Not a Perfect Save: A Fling to Forever Football Romance (Wrong Place, Right Time Book 2)

by Ivy Hunt

  I fiddle with the handgrips of my crutch for something to do as I wait for Connor to unlock the door. What just happened?

  “Thanks,” I mumble, preceding him in once he gets it open.

  His head dips in acknowledgment, and he flips on the lights. I am confronted by another set of steps, and almost groan.

  Rooms flank either side of the central staircase. On the left is a huge living room with comfortable looking grey couches, and on the right is a dining room tailored for turkey dinners.

  Thankfully, Connor doesn’t subject me to more torture, and leads me to the back of the main level. He points out a powder room and tells me to grab anything I want from the kitchen, fully equipped with shiny countertops, sparkling appliances, and not a fridge magnet in sight. Everything is immaculate. I bet it would pass the white-glove test. Hell, I'm sure I could run a UV wand over the entire house and not be grossed out.

  We get to a huge den. One side has old-school arcade games and a felt-topped poker table. The other section is dominated by a large-screen TV with beanbags and theater-style seats across it. Small tables for drinks separate the chairs. The whole space is an expensive clubhouse, more in line with the pro-athlete persona I expected.

  My butt finds a chair and I prop the crutch to one side. I shut my eyes with a sigh.

  “Can I get you anything?” Connor asks, his voice husky.

  I grunt a no. Even with my lids shut, I sense his gaze drift over my body, making me tingle. How is he affecting me like this? What kind of brain injury have I sustained?

  “Okay.” Connor lingers for a few seconds before I register footsteps receding into silence.

  My eyes pop open, and I swallow. I presume he’s somewhere around given it’s his house. Still, I feel abandoned. It’s stunning how quickly one gets accustomed to having another person around, and then when they don’t feel the same attachment, it’s a kick in the gut. Not that I had any illusions that Connor was going to hang out or anything.

  Still. What host abandons his guest?

  Maybe a host who’s had a guest foisted upon him like peas plunked on a plate?

  Even so, what kind of establishment is he running here? That’s it—one-star review for Casa de Connor.

  I subject the room to a glare of displeasure. Ugly green walls. Moronic video games. Stupid TV.

  My deranged thoughts and pounding head can’t distract me from the quiet for long, and cold sets into my bones. It's the first time I've been on my own since the robbery.

  Isolation claws at my insides and shadows loom even in the warm lighting. A lump fills my throat. Refusing to give in to the low-level panic bubbling in my stomach, I stand and drag my aching body to the bathroom. Once there, I turn the tap on and let the water run, just to drown out the silence. The form staring back in the mirror makes me wince. A full-blown Medusa. No wonder Connor hurried away. I wouldn’t subject me to myself if I had a choice either.

  Dark circles and brown freckles are the only color in my pale face, while mud-streaked clothes and hair twisted in knots complete the picture. I wash up as best as I can. There’s a new toothbrush under the sink, along with fresh towels, though I still wish I had a change of clothes. In an attempt to tame my hair, I drag my fingers through the wavy locks but stop at the first snag—my head throbs too much for any more prettying up.

  Finally, I steel myself and hobble back to the den where my brain stutters to a halt.

  Connor is in a Henley and grey sweats, his long, lean body sprawled on one of the chairs now converted into a bed. Another one, separated by a small table, has also been flattened and is covered in white sheets. Are those military corners?

  My eyebrows lift. “Wait, are you staying here, too?”

  “Concussion protocol. Gotta check up on you,” he says, sitting up.

  The rush of relief that fills me is undeniable. And after the talking-to I gave myself, unwanted. "You can't just come visit?"

  He tips his head at his barely used crutch, propped at the base of the bed. "You want me trekking up and down the steps?"

  “Oh, so now you need it?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a big house.”

  I plop down on my bed and raise my crutch. “En-garde. For right of sole occupancy!”

  Connor’s brows rise in disbelief before his lips twitch and he breaks out into full-blown laughter. He snatches up his own epee just as I thrust, and the metal legs cross with a clang. I drive my rapier to the side, trying to get him from a different angle, but he easily parries my clumsy attack. Fucci, these things are awkward.

  I lunge, but he eludes me once more. When I glare, all I get is a chuckle in return before he taps my trembling crutch on either side then forces my blade to the ground, ending our bout.

  He whoops in triumph and punches the air, but when he notices my heaving breaths, his expression dissolves from victorious to guilty. “Shit, I—“

  "So that's your plan? Wake up in the middle of the night and poke me with your stick?" I puff.

  For a second, we stare at each other. Then he chokes out a laugh. I register my words.

  Mouth, meet foot.

  I fight the urge to grin in return, but it prevails and pulls at my lips.

  Finally, finally, some of the stress from the night leaves me. I lean against the backrest and whoosh out a deep breath of relief.

  Chapter Six

  CONNOR

  My lips are still twitching at our spontaneous sword-play. But there are a few other places I’d rather thrust my saber.

  I wince at my own pun, even as my cock perks up at the thought of any kind of thrusting in combination with Ella. Dickhead.

  I gesture at the blue t-shirt next to the bottle of Advil and a glass of water on the small table between our beds. “Figured you might want to change into something else.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m just going to wait outside, give you some privacy,” I mutter, stepping into the hallway. But the additional distance does nothing to stop my imagination from going wild. How soft is her skin? Are her nipples rosy or dusky? Do her freckles run all the way down her body? My cock twitches again. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m not a man whore like some of my teammates. Hell, I haven’t gotten any in months. Maybe that’s the problem? I pace the hallway until a thump emerges from the den.

  “You done?” I grit out.

  “Um… yeah.” Ella sounds hesitant.

  I peek into the room. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, grimacing. “What’s wrong?” In three steps, I’m at her side.

  “Ah... These won’t come off.” She points at her lap. Soft, pale skin is exposed in the gap where the T-shirt ends, high on her thighs, and her jeans, now bunched above the splint. “My foot’s stuck. Can you, um, help?”

  Fuck my life.

  Somehow, I manage to keep my expression bland. “Of course.” I drop to my haunches and hook my thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans. She shivers at the contact of my fingers against her calves, her full lips parting as she lets out a slow breath. Meanwhile, my dick is going into overdrive. I let out a soft grunt.

  Suspicious green eyes lock on mine as she props her hands on my shoulders for additional stability. “Don’t get any ideas, Boy Scout.”

  “Who, me? No way.” I follow my statement with a quick salute, then return to my task. When she gives a little giggle. My chest loosens and some of the earlier tension dissipates.

  I drag the denim down, savoring each soft inch. Her hands clench on my shoulders and her breath hitches.

  She’s hurting, you pervert.

  I get one foot free and then inch the rough denim over off the other.

  Still crouched between her splayed legs, I try not to notice the hint of pink lace in the shadow between her thighs. But my attention must rest there just a second too long because she huffs. I plant my fists on the mattress by her hips, and force my gaze up, prepared for her ire. But when I lock on her face, she’s biting her lip, and her eyes are bright with arousal. “C
onnor...”

  I growl. “Ella...”

  My hand comes up to cup her face and my thumb traces along her bottom lip. She releases it but then her tongue sneaks out and gives it a quick lick. A sharp breath escapes me as my cock stirs again. This is madness.

  Hazy, feverish eyes are bright with arousal and pain. I come to my senses and clear my throat. “Get some sleep. I’ll be right over there, okay?” I’ve suffered concussions and know how brutal they can be. Heaving myself up, I say, “Poke me with the stick anytime you want.”

  Ella gives me a small, tired grin as she stretches out, pulling the blanket over herself.

  She’s asleep before I switch off the lights.

  I sit down on my bed and rest my head in my hands, taking deep breaths and calling myself all kinds of a pervert.

  Chapter Seven

  CONNOR

  I stir before the alarm goes off. My watch shows that it’s 4 a.m. and time to check on my guest. It took me a while to fall asleep—the dark ceiling of my den was the recipient of my stare for a long time after I lay down. I’ve only been out for an hour or so. Strange, because in the military, you learn to fall asleep in any situation—while always keeping some part of yourself alert.

  I heave myself up and test my ankle. A little stiff, but no pain. I knew the doctors and Dan were being cautious, but it’s damned irritating to be coddled like this. Valuable enough to be paid millions of dollars a year, they certainly don’t want to be damaging their ‘soldier’. I snort. It’s annoying as shit that that’s how Dan has branded me, but it’s stuck.

  Shadows fill the room. I left one light on so that Ella wouldn’t be in the pitch black in case she woke up during the night.

  I turn to face her. Ella is on her side and has managed to kick off her blanket. The T-shirt has ridden up, exposing the soft skin of her stomach and the tiny pink panties I’d caught sight of earlier. Fuck me—it’s a thong. Her ass is round and ripe, and her legs, soft and smooth. I allow myself a minute to look before averting my eyes. For a second, I’m tempted to poke her with my crutch, like she said earlier. I have to hold back a smile as I get up and drag the blanket up back across her chest.

  “Connor?” She blinks a few times.

  Bracing my hand by her head, I lean over. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  Ella sounds a little dazed, and I recall my instructions. “Do you know what date it is?”

  She answers correctly. I ask her a few more questions—her address, a couple of state capitals, and last year’s Super Bowl winner. I’m stupidly pleased when she correctly answers ‘The New York Titans’.

  She wrinkles her nose. “Ask me something harder, this is boring.”

  My lips twitch. Even half-awake, she’s Miss Persnickety. “Favorite holiday?”

  “Groundhog Day.”

  That one’s new. “Your favorite color?”

  She takes a minute and studies me. “Blue.” A soft thumb finds the lines beside one of my eyes.

  This time I don’t bother hiding my grin. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Uh huh.” Her fingers drift down past my lips, jaw, and chest, all the way to my abs. My spine locks.

  I drag in a deep breath. “What about your favorite ice cream flavor?” My voice is husky.

  “Pistachio. On a cone.” She licks her lips.

  “Cuisine?” I croak.

  Her head tips to one side, her mouth pursed as if I’ve asked her for the formula of world peace. Finally, she says, “Thai.”

  Dainty fingers are on the move again and crawl north. She starts to stroke my chest.

  “I’m, uh, more of a meat-and-potatoes guy myself.” Duh. But I can’t think of anything better because my pulse is surging against her palm.

  I groan. “Ella.” My hand covers hers for a second before bringing her knuckles to my lips. “I’m going back over there, okay?” I tip my head to the other bed, then attempt to let her go.

  But she squeezes tight, and the space between her brows creases. “No, don’t go. Wait. Just for a bit.”

  I rub the stubble on my chin with my other limb. Maybe this is a bad idea, but logic is beyond me right now. I settle down on the edge of her bed and hold her hand long after her grip slackens.

  Chapter Eight

  ELLA

  Murmurs jolt me awake. It takes me a minute to place myself.

  The robbery. The hospital. The Boy Scout.

  For a second, I contemplate flipping over, but I muster the will to lever myself up into a sitting position with a miserable groan. My foot throbs, and I’m stiff and woozy. I eye the crutch propped beside me and wiggle my ankle. Holy fucci. I wheeze out, short quick breaths.

  The room door is cracked open and voices reach me from outside. My name is mentioned—never, ever a good sign when strangers talk about you. I haul my aching body up and hobble out. Dan, Connor, and a woman are arguing by the dining table.

  Connor is in a suit, and he is looking fine. Damned, damned fine. I’m tempted to wolf whistle, but I don’t think Damsels-In-Distress do that.

  The conversation comes to an abrupt halt, and Connor turns to me. He saunters over, no evidence of a limp visible in his movements.

  “Good morning.” The low and rumbly tone sends vibrations down my spine.“How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, absolutely fine.” Not really. My ankle hurts like a motherfucci. Blue eyes scan me, head to toe, then sweep back up. My face heats as last night rushes back through me and my skin prickles at his gaze. I paste on a nonchalant smile, determined not to show any discomfiture.

  Connor’s lips stretch into a cocky grin as if he can tell what’s running through my head. I want to smack it off his face.

  “So, yeah… thank you for everything.” I wave in a lackluster gesture. “Let me just grab my stuff and I’ll call an Uber.”

  “Umm… ” His smirk dissolves, and he rubs the back of his neck. I follow his gaze to Dan and the woman who are both eyeing him expectantly.

  “Ella, this is Jessica Walker, the head of PR for the Titans,” Connor says.

  “Okay.” I offer the woman a polite smile.

  “So…” His voice trails off.

  “Yes?”

  “Uhhh...”

  Jessica answers for him. “Miss Dixon. We’ve put out a statement about yesterday’s incident. However, rumors that Connor was hurt are flying. We’ll be holding a press conference at noon. We need you there.”

  My eyebrows rise so high that I feel my face stretch.

  “Uh, no. I can’t do that.” Shuffling backward with a crutch is no joke. I cast an accusing glare at Connor. “I thought last night was a one-time thing?”

  He scowls and sends Jessica a mulish side eye. “I told them it wasn’t necessary,” he says at the very same time she pronounces, “It’s very necessary.”

  Jessica raises a single, perfectly arched brow at him, “Or do you not want to play in the next game?”

  “Of course I do,” he growls. For a second a hint of vulnerability crosses his face before it returns into an implacable expression.

  I’m about to agree, but then it hits me.

  Connor sees my alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  Panic makes me squeak. “I haven’t told my parents.”

  “Parents?” His brows crease.

  “You know? Those people who birthed me?”

  The lines on his face deepen.

  “Or maybe you just came fully hatched in your action figure clamshell plastic packaging?”

  His lips compress in annoyance, and it takes pains to hold back my cackle. Even Jessica smirks.

  “I thought you said there was no one you could call?” His voice is almost accusing.

  “There was no one I wanted to call.”

  “Why not?”

  I ignore Connor’s question and address Jessica instead, “Are you sure you can’t just put out another statement or something?” This situation is tuning into an unmitigated hairball.

  “It’s pre
ferable that the media sees him looking well. A news clip will work better than any kind of release.”

  “You need me to do this?” I direct this at Connor.

  “No.” His response is curt.

  “Yes!” both Jessica and Dan yell at the same time.

  Connor glares. “No.”

  While he is otherwise occupied staring his entourage down, I tilt my head and I study him.

  “One last favor—It’s not like we’re not friends or anything now,” I warn.

  This catches him aback. A beat later he says, “Thank you.”

  “We’ll want you dressed and media-ready for the press conference.” Jessica is all no-nonsense now as she thrusts a garment bag I didn’t notice earlier at me.

  Media-ready? I mouth at Connor above her head. He shrugs. Fine. Stand there and look pretty, Boy Scout.

  After changing, I examine my reflection. Uniforms for Damsels-In-Distress include flirty white dresses made of gauzy material with white lace underwear. It’s fall, for god’s sake. Or are they trying to have me go all aquiver for the cameras on purpose?

  I hobble back outside ready to tell them I’ve changed my mind. But when Connor’s eyes widen at my transformation, a sudden and unexpected shyness flutters over me at his indrawn breath. Current crackles in the space between us, making the tiny hairs on my arms lift.

  I swallow. “D-I-D, signed, sealed, and delivered. You want me to swoon on cue, too?”

  “If you would, that would be great.”

  My lips twist into a scowl until I spy the small smile he is hiding. So, the man has a sense of humor. I roll my eyes, then shift my weight and pretend to tip over.