by Hart, Lane
It had been surreal, and afterwards I thought I'd received a concussion or imagined it after taking the hit to the ground. But no, there were video replays that confirmed Zack Bradford laid one on me that made my knees weak and my heart race in front of the entire stadium and televised audience.
I even deluded myself into thinking it had been more than a spur of the moment kiss. That maybe he'd actually noticed me and wanted me.
Wrong!
The man never looked at me again after that game.
A few days later I received the unexpected results of my biopsy and dropped out of school to start treatment. So that kiss had just been a single moment. An unbelievable, seriously romantic moment that I'll never forget for as long as I live.
Just as I've given up all hope, the man of the hour - no make that now almost two hours - finally appears, strolling in like he doesn't have a care in the world. The ridiculously sexy man looks like a modern day Viking warrior, and my first thought is that I'd like to be pillaged by him. Sad but true.
Mr. Star Quarterback is unfortunately even more gorgeous than the last time I saw him in person. His normally blonde hair is wet, making it look darker. All his muscular skin that's showing is shiny, and his clothing is dripping with sweat. The normally unpleasant moisture has never looked so deliciously good on anyone before.
I take a quick second to admire his tight fitting gray team tee stretched across his massive chest that tapers into his narrow waist before I get to his long legs covered by loose fitting, black workout pants. Zack was big in college, but now he's…yummy size.
Apparently he's also become an ego-centric prick over the years, one who thinks his time is more important than anyone else’s. Or maybe he's always been this way, but I just never made it past his devastating good looks to notice.
"Hey, how's it going? You got some shit for me to sign?" he asks, his eyes darting around and over to the items laid out on the table like he's in a hurry. Ha! What an asshole!
"Mr. Bradford, it's so nice of you to finally make an appearance. You obviously had more important things to do that required me to sit here waiting an extra two hours for you to grace me with your almighty presence. I'm sure that your workout absolutely couldn't wait until later." Wow, I didn't know I had such a bitchy attitude in me. This man managed to bring out the worst.
He just stands there, blinking his milk chocolate eyes down at me like I just shocked the shit out of him. Crap, if I piss him off and don't get these items signed then our fundraiser is screwed. As much as I hate to admit it, last year his items brought in the same amount of money as all the other players combined.
I take a deep breath to get my hormones under control and tone down my snippiness. Before I can insincerely apologize, his high and mighty speaks again.
"Sorry, I, ah, had a lot on my mind, and lost track of time," he says in that deep, sexy baritone of his, making him sound almost genuine and believable. Just hearing him speak a few words nearly wipes away my anger, but I have no intention of letting him off so easy.
"Well then, let's get down to it so you can move on to more important things in your busy day," I respond.
"Yes, let's...get down to it," he says, making the comment sound more sensual than is appropriate. Then the tall, good looking bastard actually smiles down at me in amusement. I have to look quickly away from his Hershey eyes before I swoon. I really don't want the cocky man to see he's already made me blush.
"You're so damn cute and tiny, like a...oh, I know," he says with a snap of his fingers. "Like a miniature Barbie!"
My heart skips several beats. Maybe I actually imagined those very bizarre words coming from his perfect mouth.
"And you look familiar. Have we…met before?" he asks, raking his gaze up and down my body. It's obvious from his pause that the word "met" could easily have been substituted with "fucked."
My breath catches and I don't immediately respond. I wait those few seconds, willing him to remember me. To remember us and that amazing kiss, proving that it was more than a random, spontaneous, heat of the moment occurrence. That it had meant...something to him, damn it!
When there's no recognition my shoulders slump in disappointment. If he doesn't remember then I'm certainly not going to embarrass myself by trying to help him recall our moment. "No, this is the first time I've had the pleasure of waiting two hours to meet you," I lie, although technically, we've never exchanged names, just tongues. "Here's the marker, and everything is laid out. Your name and jersey number should be fine on each," I tell him exasperatedly, not looking at him as I hold out the marker in his general direction.
"Do you know my jersey number?" he asks, not taking the offered pen. I look up at him to see what he's playing at. Damn it, he continues to give me that sexy, cocky grin.
"W-what?" I ask.
"Do you know my jersey number?"
"Why, have you forgotten it?" I ask.
Of course I know he wears the number fourteen. Same as from college. I actually have several of his jerseys hanging in my closet, not that I'd admit that shit in front of the arrogant prick. I'm seriously considering using them to line my cat's litter pan. I don't actually have a cat, but now I want to go rescue one from the pound to do just that.
"Come on, it's a simple question," he teases, clearly not dropping the issue or taking the offered marker to get this over with.
"Sixteen?" I huff out the wrong number just to be bitchy.
He crosses his massive arms over his wide expanse of chest and raises a dirty blonde eyebrow. "Sixteen? No. That would be my sorry ass backup's number."
"As shitty as you've been playing, Alex Marshall just might take your job soon." This statement is complete bullshit, but I can't miss the chance to try and bring his egotism down a notch.
Alex Marshall's a horrible player, washed up after eleven years in the league. He was picked up by the Wildcats three years ago for pennies. Even at five-foot-nothing and a little under a hundred pounds I might make a better quarterback than Marshall. Jesus help the Wildcats if Zack gets hurt.
The intimidatingly attractive man in front of me is not amused. His strong, bristly, golden jaw drops and he actually scoffs. "Wow. That's...really harsh."
"Oh, please. Like it's possible to bruise your enormous ego," I say with a roll of my eyes. Although, he does look somewhat upset. He's probably just a great actor.
"So not only are you cute, but you're a feisty little thing, too." He shakes his head and then finally grabs the offered marker to start signing.
After the last piece is marked and my box is loaded, I'm finally ready to head out.
"Thank you, Mr. Bradford. I'm so sorry you had to take five minutes from your incredibly busy day to help our cause."
I pick up the big, awkward box, lifting from my knees. Shit, this is going to be a challenge. If I can just get to Mr. Jones's office then I'm sure he'll help get it to my car.
"Yo, Polly Pocket? You need some help with your box?" the sexy jerk behind me asks. I'm instantly offended by his innuendo and nickname. I'm also momentarily distracted by the warmth of nostalgia that has me recalling a happy childhood memory. Playing with the little yellow Polly Pocket compact case that held the tiny wedding scene for a miniature bride and groom. It was probably my all-time favorite toy, and damn it, now he's tainted it!
"No, I've got it," I respond. In my rush to escape, I try to wedge the wide ass cardboard box through the narrow doorway and then immediately bounce backwards like a rubber ball when it doesn't fit.
"No, you don't," he says followed by a raspy laugh. He then reaches over my head and lifts the box from my hands. "Here, let me. I'm an expert at maneuvering large objects through tight spaces."
After his ridiculous comment he tilts the box through the door. Waiting for me in the hallway, he holds it up at shoulder level, balancing the box with one flat palm like it weighs nothing. "Where to, Polly?"
"To Mr. Jones's office."
"Then lead the way, feisty lady,"
he says. "What's your name anyway?"
"Natalie."
"Natalie?" he repeats in his deep baritone, simultaneously releasing a dozen butterflies in my belly. "I like it. It's also a helluva lot sexier than Polly."
"I'll be sure to tell my parents you approve of their name choice," I say with another eye roll to hide my pleasure in hearing my name come out from between his perfect lips. His bottom lip is all pouty and fuller than the top, begging to be nipped.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, I'm losing it.
"So, Natalie, do you ever come to our home games?" he asks.
I walk swiftly in front of him, more than ready to get out of this stadium before I embarrass myself even more. "A few."
"Do you watch the rest on TV?"
"Maybe."
"Are you married?" he asks.
"What?" My high heels stop moving and I spin around to look at him.
"Marr-ied?" he says slowly. "As in, do you have a husband?"
Was he implying that I look so old that I should be married by now?
"No, I don't have a husband. I'm only twenty-five, thank you very much."
"Hey, I'm twenty-five, too! When's your birthday?"
Did Zack Bradford seriously just ask me my birthday?
"January fourth."
"Then you're one month and ten days older than me." February fourteenth. Of course the charming man is a Valentine's baby, which also explained his jersey number.
"Thank you so much for pointing that out. Women love being reminded that they're older than other people." I shake my head at his audacity.
"Luckily for you, I happen to like older women." He chuckles and I try to ignore his ridiculous flirting as I knock on Mr. Jones's door. Apparently the man can't turn off the charm, and I don't know how much more I can take before I lose control and start licking sweat off of his massive body.
"Come in," Mr. Jones calls and I push his door open, glad to have a buffer from the hot quarterback.
"Hi, Mr. Jones. I just wanted to let you know I'm all finished up."
He looks at the clock on the wall and then around me at the big man holding the cardboard box.
"Oh, sure, Ms. Adair. I thought you'd already left and I'd just missed you."
"I got held up waiting on a few players." One really, really late player.
"Oh, well, good luck with the auction. We'll see you on October eighteenth?"
"Yeah, I can't wait," I tell him with a smile. I have tickets to the game, and was embarrassingly selected to be part of the halftime event thanks to my wonderful friends. But I’d do anything for those free tickets.
I'll have to buy another player's jersey to wear to the game since I now flat out refuse to wear the jackass's behind me. Maybe Jonathan Meyers. He was a nice, polite Southern gentleman.
"How's it going, Zack?" Mr. Jones asks the arrogant man.
"Been better. How about you, Bill?" Zack responds, sounding almost sad, which makes me glance back over my shoulder at him in surprise. He's still just as gorgeous as he was thirty seconds ago.
"I'm good. Ready to see you guys kick some ass and hopefully make the playoffs," Bill responds.
The Wildcats started the season oh and three, but all three games had been close, and with the toughest teams on the schedule.
"We don’t just want to make the playoffs, we're aiming for the Super Bowl." Zack laughs. "Although, Polly, I mean, Miss Adair here thinks Marshall might do a better job than me."
My face turns beet red at his remark. Only an idiot would really think such a thing, which is exactly what Mr. Jones's look conveys.
"What can I say, I'm an Alex Marshall fan," I respond with a shrug, hoping he'll buy the lie and let me leave.
"Right," both men say in unison, equally doubtful.
"Do you need some help getting the box to your car?" Mr. Jones asks.
"I'll take care of her box for her, Bill," Zack says, heavy with innuendo again. What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy?
"Thanks again, Mr. Jones," I tell him as I head for the hallway and quickly make my way to the parking lot.
"So you're coming to the game October eighteenth?" Zack asks from behind me.
"Uh-huh."
"Well hopefully Marshall won't have taken my job by then, and you can see me play."
"Uh-huh."
"Have dinner with me."
It sounded like I hallucinated him saying something about dinner. That's just ridiculous.
"Natalie?" he asks.
"Huh?" I pull my keys out of my purse and hit the unlock button on the key fob as we approach my Carolina blue Honda Fit. The same color as the Wildcats team. Also the same color as UNC's, which is where Zack and I went to school.
"Nice color," he says as I raise the hatchback.
"Thanks. It's my favorite." I step back for him to lower the box then shut the hatch.
"Mine, too."
Wow, Zack Bradford and I have something in common. Who would've thought?
"Okay, well, thanks for your help," I say as I start for the driver's door.
"You didn't answer my question," Zack replies. Quickly moving his large body, he stands against my driver side car door, blocking my chance at a getaway.
Good Lord the man is huge this close up. He's so damn buff it should be illegal to brandish such massive guns in public. Not to mention he has the perfect, gorgeous face of a male model and smells like a warm day at the beach. I try to focus on the Wildcats' logo on the center of his t-shirt instead of his distracting face...or...entire body. He's too damn incredible to take in and it's making my head hurt just trying.
"What question?" I ask. My mouth is so dry from practically panting with my tongue hanging out that it's hard to speak those two words.
"Have dinner with me."
A sudden burst of laughter escapes me, sounding embarrassingly similar to a girly giggle. I take a deep breath and close my eyes to try and get over the shock of those four words. It's also easier to think when I'm not looking at him. "That wasn't a question. It was a statement."
"Fine. Will you have dinner with me?" he amends. I gasp and my eyes fly open when one of his thick knuckles suddenly begins stroking its way up my neck until it's underneath my chin. Tipping it up I'm forced to look into his warm, brown eyes. His deep voice lowers when he says, "Or we could just go to my place and you could be dinner."
Oh God. My knees feel wobbly like they're going to pull a fast one and embarrass me in front of Zack freaking Bradford, sending me down on my ass. Use your brain, woman! He only wants to screw you, and basically just says as much!
I blink to break contact with his hypnotic gaze and take a step backwards so that his hand will fall away. "No, thanks. Hope you have a great season," I squeak out as I try to figure out a way to maneuver around his humongous body.
"No?" He jerks back against my car like I tasered him, using a word he's never heard before. Probably hasn't, which makes me even more confident in my response. And great, now there's probably a giant quarterback size dent in the side of my car.
"No. I decline. The opposite of yes. Could you please move now?" I ask with my hands on my hips while my cheeks begin to feel sunburnt.
"I'm unfamiliar with such a foreign concept. What exactly is this 'no' you speak of?" he deadpans.
That stupid girly giggle slips out again before I can respond. "Google it."
When the man still doesn't move I grumble and walk around to the passenger side. I'm sliding in and over the console to the driver seat before he realizes what I'm up to and yanks the driver's side door open. Shoot, I should've locked them after I got in.
"Are you seriously running away from me?" Zack asks with a deep chuckle, lowering to his haunches to get eye level. Oh and that just isn't fair. Don't look at his face! Don't look at his face!
I put the key in the ignition, crank my car in response, and then reach for my seatbelt.
"Fine, go ahead and drive your very sexy ass out of here, Polly Pocket, but I'm not giving up on you."
What does that mean and why do I feel so giddy that he asked me out? He didn't remember me from college, so is he actually interested in me? No way. Maybe he just felt guilty for being so late and doesn't want me to bad mouth him around town. Yeah right.
"Nice meeting you, Mr. Bradford," I tell him and he stands back up.
"Until next time, Miss Adair."
He finally shuts the door and I smile at his promise, trying to come to my senses as I drive away. I make the mistake of looking back at him in my rearview mirror, almost expecting him to have disappeared because I'd imagined the whole meeting. But nope, there he still stands. Zack Bradford is the hottest man alive, and he just asked out little ole me.
…
Zack
I shake my head in disbelief. No? A woman, one who's definitely not married because I did think to ask this time, flat out refused to have dinner with me? It was turning out to be a hell of a day.
I'm on the brink of losing my job, the first and only love of my life, unless I find a saint to pretend to be my girlfriend. Miraculously enough, I accidentally stumble upon the perfect woman, a woman who's not only gorgeous but actually works for a cancer organization for Christ's sake, and she turns me down. The one woman that is guaranteed to keep me in the league and she refuses to even have a meal with me. Hell. No.
I pull my phone out of my pants pocket while I walk back into the stadium, Googling the local breast cancer office and calling it.
"Thank you for calling the Carolina Breast Cancer Foundation," answers a feminine voice.
"Oh, hi. I'm trying to reach Natalie Adair."
"Okay, just a minute." The woman puts me on hold and I listen to elevator music as I make my way to the locker room.
"Sir? Ms. Adair's not here. She had an appointment out of the office and was supposed to be back hours ago, but she's not. I hope nothing's wrong," she says, actually sounding concerned for her coworker. "Would you like her voicemail?"
Yeah, I was what was wrong. I'd been so pissed after this morning's fun little meeting that I'd tried to burn off the anger by doing some heavy cardio up and down the stadium bleachers. Only when I'd gone back to the locker room hours later did I finally see the reminder of the missed appointment on my phone.