by Sarah Adams
Yeah, yeah, yeah, he’s so noble. But my brain stopped listening after one very important key statement.
“Wait. Go back. Did you say for not…” Again I’m at a loss for words.
Nathan Donelson did not sleep with the underwear model he dated for two months? My brain is not computing. It’s going to shut down, and fumes are about to puff out of my ears.
“You never had sex with her? Why?” I ask this question even though I shouldn’t. But I need to know, because Nathan is…Nathan! Just look at him. He oozes sexuality, and every woman in the world wants him. Even Mrs. Dorthea probably has the hots for him!
His face is frighteningly serious. We’re not joking around anymore. “Because I’m celibate.”
“What!” I accidentally yell this so loud a woman walking beside the truck turns to try to peer through the darkened window. Scram, lady. I look back at Nathan and whisper, “You’re a virgin?”
“No.” His smirk is a little too indulgent if you ask me. “I guess I should say I’ve been celibate lately.”
I shake my head, thinking of all the nights I wanted to cry myself to sleep thinking of him holding another woman in his arms. Holding Kelsey. Turns out, he wasn’t. “I don’t understand…she was there the morning I brought coffee over.”
“You’re at my house a lot in the mornings too. That doesn’t mean we’ve done anything physical.”
I suddenly can’t swallow. Or feel my toes. What’s happening?! Why am I reacting this way? It changes nothing really—except I feel like everything I knew has changed tonight. My foundation is shaking.
Nathan sees my wide eyes and rumbles out a short chuckle. “Why are you making this such a big deal?”
“Because,” I say emphatically like that’s enough of an answer. “You could have anyone you wanted at the snap of your fingers. Why would you be celibate?” I NEED TO KNOW! There’s something he’s still not telling me, and it’s bothering me. I didn’t think he and I had any secrets, but now I’m learning he has two big ones! How many more are there?
His dark eyes stare back at me. “Not anyone I want.”
My heart races up my throat. Those words mixed with the night and the fact that he bought my studio and we spend nearly every day together…it all suddenly holds so much implication, and…could this be it?! Could he mean—
He chuckles, a familiar playfulness washing over him again, and all hopeful thoughts halt. As they should.
“Look at your face,” he says through a soft laugh. “You were so terrified there for a minute. Bree, don’t worry. I’m only celibate during the season because it helps my game.”
His game? He’s celibate for the sake of football? Oh. Right. That’s more realistic and yet another reason to remind myself not to think of Nathan as anything other than a friend. That’s all we’ll ever be, and that has to be enough for me. It has to! I need to sit my sad little heart down and give it a stern talking to.
I let the air out of my lungs in one big rush, pretending I’m relieved so I can maintain the status quo. “Oh! Oh my gosh! Yes. That makes perfect sense. I’ve read studies about that too! I was worried there for a minute that you meant…” It feels too uncomfortable to say it out loud, also maybe a little pathetic. “Never mind. Let’s just go inside.”
“Okay.” He smiles inquisitively. I’m afraid my face is showing emotions it shouldn’t. “Are you alright?” he asks after he’s purchased a parking ticket (he refuses to use the valet because he says it only draws more attention to him) and we’re walking toward the restaurant.
“Of course! I just—” I need a change of subject. So I come to a stop and Nathan does too. I wait until he turns to look at me. “Listen, I still hate that you went behind my back and paid my rent, but…completely off the record…” I smile. “Thank you for caring about me that much. You’re…the best of friends.”
He nods once, not looking as happy as I would have anticipated. “Anything for you, friend.”
We stare at each other for a few beats.
“But I will pay you back,” I say, breaking first.
He groans loudly and walks away.
The moment the restaurant doors open, several heads turn and do a double take. I feel like it would be easier if I just ran in front of Nathan with a megaphone and yelled, Attention everyone! No, your eyes are not deceiving you. This truly is the great Nathan Donelson in the flesh!
One head leans toward another. The restaurant is a giant cocktail of whispers and stares. Women are salivating now. We’re going to need a mop on aisle two. They know him, they want him, and they will do anything to get him.
I do what I always do in situations like this and take two big steps away from him so I don’t get in the way of his bachelor availability. But Nathan grasps my elbow lightly and tugs me close to his side. I look up at him with a scowl because my body is getting far too excited about our proximity right now. He knows not to do this, and yet here he is, breaking another rule tonight. His face is chiseled stone as he stares straight ahead, ignoring my glare.
The hostess finally notices us and rushes to her little podium. Her eyes rake over Nathan’s body, and the sheer want displayed in her dilated pupils is uncomfortable for everyone. Get in line, lady. I sigh then inwardly growl as my jealousy rises up and tells me to pick apart this woman’s looks to find a flaw that will make me feel better about myself. Not cool, Bree. If Nathan wants this beautiful woman, that’s his prerogative.
“Mr. Donelson, you can follow me. Your party is right this way.” But maybe I can be a little annoyed that she’s practically purring?
He nods and gives her that polite smile that makes women drop like flies. But then he presses his hand to my low back and pulls me with him. It’s a possessive touch that he never uses. My skin boils, but I tell it to slow itself to a simmer because it doesn’t mean anything. Based on the pace he’s moving at, his hand is only pressing into me like this because he’s trying to get me to move faster to get us away from all these prying eyes and not-so-subtle whispers. Maybe we should have called ahead and come in the back entrance?
I nearly trip over my tennis shoes as I try to keep pace with him. Also, tennis shoes?!
“Nathan!” I hiss as we walk not so discreetly through the upscale restaurant—I’m assuming this hostess was told to parade Nathan through the belly of the beast so everyone knows he was here—toward a hallway that leads to a VIP lounge. “Why did you have to kidnap me dressed like this? You should have told me to change! I thought we were going to a burger place or something.” Which, I now realize, was a silly thought. The Sharks are officially in the playoffs, and Nathan and Jamal’s celebrity status has skyrocketed. They have to be careful where they go right now, and I’m assuming most burger places wouldn’t have a VIP lounge to give them privacy.
Nathan’s brows dip and he scans his eyes over me as we walk. He takes in my yellow scrunchie, F.R.I.E.N.D.S. logo t-shirt, scuffed-up sneakers, and ankle-cropped jeans. He smiles. “You look great as always.”
“No, I don’t,” I say, accidentally bumping into the back of his bicep when I look behind me at the women in tiny dresses lining the bar we just passed. “I look like your teenaged little sister who you just picked up from school.”
His hand presses firmer into my back so I don’t trip again. “I don’t think you’re getting glares from those women because they assume you’re my little sister.”
I would refute that comment, but in the next moment we are swept inside the lounge. We’re the only ones back here, so I’m assuming all the other celebrities decided to have their chefs cook for them at home tonight.
A velvet rope gets clasped behind us. We’re led to a private little nook with drapes hanging around it for added privacy. Good thing, too, because a small crowd was beginning to form behind us, poised to receive autographs and photos the moment Nathan sits down.
“Here you are,” says the woman I’m definitely not letting myself be jealous of. She gives a pretty little wink and walks off
, cute hips swaying. It’s not until I turn back to Nathan and see him staring at me and holding back a smile that I realize I was shooting laser beams at the hostess the whole time.
“If looks could kill,” he says, giving in to his quiet grin.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but we get interrupted.
“Bree Cheese!” says Jamal Mericks, emerging from the draped nook wearing an incredible suit. I get tugged away from Nathan and wrapped up in an enormous, expensive-cologne-filled hug. “Quit hogging her, man. It’s my birthday.”
“Yeah, Nathan, quit being so stingy,” I say sarcastically while digging around in my purse to find Jamal’s present.
He rubs his hands together, and the gold watch on his wrist twinkles. “Oooo am I getting a Breenket?! Please say I am. It’s been too long since you gave me that cat figurine.” It was in honor of the time Jamal and I went to a cat cafe together to overcome his fear of felines. Unfortunately, the scratch he got from that particularly crabby tabby got super infected, and now he won’t even go in the same room as a cat. Anyway, I got him the cat figurine so he can have one kitty that will never scratch him.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”
He grimaces, looking at Nathan. “She doesn’t have a real cat stuffed in that bag, does she?”
“Wouldn’t tell you if she did,” says Nathan, earning ten brownie points from me.
Jamal sighs, shuts his eyes, and cups his hands in front of him. “Trusting you with my life.”
So here’s the story: Jamal likes to make sure he looks good at all times, so he slips off to look in the bathroom mirror a lot when we’re out at a bar. Last time, while he was gone asking the mirror who was the fairest of them all, he missed a Nicole Kidman sighting. Nicole is Jamal’s lifelong crush, and he was devastated to learn he’d missed his chance at seeing her in person. (It’s important to note that this was the offseason and we were all several drinks in, and also that Nicole Kidman’s friend called her Sally.)
I place a compact mirror in Jamal’s hands. “So you never have to miss Nicole again!”
He squints an eye open and laughs, opening the little black circular mirror to peer at himself. “The perfect Breenket. Nathan, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m officially stealing Bree as my best friend.” He slips it into his pocket and wraps an arm around my shoulder at the same time that I put mine around his waist. Jamal turns me away from Nathan before I can get a look at his expression. I don’t know why I want to see it. It’s not like he’d be jealous.
But I do hear Nathan mumble, “Over my dead body.” So that’s sort of gratifying.
He parts the drapes, and all of my favorite guys in the world are already seated around a giant table. I’m once again struck by how wild it is that my best friend is the quarterback of the Sharks. These are Nathan’s teammates, some of the sweetest men I’ve ever met.
Jamal Mericks is the starting running back, Derek Pender plays tight end, Jayon Price (we just call him Price) plays wide receiver, and Lawrence Hill plays left tackle. These men could all squash me between their thumb and forefinger, but they are all softies who honest-to-goodness treat me like their queen. They would carry me around on a chair lifted above their shoulders if I let them. I have no idea why—probably because I’m that girl who doesn’t have an ounce of threat in my five-foot-four body. To these guys (Nathan included), I’m just Bree Cheese, the fun-loving, curly-haired girl everyone loves with the dance studio above the pizza parlor.
“Bree!” All the guys cheer when they see me, and I give them a funny little curtsy. Next thing I know, these rowdy boys have all lifted and shifted me around the table to where I’m sandwiched in the middle of everyone. I look like a baby sitting between four bouncers. This is always how it goes. They’re always very respectful, but they do like to move me around like I’m a hot potato.
“No ladies tonight?” I ask with a chuckle as everyone takes a turn kissing my cheek and then plopping a round of shots down in front of me. Jamal’s arm goes behind me on the bench, and I can’t help but notice Nathan’s quiet grin as he watches from across the table.
“Nah—no one can compare to you. It’s just us tonight,” says Jamal with a smile nearly as devastating as Nathan’s. Such flirts. “Also, Dad won’t let us have more than one drink because of the playoffs. You good to party enough for all of us?”
The team refers to Nathan as Dad because he’s always the respectable stick in the mud. It’s not because Nathan doesn’t like to have fun, though. He can party with the best of them in the offseason, but in the regular season, Nathan puts his career first. He will do everything he can to win.
Lawrence picks up a shot and hands it to me with a mischievous glint in his eyes before he picks up his own. I eye it like it’s a snake, because anyone who knows me knows I’m a lightweight. The guys can down one of these and never feel a thing. I, on the other hand, am a jump on the table and karaoke Adele into my fork with a napkin on my head after only a few drinks kind of girl. That’s a completely hypothetical situation, of course. Didn’t really happen a few months ago or anything…
Derek reaches over and plucks a shot for himself. “It’s been too long since I’ve heard my favorite song.”
Price and Lawrence tilt their foreheads together and sing into a single shot glass. “Hello, it’s Bree…”
Yep. They change the lyrics and pester me with it as often as possible. So you can see how things go south for me real quick if I’m not careful. Since I haven’t had anything to eat today since lunch and feel slightly unhinged after all the recent revelations from Nathan, I need to be extra careful with these innocent-looking beverages. I eye the shot then look back up at Nathan. What are the odds I’ll tell him I want to have his babies if I drink more than one of these tonight? Usually, I’m pretty good at keeping my lips sealed. Well, karaoke songs aside.
Nathan and I make eye contact across the table, and I expect to see a note of warning to be careful in them (because he was the one who had to scoop me off the table and carry me home after my fabulous Adele performance), but his smile widens and he nods toward the shot.
“Go for it. I’ll watch out for you tonight and get you home safe.” He holds up his hand and closes his thumb over his pinky, leaving the correct three fingers sticking up. “Scout’s honor.”
A familiar swirling sensation tiptoes around my stomach. He will keep me safe. He always does. I add that quality to my list of necessities for my future man: can trust him with my life.
I toss back the shot and let it burn my throat as the table bursts into shouts and cheers.
“Just go check on her so you’ll quit obsessing,” Jamal says, pulling my attention back to the table where I immediately stop tapping my finger. We’ve been here almost three hours now, and usually the guys would have run up an alcohol bill that could easily pay for a new car, but not tonight. We’re all on strict diets to keep us in top shape, which means little to no alcohol, lean proteins, and lots of vegetables. We’re not messing around.
Well, all of us except Bree. She’s been knocking ’em back like a toddler with a juice box problem. I usually wouldn’t mind, but tonight it’s making me feel guilty, because I think I’m the reason she’s drinking so much. When she found out I’ve been paying her rent and then on top of that found out I’m celibate, I think I basically flipped her life upside down and shook all the change out. I didn’t mean to tell her I’m celibate, but I sort of had no choice when Kelsey’s article was spreading lies. The honest truth is I’m celibate by choice. I don’t know, one day I just woke up and realized I was done trying to trick myself into thinking I wanted anyone other than Bree. If it’s not with her, I don’t want it.
Geez. Now I’m realizing how absurd that sounds. Jamal is right—I’ve got to do something about this friendship or I’m going to die a lonely, pining, sexually frustrated man. I can’t keep going like this forever, but I feel stuck. And the look on Bree’s face when I hinted that she might be the reason for my
celibacy…I’d rather be punched in the stomach than see it again.
“I’m not obsessing. I’m just…”
“Obsessing,” the rest of the table states obnoxiously in unison.
I smirk and shake my head, looking down at my phone to see if Bree has sent me any rescue texts. None from her, but I have two missed calls from my agent followed by five texts updating my schedule for the week and adding more meetings to an already packed agenda. There’s also a whole slew of messages from my mom with her own notes about how I could have played better in my last game.
* * *
Mom: I was just watching the highlights from Monday night’s game, and you were looking a little sluggish.
Mom: I think you should fire your nutritionist and go with the woman I found for you.
Mom: And you’re holding on to the ball too long.
* * *
Cool, now she’s my offensive coach.
* * *
Me: I’m out with friends right now. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.
Mom: You’re still out right now? It’s late. This is not going to help you play better. You need to—
* * *
I stop reading there and pocket my phone. She lives in Malibu now, but somehow her expectations still reach me in Long Beach. They’re nothing new though. She’s been pushing me to play my best game since pee wee football. I know I shouldn’t complain too much because she helped get me to where I am, but it wears on me. Mostly because she does accurately point out my weak spots. It makes me feel like I should be up earlier tomorrow to watch the tapes and see if I am holding on to the ball too long.