wrapped up in his touch to care. His calloused fingers ease up to my ankle as he finishes my pinkie toe, then he raises my foot and blows a steady stream of air across my painted nails.
Fuck. Suddenly, my nail polish isn’t the only thing that’s wet.
“That’s how you dry them, right?” He glances up at me with a sultry look.
I know he isn’t looking for an answer. The man knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Having him paint my nails was supposed to be silly, not sexy, yet here I am trying to keep from moaning in pleasure.
Seeing him on his knees like this, I’m not surprised when my memory flickers back to a few other times we were in this position. I used to sit on the edge of the futon in his mom’s basement while he knelt in front of me, exploring the space between my thighs. I remember the first time, when he told me he’d never done this before and I said neither had I, but he devoured every inch of me like I was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
I wonder if he remembers that as well as I do. A part of me hopes he’s thinking about it right now too. God, what is wrong with me?
Once he’s done, he lowers my foot gently, like he’s setting down a newborn kitten, then moves on to the other foot. The thumb of his left hand kneads at the arch of my foot as his right hand paints. A foot rub wasn’t part of my prize, but I won’t turn it down. This time, when he blows cool air across my toenails, I’m ready for it, but it’s still sexy as hell watching him do this.
“A
ll done,” he says softly. “How’d I do?”
“F-fine,” I stutter, not even looking at my toes to check his work. “Thanks.”
“You won it fair and square.” He pushes himself off the floor and rejoins me on the couch, his leg once again pressing firmly into mine. “But I’ll get you next time. I don’t think you’ll be doing my laundry, though. I can think of something way better.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Why is my voice so husky?
Wes leans in toward me and my breathing hitches. Both of us freeze there, our faces inches apart. Are we really doing this? Wes hesitates, bites down hard on his lower lip, and turns my head with his fingertips before planting a gentle kiss on my cheek.
“It’s probably best that I get out of here,” he mutters into my ear.
My shoulders sag. The last thing I want is for him to leave, but I scrunch my eyes closed and give him a sad nod.
“Yeah. You should go.” I sigh, opening my eyes and meeting his gaze.
The look in his eyes is disappointed, if not a little sad, but he’s right. Cutting things off here is the smart thing to do.
But, God, do I hate being smart sometimes.
Chapter Eight
Weston
I don’t see Jane at all on Wednesday. Not at the morning meeting, not during training workouts, not at lunch, not at my practice drills. Which gives me plenty of time to work myself up into a neurotic lather, wondering what her disappearance means.
I thought yesterday’s date went pretty well—no, not a date, our totally platonic hangout, I correct myself for the thousandth time. But now I have no idea what’s going on in her head.
Is she avoiding me? Did I somehow fuck everything up again? Or maybe she’s not even thinking about me at all. I guess that possibility is better than her being mad at me, but it doesn’t sting much less.
Holy shit, man, get a grip.
This is a meaningless coincidence. She’s probably just busy with paperwork or something. Or maybe she’s sick. But if she’s sick, maybe I should go check on . . .
Dammit, no! Just chill out and do your job.
I continue stewing all evening and well into Thursday afternoon. I try to channel my nerves and distract myself by going all-out in practice. When Coach Royce blows his whistle to signal the end of our final drill, I take off my helmet and wipe my sweaty face . . . only to see Jane walking toward me across the field, carrying a flat plastic box.
My stomach gives a little jump. I stop and wait for her to catch up to me. Just seeing her again is a bigger relief than I thought. Even better, she doesn’t look mad—although I don’t know what that hard-set determined expression means.
She stops at arm’s length. Without preamble, she says, “I baked cookies last night.” The words come a little too fast to match her nonchalant tone. “I was bored, I guess. But you’d better take these, otherwise I’ll eat them all and make myself sick, and . . . Ugh, here.” She thrusts the box at me like it’s a weapon. Or a shield.
“Oh. Um, thank you.” I take it and am surprised at how heavy it is.
The intense scents of chocolate and peanuts greet me as I open the lid. The box is packed full of a dozen enormous fudge cookies, made with so much cocoa they’re almost black, studded with dark chocolate chips and streaked with golden-brown peanut butter. They look—and smell—freaking amazing.
For a moment, I’m speechless that Jane still remembers my favorite kind of cookie. I’ve always had a major sweet tooth, especially for chocolate, but this clinches my suspicions. She baked these specifically for me.
And although she’s fidgeting, she’s not walking away. She’s still standing here, waiting for more of my reaction.
Well, don’t mind if I do.
I whip out a cookie on the spot and take a big bite, savoring the dense, rich sweetness, then hold it out to her. “Have some?”
She shakes her head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“Come on, Janie, just one little taste. You put all that work into baking them, you deserve at least part of the reward. And they’re really delicious . . .” I wiggle the cookie to tempt her.
Her gaze flicks between me and her gift for a moment. Then she sighs. “Oh, all right, if you’re offering. They do smell really good.”
I expect her to take the rest of the cookie from my hand, but she leans forward and bites it while I’m still holding it. She lets out a very quiet, but definitely happy sigh as she chews. Chocolatey crumbs decorate her lips and even the tip of her nose. It’s incredibly cute.
It’s hard to resist the urge to kiss her face clean, and impossible to resist asking, “Can I get your phone number?”
She blinks, and I hurriedly make it into a joke by adding, “You know, in case you need any more help painting your nails.”
She snorts, holding back a smile. “Awesome. My own personal mani-pedi guy.”
“That’s me.” I look around for something to write it down with.
Dammit. I always leave my phone in my locker during practice, and I don’t see a single pencil or piece of paper on the field, because why the hell would there be? Not even a frigging pen to write it on my hand.
“Um . . .” She chews her lip. “How about I text you? I should probably have yours too, anyway, since we work together.”
She pulls her phone from her pocket, pokes at it, and holds it out to me. I can’t type in my number fast enough.
When I get back to my locker, her text is waiting for me. It’s just a quick hi Wes, it’s Jane, but even a tiny win is still a win, and it gives me hope that many more will come.
I grin as I save her number to my contacts.
• • •
Well, that hope didn’t last long. A week and a half later, and Jane still hasn’t called or texted me, not even about Hawks business.
I’ve thought about contacting her plenty of times, but I always hit the same dead end. What would I say? I have no excuse to talk to her, no plausible topic of conversation. And I refuse to be that guy who sends girls half-assed texts like hey or wyd? or God forbid, u up? with a winky-face emoji. Jesus save us all.
So I always ended up waffling for half an hour, then shoving my phone back in my pocket. And now I’m staring at a hotel room ceiling, trying to go the fuck to sleep already so I won’t ruin our chances against the Cobras tomorrow. But I’m failing miserably because I’m way too aware that Jane’s room is right next to mine.
Right.
Fucking.
Next.
To.
Mine.
Dear God, this is torture.
I shake my head at my own ridiculousness. No, it’s idiotic is what it is. I clearly just need to get laid.
I haven’t had sex since Trista, so it’s natural that I can’t stop thinking about it, and the solution is obvious. But the thought of going out to score with some random jersey chaser is totally unappealing.
The only woman I want right now is the one I can’t have. The woman I’ve been kicking myself about losing for the last ten years. The woman on the other side of a thin hotel wall, not even two yards away. There’s even an adjoining door, just to really bust my balls.
I look at the clock and groan. It’s almost midnight. I need to do something, anything to fix this, but what? Drink the minibar and then try to play with a hangover tomorrow? Borrow the team’s rental car and embark on a wild goose chase for over-the-counter sleeping pills that never help anyway?
Hell, I can’t even distract myself by talking strategy with Colin, because he’s always early to get to bed, just like half the team—and good for them. The other half are busy sneaking girls past security and into their rooms for hookups.
I’m all alone with my stupid thoughts, feeling lonely, and if I’m honest, horny. I think I’m going to punch something. Maybe the wall. Yeah, punch right through the wall into Jane’s room and—
Letting out a frustrated growl, I roll out of bed and onto my feet, then pull my clothes back on. Fuck it.
; Besides, I’m not doing myself any favors by getting all worked up so late at night. If I can’t sleep anyway, I might as well do what I really want to do and go talk to Jane. Maybe then I’ll be able to calm down.
This probably isn’t a good idea. I already know that. But before I can come to my senses, I step out into the hallway and knock on Jane’s door.
And when it opens to Jane standing there in her cute Hawks-patterned pajamas, her golden hair in a messy ponytail, toothbrush in her mouth . . . I stop caring.
Chapter Nine
Jane
It’s ten thirty and I’m about ready to call it a night when there’s a knock on my door.
Did I order room service and forget? I kind of hope so. I wouldn’t say no to a late-night snack, even if I am halfway through brushing my teeth. I spit toothpaste foam into the sink, turn off the faucet, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” a male voice says.
My heart leaps in my chest. Wes. He’s cutting it close to curfew, and I’m not exactly looking like a beauty queen in my pajama shorts and oversized Hawks shirt, but the thought of seeing him sends a tingle of excitement up my spine.
When I open the door, I’m reassured to see that Wes is rocking his PJs too—baggy black sweatpants hang off his lean hips, and his round biceps bulge out of the fitted sleeves of a Hawks tee, a match to the one I’ve got on. It’s part of the standard swag bag all new players and Hawks employees get. His is still new compared to mine, which is so faded you can hardly make out the team logo anymore.
“Nice shirt,” I say.
“You too. Can I come in?”
I frown, trying to read the expression on his face. “What’s going on? Pregame jitters?”
Wes shoves his hands into his sweatpants pockets and looks down at his socks. “Something like that.”
My gaze darts up and down the hallway. No coaches or other players are in sight, so I guess there’s no harm in letting him in for a bit. I open the door the rest of the way, motioning him in as I head to the bathroom to finish brushing my teeth.