Four years.
Thirty-five million plus incentives.
Jerry chuckles. “Just so you know, I had to pull a few strings. It’s a little more than they were wanting to give you, but Jackson here tells me you’ve been holding out for something more along these lines.”
I’ve received eight other offers since last fall, none of them half as impressive as this.
“Congratulations, Talon,” Coach says, beaming. Coach never beams. He knows this is an offer I can’t refuse. “Twenty years coaching and I’ve never seen an offer like this. Matter of fact, twenty years coaching and I’ve never seen a player like this either. Smashing records left and right. Makes sense your first pro offer would blow us all away.”
Jerry places a shiny gold pen on the table. Does he seriously expect me to sign on the dotted line without talking to anyone first?
I check the time on my watch.
Irie’s probably wondering where I am—or maybe not.
Rising, I tuck the contract into my bag and extend my hand. “Thanks, Jerry. I’ll have my agent give this a look and we’ll get back to you.”
Jerry and Coach exchange looks. I’m sure they think I’m a fucking moron for not sealing this in blood ASAP, but that’s the last of my concerns.
I head out of the building, calling my agent on the way. I realize this is the moment I’ve worked for, the moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life—and it isn’t half as exhilarating as kissing Irie.
I should be reeling. I should be walking on a fucking cloud, big dick energy and all of that.
But I feel numb, indifferent.
That kiss though?
That kiss was fire.
Chapter 11
Irie
The chair beside me is empty and I check my email once again. Maybe he’s sick? Or maybe he kissed me and changed his mind on the whole wanting me thing? Not that I care. Not that it matters …
I haven’t stopped thinking about Saturday night. And not just the kiss. I keep thinking about all the things he said, the way his sideways glances and arrogant smirks made my stomach do flips, his blatant and unapologetic desire.
I scan the packed auditorium. It’s possible he ran into someone he knew and decided to sit with them today—which is fine. But I don’t see him.
It’s half past eight. If he isn’t here yet, he’s not coming.
Professor Longmire flicks off the overhead lights and switches on the projector, clicking through a few slides until he comes to one of some ancient Mayan maps.
One of the doors down front swings open, and a strapping figure strides up the stairs, heading for the back row. Within seconds, he makes his way closer, squeezing past tiny desks with pencil-thin computers and stepping over backpacks until he takes the spot beside me.
“Hey,” I whisper to Talon.
“Hey,” he whispers as he retrieves his pen and notebook. “I miss anything?”
I point to the page and a half of notes in front of me and try to focus on the lecture. The nagging voice of reason in my head is chiding me, slating me for being so concerned with his reasons for not being here.
I shouldn’t have cared and it shouldn’t have mattered.
Still, being this close to Talon makes Saturday night’s memories come to life again. My throat constricts. My stomach tightens. I find myself stealing side glimpses of his hands, remembering the way they felt in my hair for those short-lived, sensual seconds.
By the time Longmire finishes his lecture and his TA gets the lights, it’s time to pack up and head to the next class. I gather my things and turn to Talon to let him know I’ll type up my notes and email them to him later today … only he’s on his phone.
His back is to me and he’s completely preoccupied.
This is new.
Normally he’s chasing after me, using any and every excuse he can to keep our conversation going for as long as possible.
Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, I book it out of there and head to Meyer Hall, though the strangest of sensations washes over me along the way.
Disappointment, perhaps?
No.
No, that’s not possible.
I’m not feeling disappointed. I won’t allow it.
I should be relieved right now. I should be relieved that he’s losing interest in me for whatever reason. I should be relieved that he’s probably becoming someone else’s problem for the rest of the semester.
Several minutes later, I find a spot in my Interior Lighting class and get settled. The disappointment that flooded my senses a short while ago has finally dissipated, only I’ve yet to experience any actual relief.
The only thing I’m feeling right now is foolish.
I can’t believe I spent the entire weekend thinking about him, fantasizing about the teeniest, tiniest possibility of maybe, maybe, maybe giving him a chance.
This is what I get for having a weak moment.
And honestly, I knew better.
Chapter 12
Talon
“He’s so upset right now. You have no idea,” my mother says from the other side of the phone. “The fact that he had to find out through the grapevine and not from his own son?”
Stepson …
I hoist my bag over my shoulder. I’m not going to apologize. I was literally presented with the offer one hour ago, called my agent, and booked it to class.
“Nothing’s finalized yet,” I say. “I didn’t want to make any announcements until it was official.”
“That’s not the point,” she scoffs in true Camilla Masterson fashion. It’s not easy being half martyr, half victim, and full-blooded drama queen. “The point is Mark should have been the first person you called, not Ira.”
She’s seriously mad at me for calling my agent before calling my stepdad?
I can’t with her.
Not today.
“I think you should plan on coming home tonight,” she says. “I’ll make dinner reservations at Miato’s to celebrate and you can apologize to your father then. After all, none of this would have happened if it weren’t for him.”
Well aware …
We all know Mark’s dreams of pro football stardom went up in smoke when he tore his ACL playing in college. Never quite made a full recovery, never got over it, so he had to live vicariously through me.
At the end of the day, my scholarship—and this contract—are his.
I’m nothing more than a football-throwing machine, an avatar for his overinflated ego.
People joke about Tiger Woods and how his father aggressively pushed him from a young age and shaped him into the golf club wielding champion he is today.
Mark Masterson would make Earl Woods look like Mary fucking Poppins.
“I can’t do tonight, Mom,” I lie. “I need more notice than that.”
“Fine,” she says. “This Friday. I know you don’t have any classes in the afternoon so that should give you plenty of time to make your way down for the night. Why don’t we plan on seven?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I glance up and find a mostly-empty auditorium.
Shit.
Irie’s long gone.
I was hoping to ask her if she could send her notes to me from the first half of class.
“Hey, Mom. I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Okay, but don’t forget to call Mark,” she says. “I mean it. Call him as soon as you can. Explain to him why you didn’t tell him first and then tell him you’re coming home Friday to celebrate.”
“Yep.” I end the call and make my way outside, but not before emailing Irie to ask about the notes—and to secure another study date for Thursday night.
Chapter 13
Irie
He brought a blanket.
And coffee.
I find him in a cozy corner of the greenspace in front of the library Thursday evening, camped out on a black and white buffalo check blanket.
This is supposed to be a study date, but the only thing studious about it is the notebook in his lap
and pen behind his ear.
“Irie, hi,” he says when I take a seat across from him. He hands me a white paper cup and a spare sweatshirt. “It’s supposed to get cold.”
“You know we’re only doing this for a half hour, right?” I ask, fighting a half-smirk. I’m charmed. I am. I won’t lie. But it doesn’t excuse the hot-and-coldness this week.
We shared that kiss on Saturday. On Monday he came to class late and barely said two words to me, though he did shoot me an email asking about notes. During Wednesday’s lecture, he was still quiet—though he did walk out with me and remind me of our standing study date.
Maybe this isn’t as fun for him anymore? Maybe since I let him kiss me, the chase is slowing down and it isn’t that exciting? The cheetah has finally caught up to the gazelle and now he’s bored.
“Thanks for this,” I say, sipping my coffee, which I now realize is a mocha cappuccino … which just so happens to be my favorite. I’m not even going to ask how he knew. He’ll probably go on some tangent about the eleventh time he saw me in a coffee shop or something. “You doing okay?”
He peers at me through squinted eyes. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“You haven’t been …” I gather a lungful of air. “You haven’t been yourself this week. After the kiss, I thought you’d be …”
He doesn’t say a word, he simply lets me continue on, stumbling over my words and digging myself into a hole that shows I actually kind of maybe give a damn.
“Oh,” he says a second later, eyes lit. “You thought I backed off because we kissed last weekend and I lost interest.”
“Warn a girl before you read her mind, will you?”
“I haven’t told anyone yet,” he begins to say, scooting in closer and narrowing the space between us. “But I was offered a pro contract this week.”
“Ah. Congratulations.”
I’m happy for him. I am. On a human to human level, I know how hard he’s worked and how much he deserves something to show for that. But this proves my point—it was never about me. It was about the chase. And at the end of the semester, he’s going to move far away from here and never look back. He’s going to be some multi-millionaire baller and I’m going to be nothing more than a blip on his college timeline.
And I’m fine with that.
I am.
Or I will be …
Sometimes it’s nice being right.
Other times it stings a bit.
“I haven’t signed anything yet,” he says. “We’re still in the negotiation stage. But there are a lot of phone calls and back and forth. So if I’ve seemed preoccupied lately …”
“Talon, it’s fine.” I wave him away.
“Obviously it’s not if you’re bringing it up,” he says.
“I just thought, maybe, at some point we should address the kiss, that’s all.”
“All right, fine. I’ll go first,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I’m mid-sip of my coffee and he’s lucky I didn’t spit it out all over him.
“You have the softest lips I’ve ever tasted,” he adds. “And I really wish you wouldn’t have run off to catch that fucking bus.”
I glance down, away. I wasn’t expecting him to say any of that. I was hoping we could agree that it was nice and that it shouldn’t happen again, that we could be adults and “study buddies” and get through the rest of the semester now that we got that out of our system.
I peer up at him, speechless, my pathetic ego wishing it could hear him say those things one more time.
“You’re shivering,” he says, situating his sweatshirt over my lap.
It isn’t the cold making me shiver, but I don’t tell him that.
His fingertips trace my knee and my skin flashes hot. It’s funny how something so small can overpower me, reducing my resolve to rubble.
“Now it’s my turn to ask if you’re okay …”
“Of course,” I say, forcing myself to snap out of it. I need to pull myself together. “Maybe we should study now?”
“No,” he says, examining me. “I told you how I felt about the kiss, but you didn’t tell me how you felt.”
My lips part but no sound comes out. I shrug, letting my hands fall in my lap, on his ridiculously soft PVU sweatshirt that smells like him.
“It was nice,” I manage a moment later.
“Just nice?” He scratches his left temple.
“Yeah. It was nice, but I think it was a one-and-done kind of thing,” I say. “We got it out of our systems.”
“Did we though?”
My cheeks flush. What is it about this man that makes me a bundle of nervous energy? No one else—and I mean no one else—brandishes this kind of physical influence over me.
“I didn’t,” he says, voice low. “I didn’t get you out of my system. Not even close.”
“We really need to get on track here.” I check my watch.
“Why won’t you give this a chance?”
“Give what a chance?”
“This.”
“What do you mean by this? You’re going to have to be more specific,” I say.
“You and me,” he says, careful not to use labels. He’s strategic, which serves him well on the field I’m sure, but in real life, it’s infuriating.
I burrow my trembling hands in the folds of his sweatshirt, my mind and body and heart waging an epic battle on the inside.
“Tell me what it’s going to take to tear down this fucking fortress you’ve built around yourself,” he says. “And while you’re at it, tell me who put it there so I can kick his fucking ass.”
He manages a sniffled chuckle out of me.
But if he only knew …
“I appreciate the chivalry, but we really should start studying,” I say, retrieving my materials from my bag. “I have to catch the bus in a half hour.”
“One date,” he says.
My gaze flicks to his as I click the end of my pen. “Talon.”
“Give me one date and if it’s the worst date of your life … I’ll never bother you again,” he says. “I swear on my life. On my career.”
Before I realize it, I’ve already spoken the words, “I’ll think about it.”
Talon’s mouth curls wide and his eyes flash, and without saying another word, without pushing it, he grabs his notebook and begins quizzing me on the week’s topics.
There he goes, tackling my self-control, dominating the game like he does so well, and I have no one to blame but myself.
I’m letting him win.
The only question … why?
Chapter 14
Talon
“Take it easy, Tal. You don’t want to show up with a beer gut your first week,” my stepdad says Friday night at Miato’s in Laguna Cove. “You’re still hitting the gym every day, right?”
I drove two hours here per my mother’s request, all so I could partake in some bullshit celebration of my contract, which is really a roundabout celebration for Mark.
Mark reaches over, wrapping a chubby hand around my bicep before poking at my non-existent belly.
I wonder what he’d do if I poked his?
The bastard would probably shit himself. He’s not used to anyone pointing out any of his flaws. In his own mind, he’s rich, successful, and perfect in ways other men can only dream about. He lives in a self-made bubble of inflated confidence.
One of these days I intend to burst it.
But I won’t do it here or now, in front of my mother.
“Come on, you two,” Mom says, sipping her champagne and laughing like we’re just a couple of guys razzing each other, never mind the fact that Mark’s the one making the comments. I’m keeping my mouth shut, like I always do, for her sake. I swear I haven’t seen this much light in her eyes since I got my full ride football scholarship to PVU. It wasn’t like they couldn’t have afforded my tuition or I couldn’t have taken out loans and paid for college myself. It wasn’t about any of that. It was that they
wanted the bragging rights. They wanted that validation that the football camps and thousand-dollar-an-hour coaches and rigorous, year-round training schedules were worth it. “We’re here to have a good time now.”
I glance across the table at my teenage stepsisters, Hadley and Kelsey, their noses buried in the glow of their iPhones and virgin martinis resting in front of their untouched entrees.
Mom keeps placing her hand on Mark’s shoulder, leaning over and kissing him like they’re celebrating some monumental anniversary or lottery win. She can’t stop smiling. He can’t take that smug smile off his face to save his life.
“Talon, I hope you know your father would be so, so proud of you right now.” Mom’s voice strains and her eyes water and her hand moves to her throat as she chokes off tears. She normally only gets this way after three glasses of champs, not one. I’m guessing she engaged in a little celebratory pre-drinking before they left the house.
“Yes, he sure would be,” Mark echoes. “God rest his soul.”
The only time, and I mean the only time, Mark acts like he gives a rat’s ass about my dead father is when my mother gets sentimental, and then he has to play the role of the supportive second husband.
But Mark couldn’t care less.
He didn’t know my dad. Not on a personal level. My dad was an architect and Mark was a one-time client, commissioning a commercial office space building from him when I was six. My father was a bit older than my mother, who was strikingly beautiful in a timeless sort of way in her younger years, long before the Botox and implants and the things she felt she had to do to her body to look the part of Mark’s Orange County wife.
Fake lips.
Silicone boobs.
A plastic soul to encapsulate the authentic one she buried along with my father.
The two of them met at a group for grieving spouses, Mark having just lost his wife when she swerved off a cliff to avoid hitting a deer. His girls were just babies then. They needed a mom. And Mark needed money, seeing how he and his wife were too broke to spend a few hundred bucks a year on life insurance policies.
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