“We don’t have to,” I interrupt.
Lon purses his lips and stares at me.
“Reyes and I aren’t dating,” I mumble.
“You aren’t?”
“No.” I gulp down some coffee, scalding my throat. “I won’t tell you that we haven’t been . . . intimate. We have.” My cheeks burn. “But we’re not in a relationship. If that ever changes, I’ll let you know.”
Lon searches my face for a long moment and then nods, accepting my answer.
I stupidly feel like crying.
“It’s Monday,” he says briskly, rising from my desk. “You going to the Renegades’ press conference?”
“Of course. Gotta pick Coach Forsyth’s brain about draft prospects. I’m heading out in an hour.”
Lon nods. “Good deal.”
After he leaves, I open my email to check messages and respond to readers’ letters.
Not surprisingly, I find myself unable to focus. I can’t stop thinking about Reyes and what happened between us on Saturday.
After our intense lovemaking and cuddling, I thought we were finally getting somewhere. I thought we’d taken the first crucial step toward bridging the chasm between us.
I was wrong.
As I watched him walk out the door, I’d realized like never before just how much I want and need him in my life.
But it’s too late. He’ll never forgive me for breaking his heart.
I’ll probably never forgive myself.
When my phone buzzes on the desk, my heart skips a few hopeful beats . . . until I see Braxton’s number on the screen.
Disappointment slashes through me, seeping into my voice when I answer, “Hello.”
“Hey, Emerson. This is Braxton.”
I try to smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He sounds a little nervous. “I wanted to see if you were feeling better. You seemed so out of it the other night. I was really worried.”
Guilt gnaws at me. “Thanks for your concern, Braxton. I’m sorry I didn’t return your messages—”
“That’s all right,” he says graciously. “I know how busy you are. Your job requires a lot of travel, doesn’t it?”
“Mostly during football season.”
“Yes, of course.” He hesitates uncertainly. “Listen, about what I said in those texts—”
“We don’t have to talk about that right now,” I quickly interject.
“But I want to. I meant every word I said.” He laughs self-consciously. “I realize it was rather impulsive of me to pour out my feelings like some infatuated middle schooler. But I wanted you to know where I stand. And I didn’t think you’d be entertaining guests at such a late hour, anyway—”
“Actually, your cousin was there,” I blurt out unthinkingly.
“Reyes?” Braxton sounds surprised, then annoyed. “What was he doing there?”
I lean back in my seat. “It doesn’t matter, Braxton.”
He hesitates. “Well, no, I suppose it doesn’t. Not after what he told me at least.”
My eyes narrow. “What he told you?”
“Yeah. We were over at our grandparents’ house for Sunday brunch, and my mother and I were talking about you. Reyes must have overheard our conversation because he pulled me aside later and confided that he had once—how did he put it? Had feelings for you. Yes, that’s what he said. He had feelings for you. But he told me it was a long time ago, and now all he wants is to see you happy.” Braxton chuckles. “Reyes gave us his blessing, Emerson. How rather quaint.”
I close my eyes, my heart twisting painfully. He’s really done with me.
Braxton misinterprets my silence. “Did you hear me? Reyes said—”
“I heard you, Braxton.” My voice sounds like my throat’s been scraped raw. “Look, I have to go. Thanks again for calling to check up on me.”
“Wait!” he says urgently. “Before you go, when can I see you again?”
“I don’t know, Braxton. I’m really busy. Take care.” I hang up on him, not really caring if I seem rude.
Staring blindly at my computer screen, I feel more depressed than ever. If I had any doubts before, I have none now.
I’ve lost Reyes for good.
Chapter Eighteen
EMERSON
The carolina renegades have one of the flashiest headquarters in the league. The sprawling megacomplex houses the team’s corporate offices, a multilevel auditorium, an indoor practice arena, three outdoor natural turf fields, a dining hall and a state-of-the-art training center equipped with steam rooms and hydrotherapy pools.
The world-class facility is often used as a recruitment tool to attract talented players. If only the actual team lived up to its spectacularness.
I park my car and head inside, snagging a seat near the front of the press room before everyone else starts flooding in. I catch several stares, some smirks and a few suggestive winks.
I ignore them all, looking straight ahead at the facing wall papered with the team’s logo. I’ve been the subject of gossip and speculation for almost a week now. There’s nothing I can do but ignore it and hope that everyone moves on soon.
Coach Forsyth has a new spring in his step as he takes to the podium that morning. His eyes are brighter, his posture buoyant as he starts off by discussing the future direction of the team. He projects confidence and optimism as he talks about building an offense around their new franchise quarterback, and he patiently answers questions about the players they’re most interested in drafting. When I press him on one point, he reaffirms the front office’s commitment to surrounding Reyes with the right talent.
I corner him after the press conference, coaxing more details out of him until he’s called away to a meeting. Before he goes, he gives me a twinkling little smile and a fatherly pat on the shoulder.
“Take good care of our boy. Keep him happy and content. But don’t distract him too much. We’ve got work to do, and we need him focused.”
I’m so stunned I can’t speak. But he’s already walking off with an assistant coach, his phone pressed to his ear.
Recovering my composure, I tuck my recorder into my purse and sling the strap over my shoulder, then head for the exit.
I’m halfway across the main lobby when someone calls my name.
I turn to see the Renegades’ starting wide receiver sauntering toward me, a megawatt grin stretched across his goateed face.
“Hey, DeVante,” I say warmly.
“What’s up, Emerson?” DeVante Spriggs gives me a friendly hug and another sparkling grin. “You gonna leave without seeing Malone?”
My stomach flip-flops. “Is he here?”
“Yeah.” DeVante jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in the gym.”
“Oh.” Oh.
“We were sparring together, but I had to tap out before I passed out.” DeVante chuckles. “When I got out the shower, he was still at it. Dude’s a maniac.”
I smile weakly.
DeVante rubs his goatee, searching my face. “I gotta ask . . . are you the reason he came here?”
I’m caught off guard for the second time in as many minutes. “I—um—”
DeVante laughs. “My bad. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I just wanted to say thanks if you had anything to do with bringing him to Piedmont Bay. It’ll be nice to have a QB who knows where to throw the damn ball, know what I’m saying?” He grins. “If you quote me on that, I’ll deny it.”
My laughter sounds forced even to my own ears.
“Well, I’m off to grab some food and take a nap.” DeVante hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Go rescue your man from himself.”
Before I can open my mouth, he winks at me and saunters off.
I stand there biting my lip, wrestling with temptation. Why are you even considering this? Reyes made it clear he doesn’t want to see you. There’s nothing you can say or do to change his mind.
But shouldn’t you at least try? a stubborn voice counters. And, technically, he d
id invite you to watch him work out.
Before I can stop myself, I’m walking down the hallway toward the training center. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I see Reyes. I just know I need to talk to him.
As I reach the restricted entrance to the state-of-the-art gym, a tall blond in sweats comes walking out. It’s Zach Kirwan, the team’s starting tight end.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says with a grin, eyeing me up and down. “Looking for Malone?”
Jeez! Did a memo go out to the whole team?
“He’s in the weight room.” Zach holds the glass door open for me. “It’s to your right.”
“Um. Okay. Thanks.” I step through the door and turn right, making my way down a wide hall with openings on both sides. The training center is supposed to be off limits to everyone except the players and team personnel, but nobody bats an eye at my presence.
When I reach the entrance to the weight room and spot Reyes on the other side, I skid to an abrupt halt, my mouth going dry.
He’s lying on the weight bench pumping iron. He’s stripped to the waist, wearing black compression shorts and his signature Maxx Malone high-top sneakers. His skin gleams with sweat, roped muscles rippling deliciously across his chest and abdomen, the muscles in his thighs bunching and flexing as he lifts an impressive amount of weight.
He’s wearing AirPods, his face hard and focused as he powers through his reps like a stone cold athletic machine.
I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, my sex clenching hungrily as I watch him. I imagine straddling him on the bench, bracing my palms on his sweaty abs and riding his stiff cock until we explode in orgasm. The thought leaves me dripping.
Teeth gritted, biceps bulging, Reyes guts out three more reps, holding the weight steady for several seconds before dropping the barbell onto the rack above him.
Closing his eyes, he lies there on the bench, his chest moving up and down with each heavy breath.
I feel like a voyeur, as turned on as if I’ve just watched an erotic webcam performance. I should go before he catches me ogling him.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, he turns his head and sees me.
I freeze.
His eyes sweep me from head to toe with a look so scorchingly possessive that my skin practically melts off my bones. No matter what happens between us, you’ll always be mine.
I watch as he sits up slowly and pulls out his AirPods one at a time, staring at me without saying a word.
My palms are sweaty and my heart is pounding way too hard in my chest. “Hey.” My voice comes out as a croak. “How’s it going?”
He doesn’t look happy to see me. “What’re you doing here?”
“Came for the press conference.” And stayed for the beefcake.
He tucks his AirPods into his pocket, picks up a towel and wipes his sweaty face. Then he tosses the towel aside and rises from the bench.
As he starts slowly toward me, I have a wild urge to turn and haul ass. But I move forward instead, meeting him halfway across the room.
Once he’s standing before me, my eyes start darting around like a ball in a pinball machine. I don’t know where to look.
His rock-hard biceps?
His glistening eight-pack?
His thickly muscled thighs?
The massive bulge in his crotch?
Nowhere is safe.
I gulp hard and drop my eyes to his sneakered feet—his size fifteen feet that lend credence to the stereotype about men with large shoe sizes being well endowed.
“Where’s your spotter?” I hear myself say.
“My what?”
“Your spotter.” I raise my eyes to his face. “You shouldn’t be lifting without one.”
He frowns at me. His mussed black hair and beard-darkened jaw give him an untamed look. And he’s pumping obscene amounts of testosterone into the air. So much that I feel positively punch-drunk.
I swallow nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know you can bench-press three hundred pounds, but it’s not safe to do it without a spotter.”
He just stares at me, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.
I wet my lips, breathing in the musky tang of his sweat. It makes me shiver with arousal.
The flatscreen television on the wall nearby is tuned to ESPN. The First Take commentators are animatedly debating how soon Reyes will lead the Renegades to the Super Bowl. Max Kellerman predicts next year. Stephen A. Smith says two years.
I huff a dismissive laugh. “What does he know?”
When Reyes glances toward the television, I watch as a bead of sweat trickles down between his pecs and rolls over the slick ridges of his abs before pooling in his navel.
Holy. Hell.
“Emerson.”
I drag my eyes back up to his face and blink to clear the lust-induced fog from my brain. I’m a sports reporter. I’ve been in countless locker rooms full of naked men. I can totally handle this hunk of glorious male standing before me.
“Why are you here?” His voice is low and flat. “What do you want?”
My knees tremble. “I . . . I wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
I flinch at the harsh edge to his tone. Swallowing hard, I gaze up into his face and say the first thing that comes to mind. “I remember how betrayed I felt when you started playing football.”
His eyebrows pull together. “What?”
“It was our sixth grade gym teacher’s fault,” I remind him. “Mr. Chadwick’s the one who discovered your talent for throwing footballs and urged you to try out for the football team. I never told you this, but I was disappointed when you made the cut. Suddenly you didn’t have enough time for me anymore. We couldn’t hang out after school because you had football practice, and on Saturdays you had games. When you didn’t have games, you were hanging out with your teammates. I resented football for taking you away from me.”
Reyes says nothing, waiting for me to continue.
“I remember attending your first game with your family. I sat in the stands secretly hoping that Mr. Chadwick had been wrong about your talent so we could get back to our treasure hunts. But he wasn’t wrong. You were good, Reyes. I couldn’t deny it, no matter how badly I wanted to.” I smile a little. “By the time we got to high school, I had to face the fact that things would never be the same between us again. You were no longer just my best friend. You were one of the most popular boys at school. You were Machine Gun Malone—quarterback phenom, hometown hero. Football god.” I chuckle wryly. “Don’t even get me started on the cheerleaders who were always fawning all over you. As if that weren’t nauseating enough, you had to go and start dating the captain of the junior varsity squad. Ugh.”
Reyes stares down at me, his blue-flecked eyes searching my face. “Why are you telling me all this, Emerson?”
“Because . . .” I moisten my dry lips, take a deep breath and plunge ahead. “I’ve missed you, Reyes. I’ve missed your friendship. I’ve missed your smiles, your laughter, the sound of your voice. I’ve missed having you in my life. I know you want answers about the past, and you deserve answers. But I . . . I’m not ready to go down that road. Not yet. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.” I work to keep my voice steady. “You know what else is true? I’m glad you’re here in Piedmont Bay. I’m glad I’ll get to attend your games. I’ve missed that so damn much. I look forward to cheering you on. Not because it’s my job, or because you’re playing for my adopted home team. Because I believe in you. I never stopped believing in you, and I never will.” I swallow tightly. “So much has changed between us, but I hope someday we can be friends again. I know that’s asking a lot. If you can’t forgive me, I’ll completely understand. I just . . . I just wanted you to know how I felt.”
He says nothing, black lashes lowered over his eyes as he rubs at a callus on his forefinger.
With nothing left to say, I turn and walk away on leaden legs. Just as I reach the doorway, his voice stops me.
“Wait.”
I turn to see him walking slowly toward me.
My heart skips two beats and then hurtles into hyperspeed.
When he stops in front of me, I swallow so hard I can hear it.
He stares down at me. “Those cheerleaders had nothing on you,” he says huskily.
I melt into a puddle. “Reyes—”
“Shh.” He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t say anything else. Not right now.”
I will my heart to slow down. One breath in, one breath out.
He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, pressing slightly in the middle.
Flutters stir in my belly before I glance around self-consciously.
“What?” he murmurs.
“Nothing. Just . . . someone might see us.”
“So what? Everyone already thinks we’re sleeping together.” His lids drop, his eyes watching the way I bite my bottom lip. “Spend the night with me.”
A shaky breath escapes my mouth. “Tonight?”
He nods.
“I . . . I have to cover a softball game.”
“Come afterward.”
I swallow hard, pulse thumping wildly. I don’t even know why I’m hesitating. I want this. So fucking much.
“Okay,” I murmur. “I’ll come.”
His eyes flash wickedly. “Indeed. You will.”
My pussy clenches, burning with arousal.
He leans in close, his nose brushing mine, his warm breath fanning over my lips. For one heady, intoxicating moment, I think he’s going to kiss me and I sway into him.
But then he whispers against my mouth, “I’m glad you stopped by. Now let me get back to my workout before my dick gets too hard to continue.”
Heat suffuses my body, searing my cheeks.
“Um . . . okay, then.” I take a step back, tucking my hair behind my ear while his eyes glimmer at me. I suddenly feel as shy as the infatuated teenage girl who gave her virginity to him a lifetime ago.
“I, um, might be pretty late,” I say.
“I don’t care how late it is,” he rumbles. “Just come.”
Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1) Page 18