“No, but I will be,” he says after we’re settled in the car. He props his elbow up on the door, runs his hand along the back of his neck, and stares out the window as we slowly begin to crawl along with postgame traffic.
I don’t offer words of encouragement or try to force positive vibes on him; that’s not what he needs, so I just let him be and turn on the radio, keeping the volume low.
Ten minutes later, out of nowhere, he turns to face me and asks, “How would you feel about going on a date?”
A date. The words roll around in my head like they’re foreign. I can’t remember the last time I went on a date.
“Really?” I look at him like he’s lost his mind. For one, I thought his moodiness would last longer, and two, doesn’t he worry about being recognized?
He shrugs his shoulders and then shifts to take off his suit coat and toss it into the back.
“I’m starving.” He runs his hand through his hair, arching his back to stretch, and I can’t help but admire the way his button-down dress shirt pulls across his chest and arms. Then he runs his palms across his thighs and stills while waiting for my answer.
“Okay,” I say, almost shyly. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”
We’ve never been on one, and the fact that he just asked me on one means he realizes this too. Tiny wings flutter inside me as he gives me a lopsided smile and directs me to turn left.
“A couple of years ago, a few of us represented the team and attended The Taste of Tampa over at the Straz Center. That’s where I met Mara and Franco, owners of La Casa Della Pasta. They moved here from Italy and opened their restaurant in north Tampa. It’s hidden, quaint, the food is delicious, and she’s an expert on wine. Sound good?”
“You had me at pasta.”
He chuckles, letting out a deep, long-overdue sigh, and then reaches over to place his hand on my leg. He squeezes once and leaves it to rest there, and my insides relax with delight.
Once we get through the postgame traffic, it takes us fifteen minutes to get there. He wasn’t kidding about the restaurant being quaint and cute, and as we pull up outside, I find myself smiling. I love that he’s found something authentic, mom and pop. It reminds me of OBA, Meg’s restaurant in Charleston.
Bryan hops out of the car as I reach around for my bag. I wore black jeans with black ballet flats to the game, so all I do is slip his jersey off and pull on a green long-sleeved shirt. When I’m ready, he opens my door and takes my hand to help me out.
As we walk up to the front door, he stops me just before we go inside, wraps his hands around my face, and leans down to give me the sweetest kiss on the planet.
“What was that for?” I ask him. He just shrugs. Happiness has replaced the frustration on his face from earlier, and he opens the door.
He was right about this restaurant. The owners greeted us like longtime friends and seated us in the corner by the window, out of the direct sight of other guests. The first food item to hit the table are aged gouda and thyme shortbread cookies, and I am in love. With every course, my mouth waters, and at one point I laugh to myself thinking Bryan might have to carry me out. I am in fresh-homemade-pasta bliss.
“Tell me more about Shelby and Meg,” Bryan says, leaning back in his chair and letting out a full stomach sigh. “I know you met them in culinary school—what was that like?”
“Culinary school was amazing. You know—well, maybe you don’t, but I haven’t traveled a lot, so experiencing a new city was terrifying and exciting at the same time. I did love every minute of it and am so thankful for meeting both of them.”
“The three legs of the tripod.” Bryan chuckles.
“Yes. It’s such a small world too that my life with them has ended up overlapping with my life with y’all. Who would have guessed Shelby and Zach would end up working together like they did?”
“Didn’t you try to set them up once?” he asks.
“I did. It bombed spectacularly.” I laugh at the memory.
“Seems like it turned out all right to me.” He grins while picking up his wine glass and taking a sip.
“Yeah, sure did.”
Zach and Shelby’s story was one we never saw coming, and it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that threw them together, kicking and screaming.
“What about Meg?” He leans back in this chair, watching me.
I uncross my legs and re-cross them in the other direction.
“Meg is the strongest, kindest, most amazing person. She has zero filter in the things she says, which makes her funny, and she wears high heels while working in the kitchen all day. I always find myself wishing I were a little more like her.”
“I like you just the way you are.” He twirls the stem of the glass between his fingers. His gaze is so focused on me, and heat blooms on my cheeks.
“You’ve met her, right?” Everyone loves Meg. She’s a spitfire, but so positive in everything she does. I’ve never met anyone who lives their best life like she does.
“I have, at the wrap-up party for Zach and Shelby last summer. Poor Jack, his tongue basically rolled out of his mouth when he saw her, and he proceeded to follow her around all night.”
“Meg, she, umm . . . well, I hate to say it because he’s so nice, but Jack really isn’t her type.” I scrunch my nose.
“No? Well, what is then?” His forehead wrinkles. He loves Jack, so I can see how this would make him prickly on behalf of his friend.
“I know it sounds weird, but no one is her type. She’s not interested in anyone, and for reasons that are all her own, but that’s just Meg.”
“Huh.” He thinks about what I’ve just said. “Well, if anyone can wear her down, it’ll be Jack.” He nods as if there’s no other option.
“He would be better off trying to be friends with her instead.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs then changes the subject. “I can’t believe tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.”
“I know. We’re about to move into my favorite time of the year.”
A waitress stops by the table and drops off a tiramisu. My mouth waters at the sight of the sweet dessert.
“You prefer the beginning part of the year over the end? What about the holidays?” He grabs a spoon and leans over the table to scoop some out.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love the holidays, but there’s something fresh, new, and optimistic about January through March. We have the best weather in Florida, and it’s strawberry season.” I take a scoop and lick off the chocolate-dusted mascarpone cheese.
“Strawberries.” He grins. “I should have known there was food involved.”
“I do love strawberries.” I grin back.
“So, what did you do last year for New Year’s Eve?” he asks as I stuff my face unabashedly.
“Nothing. I stayed home and watched the ball drop from my couch. How about you?”
“I went to Billy’s. Missy loves throwing a party, and it’s impossible to have a bad time at one.”
I want to ask if he kissed anyone at midnight, but I’m not sure I could handle the answer. I know the idea of him not ever being with someone else is ridiculous, because that’s not reality, but it still makes me nauseous to think about the possibilities.
“Well, I’m excited to go to Camille’s tomorrow night,” I tell him.
“And I’m excited to show you off.”
Aged Gouda and Thyme Shortbread Cookies
FOR YEARS, I’VE thought about what it would be like to ring in the new year with Lexi.
As kids, we were allowed to stay up until midnight and drink sparkling grape juice with GiGi, but once James and I got older, we spent the night out with friends, at parties, doing who knows what. As time passed and I got older, my mind always drifted back to her, where she might be or who she might be with. Hearing her say last night that she spent last year by herself, I was pleased—not because I’m an asshole who delights in the idea of her spending holidays by herself, but because there was no one else she favored en
ough to want to spend the evening with. I might have been at Billy’s, but I was alone as well.
Dinner was incredible last night, but nothing can compare to the hours we spent tangled up together afterward. I knew being intimate with her would mean something, but I never expected this. Her openness and vulnerability to explore and be what I need—it overwhelms me, and I shudder at the thought.
“Can you feel that?” she asked at one point, clenching me meaningfully. “Is that how it feels good to you? Tight?” My eyes damn near rolled back into my head.
“Yeah,” I told her, slipping my hands into her hair and pulling harder than I should have. She hissed in a breath as she rocked above me, the entire experience forever branding itself onto my memory.
How does she know to do these things? And how does she know to do them to me? The muscles in my lower stomach contract and I take a deep breath to stave off a scenario that could be somewhat embarrassing for both of us.
Glancing down, my eyes travel along the very low-cut design of the back of Lexi’s dress. She looks amazing, her skin so soft, and I’m suddenly wishing we were alone so I could dip my hand inside the dress and over her ass.
Per Camille’s request, this New Year’s Eve party is black tie, and the theme is silver and gold. Most of us moaned upon hearing the dress code, but seeing Lexi now, like this, I’m thinking Camille was onto something. My date is wearing tall gold heels and this tiny spaghetti-strapped gold dress that hugs all her curves perfectly. Her hair is pulled up, leaving her neck exposed, and since leaving the house, I’ve already put my teeth on her twice.
“Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself. Everything looks so beautiful,” Lexi tells Camille as we walk through the house, past the kitchen to the back lanai, which overlooks the water of the bay.
I’ve been looking forward to this party. The last couple of weeks have been stressful, and a night out with her and my friends where we aren’t in uniform, aren’t on the field, and are just having a good time here overlooking the water is what I desperately need.
Reid and Camille only moved into this house a few months ago, but it didn’t take them long to make it look and feel like a home. Then again, Camille has a knack for decorating, so no one is surprised. The most interesting piece is a chandelier mobile that hangs just inside the front door. It’s lit up with dangling crystals and has carefully hung paper airplanes all around it.
“I’d like to say I did it all, but I didn’t. Missy uses this event planning company called Volia, Inc, and they are amazing at bringing any vision to life. The owner is very reasonably priced, and in return uses the team events as advertisement for her business. It works out well for all of us.”
“I’d say so,” Lexi says, taking in the elaborate splendor before us.
The weather is cool this year, but not so cool that a few heat lamps can’t do the trick of taking the chill out of the air. The sky is clear, the stars are out, and looking up, I easily spot Orion’s Belt and Gemini. Tables have been strategically placed all around the pool, there’s a five-piece band set up off to the side, and everything seems to glitter and sparkle. I’m impressed, and it seems Lexi is too.
“It looks so beautiful, Camille.” It truly does.
Leaning closer so only we can hear, she says, “Keep her in mind—she plans all kinds of events.” She winks, and Lexi blushes.
I know exactly what she’s alluding to, and it’s not that I haven’t thought about spending the rest of my life with Lexi. I’ve thought about it for years, but talking about a wedding, having someone else mention it—it somehow makes me feel different, and my stomach turns sour. Maybe it’s because I have other things on my mind, like the playoffs, and I can’t handle the possibility of one more thing on my plate. I don’t know, but it’s a different I don’t like, and my mood instantly shifts.
Just like that.
“Hey, man.” Reid comes to stand next to me, and he claps me on the shoulder. Camille drags Lexi over to meet a few people, and I shove my hands into my pockets. I’m surprised by the sudden change in my emotions, and I don’t understand it. The thought of a wedding with Lexi shouldn’t be triggering a negative effect; it should be sparking excited anticipation.
“Hey. Nice party,” I tell him, unsuccessfully hiding my frown but genuinely meaning the sentiment.
He pops an eyebrow, and I feel my forehead wrinkling as my scowl deepens.
“Still not over it, huh?” He shakes his head. “Well, you need to let it go for tonight. I’m going to grab you a beer, and you’re gonna relax.” He pins me with a look and then walks off to grab us both a drink.
Still not over it. My jaw tightens as I look at each of my teammates who are already here. He thinks the sudden dive in my mood is related to yesterday’s game. Yes, I have thought about it nonstop, but I’ve been doing my best to stay present with Lexi and not fall into the trap of obsessing about every single play. I can do that after she heads home; right now I’m needed here.
Jonah, Miles, and Tristan, three guys from my offensive line, walk past and pat me on the back. They’re laughing, and as much as I want to feel the joy of seeing them happy, I just don’t.
“Chin up, Captain,” Miles says, grinning. “We still won.” He throws his arms out, spinning in a circle, and they walk off laughing.
That’s when the switch officially flips.
Fuel races through my veins, lighting me on fire, and I feel like I’m about to explode.
I came here with Lexi tonight looking forward to spending the evening with her and my friends, only I no longer want to be here. It isn’t about the prospect of a wedding; it’s about me not wanting to hear everyone’s opinions about my life. I’ve been turning a blind eye over the last couple of weeks, I’ve stayed off social media, I’ve rarely turned on the television, and I only leave the house when I have to. I’ve been trying to ignore others’ commentary and accusations about my playing and what might be affecting it, but suddenly it all feels really real and I feel out of my element even here amongst friends.
I mean, what the hell—Jarvie jinx? Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I hate that she’s been dragged into this. None of this is her fault. She doesn’t impact the way I play, only I do, but is my team buying into it as well? I’d like to think they are above it, but as the night progresses, I’m starting to believe they aren’t. All anyone wants to talk about is our last couple of games and how things are going to play out in the postseason. They’re all making predictions, and when it comes to me, apparently they aren’t good ones.
Athletes live and breathe by their statistics. Kids memorize them, fans idolize them, and sports analysts salivate over them. For whatever reason, they give people a reason to either love or hate you, and nothing else matters. We are sixteen and oh in the regular season, won every single game, but it feels like all they can seem to focus on are my shortcomings, not the successes.
Yes, there are the standard obligatory comments of “Well done,” and “Congratulations on the win,” but outside of that it’s mainly been “Close call there, Brennen.”
What the fuck.
Did I have my best game? No. Is it a team effort? Yes. Where one fails, it’s the duty of the team to pick up the slack, but as the quarterback, I’m never allowed to fail. Every game has to be on point, and yesterday I wasn’t. Hell, the last couple of games I haven’t been, and to have my team, the team I lead and give my all to repeatedly toss concerned jabs my way—I don’t like it.
A few times throughout the evening, I catch Lexi giving me concerned looks, but I smile at her as if nothing is wrong and either redirect the conversation, lead her off for some more food, or ask her to dance.
“You okay?” she asks, handing me a piece of black-eyed pea bruschetta. It’s a Southern tradition to eat black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, one meant to bring good luck, and all of us are superstitious enough heading into the playoffs that we’ll follow any tradition of any kind if it means even the possibility of good luck.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell her, simultaneously taking a bite and tucking a piece of stray hair behind her ear.
“You sure? Because I’m catching some serious uncomfortable vibes coming from you.”
Looking past her shoulder, I stare at a light shining across the water. “Do you hear them?”
“I do, but who cares?”
“I care.” I frown.
“It’s just conversation. They have nothing else to talk about. Christmas is over, y’all have all caught up with each other, and they’re excited about the next game. Tonight isn’t any different from any other get-together after any other game. They’re gonna break it down, and then in two weeks, it’ll be something completely different.”
“I hear you, but it’s already been two weeks, four weeks. I just need it to stop.” I grab my beer bottle off the table and take a long pull, emptying half of it. She’s watching me, trying to figure out how to handle me, and I hate it.
“You know we can leave whenever you want. There’s plenty we can do at your house to ring in the new year.” Her concerned gaze morphs into a seductive smile, and it cracks a little of the tension wrapped around me.
“I know.” I trail my fingers down her arm and watch as goose bumps chase them. “Trust me, I have every intention of kicking off this year with fireworks of our own, but I like showing you off. You in this dress is something else.”
A tiny blush pinkens her cheeks as she takes a step closer to me. My hand slips around her waist to her lower back, and I pull her flush against me. She rests her hands on my chest, and it soothes some of the inner turmoil I’m dealing with.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she says. I watch her lips as they move, plump and glossy.
“I wasn’t going to be anywhere without you tonight. Where you are is where I am,” I quietly tell her.
She smiles, wraps her fingers around the lapels of my coat, and pulls as she rises up on her toes. My lips fall to hers and the noise in my head quiets. Maybe this is the trick; maybe I just need to kiss her all night, or maybe I just need her. When it’s just us, everything feels better, and with that thought, Reid’s voice echoes through the speakers.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 16