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

by Ivy Hunt

  To my right is the kitchen. I toe off my shoes by the pile of assorted footwear by the front door.

  “What are you doing?” Ella asks, her brows creasing.

  “What does it look like? I’m not leaving you here on your own.”

  “Why not?”

  I raise my eyebrows in exasperation. “What do you mean, why not? Didn’t you hear the nurse? You need someone around for twenty-four hours, remember?”

  Ella waves off my concern. “It’s fine, really. She was just being careful. You heard her talking about hospital liability issues. They’re just worried about malpractice lawsuits. Besides, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Your point?”

  “Nothing ever happens in the middle of the afternoon.”

  Right then, the sound of sirens whooshes by her building. I lift a brow. “You were saying?”

  A smile pulls at my lips when she harrumphs.

  “Fine. Suit yourself. But don’t come barging in. This time I’m staying in my room. Alone.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Gah. Even quotes the Princess Bride. Could he be any more perfect?” she mutters as she limps through one of the doors—my teeth clench. I’m not a fan of the label, but she doesn’t have to make it sound so damned bad.

  Sounds of Ella moving about her room come through the thin walls. I suppose it’s too much to hope that she asks me to help her undress again. I imagine peeling those thin white straps down her shoulders, dragging them down her arms, before I pull the bodice down her breast and belly and follow that path with my tongue. Fuck.

  I examine the rest of the apartment in an attempt to get my dick under control. Stuff is strewn everywhere. I gather scraps of paper, mostly of fashion sketches, and stack them together on a side table. A silver frame is propped beside the remote—Ella and her parents at her graduation. I didn’t think she resembled her parents before, but they all have huge matching smiles in the photo.

  The fridge is stocked with an oldish apple, half a bottle of juice, and a quart of expired milk. I pour it down the sink, rinse the plastic bottle, and wash the dirty dishes. I open the cupboard to put them away. My stomach curdles. Apparently Ella lives on fermented funk—kimchi, sauerkraut, aachar.

  This woman is going to ruin me, I can already tell.

  Chapter Eleven

  ELLA

  Jake’s words continue to ring in my ears while the water sluices down my back. Never met a wounded bird he didn’t like.

  I’m not a damned bird. If anything, I’m a phoenix, rising from the ashes, bright as the sun—a very broken phoenix. I sigh as I prop myself against the tile like a wet mop in danger of falling.

  The last thing I want is yet another person looking after me. Especially not the gorgeous football star doing who-knows-what in my apartment.

  My fingers are pruning. It’s time to shut off the water. I dry myself off with a small towel hanging behind the door of the bathroom, thankful that it is an en suite and I don’t have to cross the living space. In my bedroom, I don ratty Minnie Mouse pajamas before crawling into bed. It’s barely 2 p.m. and I’m exhausted. Not that it does me any good since now I can’t sleep.

  I stare at the ceiling and watch as the sunspots move across it.

  I gasp, coming awake. My heart is beating, rapid-fire. I recognize the scent of laundry detergent and sheets, not stinky breath and body odor. Blankets are twisted around me and I’m not actually imprisoned by hairy arms. I’m fine. I’m fine. I swallow to soothe the dryness in my throat and take slow deep breaths, trying to ease the tension that’s coiled up around my spine. Of course, I’m fine. I saved the day, remember?

  But really, would I have found the guts to do it without having Connor there?

  I roll onto my back and contemplate all that’s happened since I met the one Mr. NFL star. Connor deserves more than a little credit. I recall him holding my eyes in the mirror at the bodega. Then, at the hospital, how he didn’t leave me on my own. In his home, his hands were warm on my thighs, as he freed me from my clothes. The memory of his touch on my skin makes me tingle. Deep within my belly, I clench.

  My fingers find his buttons.

  I’m pulling off his clothes.

  He’s naked. Then I’m naked.

  And then he is touching me, and I am stroking him back. A confetti of pompoms and mini-donuts swirl around us.

  This time when I wake, it’s in stages. Dusk has been replaced by the artificial glow of streetlamps bouncing off the surrounding buildings, occasionally mingling with headlights and the blaring evening traffic. I wipe the sleep from my eyes. My head’s a little better, and so is my foot.

  Right then, the scent of something delicious wafts through the door. But the relief that hits me is due to more than the scent of food. He’s still here.

  My nose guides me to the kitchen. Connor is bent over to deposit something in the oven. His suit jacket is off, draped over one of the counter stools, and his pants are stretched tight over a perfect butt.

  Some noise must escape me because he turns. Of course, he catches me ogling. He raises his eyebrows and his lips quirk.

  “Yes?” he drawls out.

  Busted. Heat flares in my cheeks, but I say, “I was just objectifying you. You know very well how pretty you are. You must be used to it.” Nothing is a better offense than the truth.

  His mouth stretches into a full-on grin. “Is that so?”

  My gaze wanders the room. The apartment is neater than it’s been in weeks. Even the dishes are done. “Mm-hmm.”

  His full laugh draws my eyes back to his face. There’s a slight stubble on his chin, highlighting the chiseled angle of his jaw. His golden hair is no longer neat, as if he’s raked his fingers through it more than once. I’m tempted to reach out and stroke it, see if it is as soft as it looks.

  “Did you sleep well?” Connor asks, contemplating me in return. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “Your foot okay?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I repeat, still not in full control of my faculties.

  He must be able to read my thoughts, because his next words are, “Dream of me?” He obviously doesn’t hate the idea, his eyes blaze, tracing my body with his gaze, maybe he’s been fantasizing about me too?

  “Maybe,” I tease, breathless when he pauses, just a second too long on my breasts. Minnie’s ears don’t cover my nipples appropriately, and they harden at his look. We’re definitely not in PG-land anymore.

  I whimper and his eyes return to mine, vastly entertained. But when he speaks, his voice is low and throaty. “What am I wearing in your fantasy? Or am I naked?” A smirk pulls at his lips.

  Oh, that smug…“Of course not. You’re in little Boy Scout shorts with a red bandana tied around your neck.” There’s honest, and there’s honest.

  “In your dreams.”

  “That’s what I just said. It’s like you don’t pay attention.” I say, cheekily.

  Blue eyes run over me again. “I pay plenty attention.” Maybe he does. But I’m not sure he knows what to make of me. Is he entertaining fantasies of his own? My face reddens, and I clear my throat.

  Connor’s grin widens. “Hmm. So am I taking the neckerchief off quickly or slowly?”

  I ignore him because if we keep going down this path, I’ll be ripping his clothes off for real. I’m feeling a little too feral right now. “Not telling.”

  The oven beeps. Thankfully, he doesn’t continue our conversation and turns back to the counter to finish whatever it is he was doing. It’s clear he knows his way around the kitchen. I am envious. The best I can do is put a pop tart in a toaster. Definitely an All-American Boy Scout who can probably make knots in his sleep and build a fire with two toothpicks.

  “Where did you get the stuff? I know I didn’t have it here,” I say.

  “I borrowed your keys to get some groceries. Hope you don’t mind.”

  In any other situation, I would, but given that he took them in service of me and he cleaned my little pigsty, it
would be churlish to say I mind.

  “No.”

  There’s more stuff in the paper bag propped on the table, and I hobble over. Lucky for me, my matchbox-sized apartment includes plenty of walls to brace myself against. I peek inside because I’m Miss Nosy.

  At first glance, there’s nothing exciting in the bag. Advil, milk—the brand I normally buy. Dear god, is that—

  My eyes snap up. “You bought bacon?”

  Connor looks over his shoulder. “Makes the world go round.”

  “Totally.” We exchange nods of solidarity.

  I tip my head to the side, pursing my lips. “What if I was a vegetarian?”

  He turns to face me fully, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re not.” There’s not a speck of doubt in his voice.

  My brows furrow at his contrariness. “How do you know?”

  Connor’s eyes twinkle. “You’re too bloodthirsty. A carnivore through and through.”

  A laugh escapes me. I take him in—the muscles of his arms are thick, straining beneath his shirtsleeves. I can’t disagree. There are a few things I’d like to sink my teeth into. I catch myself licking my lips.

  He motions me to a chair, and I make no protest. A grilled cheese sandwich is set down in front of me, cut diagonally with military precision.

  A bite later, my lashes flutter over my cheeks and I moan. It is like manna from heaven. When I open my eyes, Connor’s gaze is on me, and he’s grinning. “Come on. I know you can say it. Thank. You. Connor,” he cajoles.

  “I’ve been an ungrateful bitch, hmm?” I say once I’ve chomped down a couple more bites. My own smile is wry.

  “Nah. It’s all good.” He sits across from me and brings his own sandwich to his mouth. His isn’t sliced in half. We eat in companionable silence. It’s my first meal since lunch the day before, and it’s all I can do not to devour it like a rabid dog.

  Once I’ve gobbled down the rest of the food, I lean back, barely refraining from rubbing my belly in satisfaction. “So, do you think it worked?”

  “Hmm?” He takes another bite and meets my eyes while he chews.

  “The press conference. Will they let you play?”

  Connors shoulders lift an inch then drop. “We’ll see.”

  I frown. “I thought that was the whole point of earlier?”

  “The press conference will help for sure, but the team doctor will make the final call.” His jaw tightens.

  “You really want to play?”

  Blue eyes lift to mine for a second before shifting back to his sandwich. “Of course. My team is depending on me.” His expression is a mix of earnest determination that I can identify with.

  “You love it, hmm?”

  “I do.”

  My fingers run over the few crumbs I left on my plate. “How did you get into it, anyway? Weren’t you in the military?”

  His eyes lower, and he tips his head, yes, and takes another bite.

  “Well?”

  Connor clears his throat. For a second I think he is going to deflect, but then he says, “We moved a lot as a kid. My parents are career army folks. Mom’s a colonel. Dad’s a general. So it was a new base every couple of years. It was always easier to meet people if I joined some kind of extracurricular.”

  “Football,” I say.

  He nods. “Football.”

  “So then what?”

  “Scouts approached me when I was eighteen. But I had already made plans to enlist after college. You could say that the army was the family business.”

  “So then?”

  “I joined. Did all the training. Was deployed to Afghanistan.”

  For a second I have terrifying images of Connor being out somewhere, hurt. He blushes and his eyes drop before he continues, “Turns out, I have really bad allergies. I was able to finish my tour, but my chances of being redeployed were limited. Especially to any kind of remote location. So it was either an honorable discharge or a desk job. I didn’t want to be stuck in an office. The scouts came back, and the rest is history.”

  We go quiet. “Well, I hope the doctor gives you the all-clear soon.” My voice is soft.

  “Thanks.”

  “Otherwise, you can always become a personal chef.” I wave at my empty plate, wanting to lighten up the moment.

  I am blinded by the smile that breaks on Connor’s face. My brain screams ‘Mayday, mayday.’ I need to get him away from me before I can catch feelings. It’s all well and good to enjoy the physicality of an attractive man. It’s only when you start pretending imaginary boyfriends that you know you’re in real trouble.

  Connor grins. “I could, but maybe I’ll just stick with football for now, hmm?” He gets up and puts our dishes in the sink. After drying his hands on a tea towel, he folds it neatly back over the oven handle and turns to face me.

  I push off the table and stand. “Then I have no further use for you, Boy Scout. It’s been twenty-four hours. We’re even now. I saved you from the robbery and the press. You saved me from the hospital and my parents. It’s off to your next rescue mission now.” I paste on a cheery smile.

  For a second, I think Connor is going to protest. His blue gaze is skeptical, as if he can tell I don’t really mean my words, that I want to call them back. I swallow and force my grin to stretch, a tight rubber band across my face.

  Thankfully, he doesn’t argue. I don’t know if I’d be able to resist him otherwise. I need him gone now.

  Connor moves forward, arms stretching out. But I take a step in retreat and extend my hand out instead.

  He inclines his head, eyes maybe seeing more than they should. Finally, he takes my hand. “Well then, I’m glad I got to know you, Miss Ella Marie Dixon.”

  “Back at you, Mr. Connor Hall.”

  We draw a breath in unison, and for a second, his grip tightens. And then I’m free. There’s a tightness in my chest and a sinking in my gut. Our interlude is over.

  Chapter Twelve

  CONNOR

  Practice is crap. I barely slept, and a twitchy feeling has tormented me all day.

  She’s okay. I’m well aware that Ella’s able to take care of herself and would argue to the death with anyone who suggested otherwise.

  But still, my neck is tight. I rotate my head then my shoulders to try to loosen up. The coaches and even the team owner, billionaire Noah Winters, offered me a couple of days off to recover, but I declined. I focused on upper body exercises and did a session with the team physical therapist before my consultation with the team physician.

  “So, can I play?” I can’t hold my silence while he pokes at my foot.

  “Maybe. As long as you don’t go playing hero again,” the doctor says. My jaw tightens at that word. People need to stop thinking of me like that. It’s ridiculous.

  He continues to prod at my ankle. “I’ll take another look in a few days. But you’re sitting out the next game, just to be safe.”

  The words land hard in my gut, but I know there’s no arguing with him.

  When I find myself jumping into the shower before the water has a second to warm up, I force myself to slow down, and take extra care with my appearance, even making myself shave for the second time that day. In the locker room, I change into dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt then yank my sweater over my head. Halfway on, my elbow gets stuck in the fabric. “Shit.” I twist, trying to free myself.

  “Where’s the fire?” Logan asks.

  “No fire.” I straighten the material and grab my phone. Should have gotten Ella’s number. But I didn’t, so do the next best thing—google Thai restaurants. My heart thuds. I suspect this is what totally screwed feels like.

  “No?” He has one brow raised, eyeing my open duffel. My normally neatly folded clothes are stuffed tight in there. I ignore him and wrench the zip shut.

  “We’re getting tacos at Rosalita’s,” Jake calls out from his locker on the other side of the room.

  “I’m ordering Thai.” I get up and heave the strap of my
bag over my shoulder.

  Mouths drop.

  “You’re picking Thai over tacos?” Jake looks as if I’ve announced that M&M’s will henceforth come in but a single color.

  “I like Thai,” I say, defensive. And I do. But nothing ranks above Mexican in my book, and the guys all know it.

  An hour and a half later, I’m outside Ella’s building. I opted to pick up the order instead of getting it delivered after the knowing looks from Jake and Logan, even going the extra forty-five minutes out of my way to keep from rushing to her place. All the while, I was telling myself this was a bad idea, that she’s already indicated she doesn’t want to see me again, that I shouldn’t bother pursuing someone clearly not interested.

  But I know my instincts are right—there was a spark of something there. Or am I deluding myself? A flicker of uncertainty crosses my mind, and I pause. It’s moments, minutes, millennia before I man up and hit the button for Ella’s apartment.

  “Who is it?”

  My stomach clenches at Ella’s voice.

  I clear my throat. “It’s Connor.”

  After a brief silence, the buzzer sounds. I bound up the five stories to her floor with more energy than I expended at practice today.

  When I get upstairs, the door is ajar, and Ella is propped against the inside wall. Her freckles are stark against ashy skin. The shadows under her eyes are more pronounced than yesterday.

  “What’s wrong?” I drop the bag of food on the ground and rush to her. My hands come to either side of her face, and I lean down to examine her pupils. Is it the concussion?

  Her green eyes are brilliant and clear as she grimaces and swats me away. “Nothing. I didn’t sleep very well.” I frown but release her and take a step back.

  A furrow appears between her brows. “What are you doing here?”

  I missed you. It doesn’t make sense. Our relationship spanned a grand total of twenty-four hours. I hadn’t quite planned how to explain my presence, but I open my mouth anyway, “I just—“