The Bombshell Effect

by Karla Sorensen

  The photographer gave us a brief handshake when he came to move the stool between us. Then he shook his head. “Can I get another stool? I think I want them sitting and her standing.”

  I took a deep breath. Maybe I’d had a brief psychotic break for suggesting this. It was the only plausible explanation.

  My eyes caught Allie’s as she came from behind the screen, and I knew I’d lost my mind. When she told me she’d try to make it enjoyable, I was quite certain neither of us had anticipated this.

  They’d clipped the red jersey behind her so that it was snug around her hips, showing off the curve of her waist. It was a dummy jersey, a bright white number one on the front. Maybe something they’d had specially made for her. Wherever they’d gotten it, it worked.

  A makeup artist touched up her lips and swept more blush on her cheeks while someone ran a brush through her hair so that it looked sleeker than when we first arrived. With the deft twist of her hands, the stylist had Allie’s hair curled over her shoulders, looking every inch the bombshell that she was.

  When I first met her, I’d have bet a whole truckload of money that she preferred this. The lipstick, the face full of makeup, the team of primping people. But she looked so different to me now because every time I saw her at home, she was bare-faced and casual. Stunning in her simplicity because that was how deep her natural beauty ran.

  It was as if someone took a jar of everything I’d thought to be true and threw it into a paint shaker until everything spun so fast that I couldn’t remember what it looked like before. I’d crack the lid and see something completely different.

  This was still the Allie who smashed the cupcakes against my shirt. But she wasn’t.

  Would she say the same thing about me?

  The photographer eyed Jack and me. “You two need to loosen up. Shake your arms out, do some jumping jacks, something.”

  Jack actually did it while I just let out a deep breath and stood with my arms crossed over my chest. Allie walked between two assistants and stopped when she was facing me.

  Her eyes traced the letters on my shirt, which were just below eye level for her. She mimicked my posture and smirked up at me.

  Click. Flash.

  I flinched, glaring out at the harsh lights. The photographer wasn’t visible behind the lens of his black camera, but I could sense his instant excitement.

  “Do that one more time,” he commanded. “Allie, pop your hip out just a bit more. Yes.”

  With a small toss of her hair, she did as he asked, facing me again. This time, it was harder to feel like we were enemies because she was smiling. Her movements were small, not like before. Little turns of her head toward the light, angling her chin up at me, lips curved and then straight, gaze always locked on mine.

  I stayed perfectly still as if I’d scare her away if I started trying to mirror what she was doing.

  They’d done something to her eyes. Lined them with too much black. Made her lashes too long. It was too much because of how it made her face look. I felt as if I was trying to stare into the sun again, the jewel brightness of her face almost otherworldly, like a light bulb behind wavy blue glass.

  “So, uhh, do you need me here or what?” Jack asked.

  Allie laughed over her shoulder at him.

  Click. Flash.

  “Guys,” the photographer said, “you sit in the stools. Cross your arms just like that, Luke. Same for you, Jack. Both look straight at the camera, no smiles. Good, good. Allie, you stand between them and just work your hands and arms a bit for whatever feels natural.”

  Jack and I did as directed, but the knot of tension twisted and turned under my skin when she stood between us. She started with her arms crossed like ours, then the music got louder, the bass heavier, and her body moved again. She never stopped her slow, smooth movements.

  At the first touch of her hand on my shoulder, I managed not to jump out of my skin. On the back of my neck, I could feel the tips of her nails. Her hips canted in an angle, and the pressure of her fingers against my skin increased as if we were propping her up.

  Click. Flash.

  Those fingers slid across my shoulder, gentle and slow over the cotton of the shirt, and I kept my eyes forward, my face stern.

  No smiles? Not a freaking problem.

  What might be a problem was that if I stood, the entire room would see that our bombshell boss had just given me an inconvenient boner.

  Breathe in, I told myself. Breathe in and breathe out.

  Was she touching Jack this way?

  I risked a quick glance to the side, and no, her wrist was resting casually over his shoulder, but staying firmly in place even as her fingers trailed over the line of my neck.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  My hands tingled, and my blood roared. This was unfettered, unencumbered attraction. And I’d forgotten how incredibly powerful it was.

  “Great. This is great, guys.” His finger snapped away. How many freaking pictures could you take of one stupid pose? “Now stand up slightly behind her. Someone grab a football, okay?”

  Jack stood first. I recited my dead grandma’s name in my head, over and over and over, until I felt like I could stand without embarrassing myself.

  When I finally did, Allie was staring at me with a quirked eyebrow. I shook my head and went behind her. As I rolled my neck, it occurred to me that we’d exchanged two sentences since I walked in the door. That was it. And for some reason, I felt like she was the one in the room who knew exactly what I was feeling.

  With that disconcerting thought, I waited patiently while they arranged for her to hold a football against her hip with one hand as she faced the camera. I propped my hands on my hips, as did Jack. When I inhaled too deeply, the front of my chest brushed against her back, and I saw Allie suck in a deep breath.

  “Good. Jack, move to the left a bit.” He looked around his camera and squinted. While he got situated, I cleared my throat. Allie glanced up at me over her shoulder, and I kept my face even, but inside, I burned.

  Inside, where I could smell her, where I could feel her heat just in front of my chest, where I knew without checking that I could span her ribcage with one hand, I burned with a violent heat that I’d never felt in my entire life.

  She blinked and looked back at the camera. So did I.

  Click. Flash.

  “And that,” the photographer said in a satisfied tone, “is our cover shot.”

  14

  Allie

  There was music. And people cheering. Men stretching on the field in really tight pants. And I was frozen in the tunnel that led out to the field.

  “You can do it, Allie.”

  I pinched my eyes shut and gripped Joy’s hand. Her knuckles were large from some arthritis she said didn’t bother her much. “Why does this feel so important?”

  At her soft laugh, I finally opened my eyes. Would she think it was weird if I held her hand all the way out onto midfield? Probably.

  This was freaking ridiculous. I knew it. When Joy and I talked about the regular season, she told me all about my father’s rituals on game day. He walked the field while the team warmed up, speaking to each one. Once he’d done that, he retreated to his box, where he watched the entire game before heading home to eat some cherry chocolate chip ice cream, win or lose. Before his departure for frozen dairy, he’d visit the locker room to provide encouragement if they lost and join in the celebration if they won.

  I’d made it through preseason, two losses and one win, but I’d stayed in my owner’s box for each one, just trying to make it through each game without asking stupid questions.

  But this ... everything was bigger and louder. There was a crackle in the air that lifted the hair on my arms, a churning, fast energy from the fans in the stands, already in their seats early just to catch a glimpse of the players as they warmed up.

  “It feels important because it counts now, sweetie,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “You go on out there and talk
to your guys. You know all their names. I’d wager you know all their wive’s and girlfriend’s names, too.”

  I sure as hell did. That binder was worn from me studying it during the preseason.

  I turned to her, taking her other small hand in mine. “How do I look?”

  She smiled, then gave me a decisive nod. “Like a boss bitch.”

  My laugh was loud and decidedly unfeminine. “Thank you.”

  For as much as I’d love the looks we chose for the photo shoot, I went far more severe for the first game. It was away, so we’d flown out as a team a couple of days earlier, and I wanted to fade into the background as much as possible tonight.

  Tonight, it was about the team. Everything was on their broad shoulders. My hair was slicked back in a low ponytail, my lips bare, my feet clad in flats. My jeans were dark and fitted, and the shirt I’d picked from the pro shop was bright white with a small Wolves logo on a tiny pocket over my right breast. It was simple, and I loved it.

  My father maybe would’ve worn a suit, but this was me. I needed to figure out how I would do things. Which was why I let go of Joy’s wrinkled hands and walked out onto the field with my chin lifted. Behind a few paces were two nondescript security guards with no necks and massive arms, a precaution that Cameron insisted on for our first regular season game, especially since we weren’t at home.

  So far, they’d shadowed me in a way where I didn’t notice them. But out on the field, I was grateful for their presence. Phones lifted immediately as I started walking down the line of our defensive lineman stretching out their tree trunk legs. A couple of fans shouted my name, and I gave them a smile even though they were wearing the home team jerseys and not ours.

  Dayvon, one of the captains I’d met on the first day, stood from a stretch and held out a meaty fist. I tapped it with my own.

  “How you doin’ tonight, Miss Allie?”

  I held my hand over my stomach. “Nervous. Is that normal?”

  He laughed, and the sound was so warm that I found myself relaxing. “If you weren’t a little nervous, I’d wonder about you.”

  With wide eyes, I stayed next to him and surveyed the massive field. Players ran drills, did stretches, laughed, and talked with opposing players and coaches. At midfield, standing tall on the bright green grass like a Greek god, was Luke. He dropped back and launched the ball down the field into the waiting arms of one of the tight ends. It was so effortless. So ... beautiful. He nodded and motioned for another go.

  I hadn’t seen him since the photo shoot. Watching him in this arena, the place he stepped up and became the leader, I had to fight the urge to lay my hand on my stomach again. He looked larger than life. Strong and fast. Sure in his actions. It was humbling to know how very out of place I was among them, but they were welcoming me anyway.

  Maybe that was how Luke felt walking into the photo shoot. Oh, his face. Very little could have prepared me for the exact moment when we locked eyes from across that sprawling space. Whatever seed had been planted the night I freaked the hell out on his back porch had unfurled into something ... something that made me feel crazy when he was around me.

  It was the tension snapping and vibrating between us, held aloft by the air, by his eyes on me.

  With two strong hands, I shoved that out of my head, because this was not.the.place to be thinking about hot, tension-y things in regards to Luke Pierson.

  After forcing a smile on my face, I made my way through the rows of players, all of whom seemed loose, happy, and relaxed despite the massive season they were about to undertake. Sixteen weeks of physically grueling work, even more mental prep, and possibly more if we made the playoffs. It was a small thing for me to make sure they saw my face each week and knew that I was paying attention to how hard they were working. Maybe that was why my father had done it. To remind them that he was paying attention.

  It was enough to make me pause somewhere around the forty-yard line.

  Had he done that with me? Had I even noticed?

  Someone said my name again, and I looked into the stands to see three little girls holding up a sign, Wolves jerseys covering their bodies. The sign said We’re Team Sutton.

  With a hand over my heart, I made my over to where they were leaning over the railing. The security guards maintained a respectful distance when the girls handed me a bright pink marker so I could sign their programs.

  “Oh, thank you,” one said in a shocked whisper.

  “You’re so pretty,” said another.

  “Enjoy the game, girls.” I waved at them after I’d signed all their stuff, and the sweet giggles that followed me as I walked away were enough to make any bullshit I’d gone through worth it. The distraction was enough that I realized I’d missed the last handful of our team before they ran off to head back to the locker room, Luke included.

  Maybe I was a chicken, but I let out a deep sigh of relief and made my way up to the owner’s box.

  When I walked into the locker room, the celebratory sounds were deafening.

  Dayvon scooped me up in his arms, whooping and yelling. I could barely catch my breath from laughing, and my face hurt from smiling. Playing a division rival on their home turf had been a horrible game to watch. Horrible for me because it was so close. Back and forth, the entire game, the two teams had stayed within one touchdown of each other.

  With thirty-two seconds to go and down by three points, Luke had thrown a bomb down the field into the waiting hands of Jack, who evaded four defenders to run it in for a touchdown. My entire suite had erupted as well as the Wolves fans we had in the away stands, and watching the guys tackle each other on the field, I thought my face might split open from smiling.

  During the entire walk down to the locker room, I felt very much like a bottle of champagne that had been violently shaken and only had one flimsy cork holding all the bubbles at bay. Joy was at my side, chattering happily about tackles and screens and play action, and all I could do was beam at every person we passed.

  But that feeling was nothing compared to the explosion of the locker room.

  It was addictive. Their happiness, the effervescent, powerful force was a high like I’d never known.

  “Miss Sutton,” Jack yelled from where he stood on a bench in our locker room. “We fuckin’ did it!”

  Dayvon set me down, slinging a heavy arm around my shoulder. It was then that I realized just how sweaty and smelly the locker room was. How sweaty and smelly every single guy in that room was. I gave him a smile and ducked out from under his arm just as Coach Klein stood in the middle of the locker room and motioned for silence. In his hands, he held a ball.

  “All right,” he yelled when a few players in the back were still whooping. “Great game, guys. You looked sharp, you looked fast, you looked hungry.” More cheers and happy cursing, if there was such a thing. “But I’m most proud of much you looked like a unit. A team. No one man more important the others, right?”

  From my perch against a steel beam, I crossed my arms and watched the sweaty, smiling faces around me. This was their church, I thought. For them, this was a spiritual experience. Taking all the things they’d practiced and executing them so efficiently that they emerged the victor. It rolled through the space like a spirit, and I breathed it in, regardless of the smell that came with.

  Was it possible that I’d found my place among men such as this? One game probably wasn’t enough to be able to tell, but a comfort seeped through me at that moment, something I’d never experienced before, and I wanted to grab it with both hands and hold tight with all my strength.

  Coach lifted the ball, and everyone went quiet again. “The first game ball is an important one, isn’t it?”

  There were murmurs of agreement, everyone shifting in place as if they were too jacked up to stop moving. It was something I could understand as my fingers tapped along my arm of their own volition.

  Klein held up a hand again, smiling now like I hadn’t seen him smile once on the sidelines. “Pie
rson, get your ass up here.”

  Cheers went up as he made his way from the back. I tilted my head to watch him, my skin tightening at the mess of his hair, the tight white shirt pasted to his body with sweat, the grooves and curves of his muscles stark against the material.

  He stopped next to Coach, hands propped on his hips, and a small smile on his handsome face. Underneath his eyes was that black stuff that I still didn’t understand. He looked like he’d fought a battle—dirty and exhausted and happy. And ... hot. Okay, he looked hot. And sweaty. And hot.

  With muscles. Sweaty, tattooed muscles.

  Damn it, Allie, I hissed in my head. Mental slap completed, I took a deep breath and focused on Coach again.

  “This job never gets easier, but today, you made it look pretty damn easy.”

  Luke grinned, and my breath snapped to a stop in my throat.

  Coach handed him the ball, and he held it up to the roar of cheers from his teammates. Then his eyes found mine. Desperately, I fought for the same happy smile that I’d given to Dayvon and to Jack. To the rest of the men in the room.

  But I couldn’t move my lips. It was all I could do to fight against the blooming ache in my chest when he stared at me like that. It was the same way he’d stared at me during the photo shoot. Except now we were surrounded by dozens of people who would read that ... tension differently.

  With more willpower than I thought I had at my disposal, I pulled my eyes away and talked briefly to Joy.

  “We best be on our way, sweetie,” she spoke loudly into my ear. “They’re about to get naked, and I think my ticker would give out if I witnessed that.”

  I laughed, putting an arm around her shoulder.

  Joy and I, followed by my nice security guys who’d waited outside the locker room, helped us navigate past some journalists who shouted questions. Because I wanted the focus to be the team, I waved and smiled but didn’t answer anything. For now.