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

by Ivy Hunt

  The tableau in front of me is shockingly familiar, except that this time, I’m watching it from the outside. Connor, on his haunches, examining the spot on a woman’s head. She’s in a similar pose to mine from that first night. Connor is being just as solicitous. He smiles at something she says.

  I take in the other details—the gawking bystanders pulling out phones—the other man, now holding an umbrella over Connor and the woman’s bent heads—the dark jeans she is wearing, with rips in the knees and thighs. From this distance, I can’t tell if they are the result of her fall or a scissors-happy designer.

  Rain beats down on me and I shiver. My throat tightens as ugly feelings course through me. The canvas shoes on my feet are soaked and I feel icky between my toes. Jake’s words come roaring back. Connor’s one of the good ones. He’s never met a wounded bird he doesn’t like. I knew that. But is he good to everyone? And in the same way?

  Well, he hasn’t slept with her. Yet.

  Otherwise, am I any different from the woman? Would any two people have connected because of a stressful situation like ours? Would Connor have ended up in bed with anyone who’d been at the bodega that night?

  Maybe I was stupid to think this was more than indiscriminate bonding.

  Knots coil in my belly as I try to curb my other qualms. And fail.

  Would he have brought over her favorite food? Hung out and watched crappy TV? Looked at her like he thought she was more than just temporary? Held her close, kissed her slowly, as if he had all the time in the world?

  I need to get out. Escape. Because the petrifying truth is that I am falling for Connor Hall.

  My hand twitches, ready to make another, likely futile, attempt to find a cab. But Connor’s already walking back to me before I can move, a grin on his beautiful face.

  I attempt an answering smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Boy Scout?” I say, but my voice cracks, just the tiniest bit.

  He gives me a questioning glance. I avert my eyes, instead focusing on the little car moving on my phone screen.

  Maybe this is exactly what I needed. A reminder that this, whatever it is, is fleeting. Better to sever the threads holding us together now, before I become more attached, before I am left, ragged and raw, when we part.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  CONNOR

  Something happened while we were outside, but I can’t tell what. Ella was quiet after the incident at Lincoln Center, even though I assured her the woman who fell would be all right. She gave me a single nod in response before clamming up, and I’m not able to find out what’s bothering her because the Uber driver recognizes me and peppers me with questions the entire ride to her apartment. I give him the shortest answers I can without appearing rude, my eyes returning to Ella over and over during the interminable journey to her place.

  She spends most of the drive looking out the window. Finally, she shuts her eyes and drops her head back against the faux leather backrest with a deep sigh.

  I reach for her hand. For a second she resists, but then lets me take it. I rub it between my palms, trying to warm her.

  I bring her knuckles to my lips for a quick kiss, and her fingers stiffen in my grasp. Her throat tightens as she swallows, eyes staying closed. But then Ella squeezes my hand tight in return, almost as if she will never let me go.

  Once we’re at her building, I follow her heavy tread up the stairs to her apartment. Inside, Ella shrugs off her coat, dropping it into a sopping mess on the floor and stalks to her sewing station. Halfway there, she spins around and walks back to me before turning again.

  I pick up her raincoat and shake it out, watching in silence as she continues to pace back and forth, muttering under her breath. Midway in her path, she stops.

  “Want to order Thai?” I try.

  Ella shakes her head.

  “What about a bacon sandwich?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Want to go lie down?” I’m not above offering sex. All I get is a blank stare in response.

  Something is wrong.

  Her eyes drop to the ground. “I actually need to go and help with some stuff for Hannah’s wedding. Maybe you should go?”

  Really wrong. She is refusing food and sex and is now volunteering to go work on wedding stuff?

  “What exactly do you need to do?” I keep my voice neutral, even though it’s hard not to question her—railroad her into telling me what’s wrong. Simultaneously, I’m trying to tamp down that slight sense of panic building in my gut. I. Do. Not. Panic.

  “It’s just that there are a lot of events to manage, all in one week. Seriously, how many parties does it take to get to ‘I do’?” she mutters. “It’s just going to be another fiasco. Zero about it sounds appealing.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to herself. She hasn’t said much about the wedding even though I know she’s been working on clothes for many of the affairs. I keep hoping she’ll ask me to go as her date.

  “I can help.” There’s a brief and torturous silence while I wait to see what she says.

  “Help?”

  Subtlety is lost on Ella. I straighten to my full height and take a deep breath. “I could go with you. Be your date.”

  For a second she looks like she might just say yes, but my heart drops the same time her stubborn mask descends. “Trust me you don’t want to do that. It’ll be more women falling at your feet like flies.”

  Ella’s right. I don’t want that. What I want is for her not to retreat. What I want is the woman from two hours ago, the one who was laughing in the rain.

  “Unless you do?” She tries for a joke, but it falls flat.

  I feel the line between my brows deepen at her words. “Wait. Did something happen with that woman on the steps?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You seem upset.”

  She doesn’t meet my gaze. “It’s great that you help people. You’re good at it. But you don’t need to keep saving me. I’m perfectly able to look after myself.”

  Disappointment churns in my gut because she is withdrawing, shrinking back into her shell. And anger—anger at myself because of this irrational need to be around her all the time. I know my place in the world, who I’m supposed to be, and what I’m expected to do. Except when it comes to Ella. Then I’m a fucking ping pong ball. Still, I try again. “And I know that. Totally respect it. But there’s no reason you can’t let me help shield you from your family.”

  Ella swallows. “Connor, thank you. But I need to deal with this on my own.” Well, it doesn’t get any clearer than that. So much for hoping that she wants me for more than just her fuck-toy.

  I watch, helpless, as she trudges back to her sewing station. She carefully strips the dress off the mannequin and packs it and the other outfits hanging on the crutch in garment bags.

  Still, I keep waiting for her to say something, change her mind. But all her attention is focused on her task, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m unraveling here.

  But I’m not a masochist, even if all I want is to demand that she let me be with her. My fingers curl at my sides and I grunt. “I see.”

  Ella turns at my words. We stare at each other. Say something.

  One beat. Then two.

  “Fine. I’ll take myself off now.” I grit my teeth, working to keep my expression bland.

  “I’ll see you?” Her voice is soft.

  “Yeah. See you.” I echo.

  She gives me a tight nod. I turn and walk out, let the door click shut behind me, all the while hoping she calls for me to stop. But I know her. Ella Marie Dixon doesn’t change her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ELLA

  Because I don’t want to be lying to Connor, I splurge on an Uber and haul myself over to my parents’ New Jersey home, multiple garment bags in tow.

  A wedding war room has been set up in my old bedroom. I asked Hannah months ago why she didn’t pick one of the guest rooms, but she said none of the others were big e
nough. She doesn’t live at home either, and her room is at least a third larger than mine.

  Mom and Hannah argue about place settings while I put on my own horror show of a dress, a strapless off-the-rack catastrophe in mustard. When I emerge from the bathroom, Hannah scrutinizes me from top to bottom. “You might want to consider a juice fast before the party.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.” Hannah grabs my phone and flashes it at my face to unlock it. She snaps photos of me and shows me the screen. She’s right, the dress is not flattering. But whose fault is that?

  I yank at the bunched up material around the waist, trying to smooth the folds. “Maybe I can alter it.” I turn to the full-length mirror, trying to see what my options are. I heave out a breath—it’s going to take miracles even I’m not sure I’m capable of.

  “We’ve put you at Celeste’s table.”

  I spin around. Hannah is studying the seating chart pinned over my poster of The Gathering with the intensity of a general’s stare. It’s a battle plan worthy of a full-scale military siege.

  This takes me aback. Celeste van Peu, née van Morabelle, née van Megabitch, is the reigning leader of Hannah’s posse, and her best frenemy. She took over my sister’s top spot when she married Gordon van Peu, a local real estate magnate. Hannah’s been determined to reclaim her position back at the top of the society totem pole ever since.

  Meanwhile, Hank is forever talking about Gordon. His account would make Hank look good at his uncle’s firm, so it’s a delicate dance of scorn and suck-up. “And we’ve put Connor beside her husband. He’s a huge fan. Hank and I can’t wait to see what everyone says when they see Connor at all the wedding events next week,” Hannah continues.

  “Connor?” I’m trying to keep up, but this dress is making it hard to breathe. “What Connor are you talking about?”

  Please be talking about a different Connor.

  “Connor Hall.”

  I gape.

  Her eyes narrow into slits. “You did pass on the invitation, didn’t you?”

  “No.” Because I conveniently lost it.

  Hannah’s features are downright panicky now. “Call him!” She thrusts my phone out at me. “Now! We’ve told Celeste and Gordon he’s going to be there. And Hank wants Connor to meet some people from the office.”

  I back away from the device.

  “Aren’t you together now?” She still sounds like she has a hard time believing it could be true. Smart girl.

  “No, we are not together. We’re just friends.” If that.

  “Well, if he’s your friend then why haven’t you asked him to any of the parties? I gave you the invitations weeks ago.”

  “Connor’s not that kind of friend. Not close.” Not close? He was freaking inside you. It doesn’t get closer than that. “Besides, he isn’t around anymore.”

  “But he was always around. He even took you to that football game!”

  A sore spot. I got the evil eye from Hank when he found out, and he’s asked me to ask Connor for tickets. I shut him down.

  “First of all, I didn’t ask for him to stick around, he was being nice.” My mouth twists on the last word.

  “If he’s so nice, then call and invite him anyway.”

  “No.”

  “Yes!”

  “No!”

  “Girls, please!” Mom’s back in the room, rubbing her head.

  I turn to the bed and busy my hands with packing up the new batch of outfits Hannah wants me to adjust and hanging up the clothes she’s already approved—all to keep from skewering her with the hook of the hanger I’m clutching. I used the cheap metal ones from my dry-cleaners, my tiny bit of passive-aggressive defiance. Not that she even notices.

  “Okay, now go put the dress for the rehearsal dinner on,” Hannah orders, still glaring at me.

  I stalk to the bathroom seething.

  When I return, she’s scrolling through my phone, her mouth pursed.

  “Give that back!”

  Hannah just holds it up above my head. I curse my short stature, not for the first time. She clicks another photo of me in the current puce abomination, then hands my phone back to me.

  From the far side of the room, my mom calls, “Ella, honey, have you been in touch with Parker? We want the maid of honor and the best man to lead the rest of the wedding party in with the dance at each of the events.”

  My eyelids shoot up. I hate dancing. Hannah knows this and snorts. She’s still pissed because my parents insisted that she make me her maid of honor.

  I exaggerate the limp I no longer have. “Sorry, I can barely walk, remember?” A sliver of guilt runs through me at my mom’s fretful expression.

  “But honey, you’re not using your crutch anymore.”

  “I can manage short distances.” I plop down on the bed as if my legs can’t support me anymore.

  “Where is it then?” My sister challenges.

  “How was I supposed to bring it with me if I had to lug all your crap over here?” I point at all the other clothes strewn around the room.

  Hannah shrugs. I don’t think she really cares that I might still be incapacitated as long as it doesn’t interfere with her wedding prep. Or her life in general. “If you’re not dancing, and you don’t have a plus one, I’m going to move you to the table with Great-Aunt Cynthia.”

  I scowl. “Who said I wasn’t bringing a plus one?”

  “But—“

  “You said I could bring a date, right?”

  She eyes my mother, who is still frowning. “Well, yes.”

  “Good.” I’m scanning my mental Rolodex, trying to figure out if I should invite a lanky-haired stoner or the most tatted up guy I know.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  CONNOR

  The guys know better than to speak to me in my current mood, and I’m grateful they leave me alone, even though their concerned looks piss me off. I’m normally the most even keeled of us.

  I’ve been running and re-running the argument with Ella in my head. It’s been three days, and we’re at a stalemate. Neither of us has reached out to the other.

  When I grab my stuff from my locker after the grueling practice, the entire home screen of my phone is filled with missed calls from an unknown number. Every now and then, a player’s digits gets leaked and then he has to go through the hell of switching SIMs. I don’t need that on top of everything else. My finger hovers over the delete button—of a New Jersey area code.

  I hit the return call icon instead. Three rings in, I’m feeling foolish. I’m about to hang up when a feminine voice picks up. “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you called me back.”

  My heart deflates. “Umm…”

  “This is Hannah.”

  It speeds up again. “How did you get my contact info?”

  “Ella.”

  The organ stutters. “Is she okay?”

  There’s a short pause. “Yes. Of course. She’s fine.”

  “Okay…” I say, my voice cautious. Why is Hannah calling?

  “I wanted to personally invite you to all my wedding events,” she gushes. “You must come to the first party this weekend. It’s the big kick-off.”

  Now the stupid organ decides to go all staccato. Maybe Ella changed her mind and is too embarrassed to call me herself? Did she think I’d say no? I frown.

  Hannah goes on, “It seems Ella misplaced your formal invitation.”

  Hope crashes. “Did she?” Somehow I doubt that.

  A peeved huff comes through the line. “You know Ella.”

  I thought I did.

  “So will you come?” Hannah prompts when I don’t respond.

  My jaw tightens. “Look, I don’t know what Ella may have told you—“

  “Ella hasn’t said anything.”

  Of course she hasn’t. It’s not like there was anything substantive to say. “I see.” No, I don’t see.

  “We’ll see you there then
?” Hannah asks.

  “No.” I’m not a sucker for punishment.

  “But—“

  But what? I’m in love with your sister and she kicked me to the curb. It’s time to set the story straight. “Hannah, Ella didn’t want a date.”

  “Ella? This doesn’t have anything to do with her. She’s got her date all sorted out.”

  Resignation turns into indignation. Does she now?

  “I see,” I repeat, for the lack of anything else to say. Apparently Ella was telling the truth all this while—I really wasn’t her type. Bitterness settles over me like a shroud at the thought of her with someone else. Maybe I should see who she’s decided is a better fit for her after all this.

  “We would really, really love to see you,” Hannah says.

  And I’d like to see the inside of a bottle. But fuck it. “You know what? Yes, I’ll come.” Apparently I am a sucker after all.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ll text you the arrangements. Can I put you down for the chicken or the fish?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ELLA

  In the end, I show up to the welcome dinner sans-date. I don’t need a shield for this event. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I am woman, hear me roar, and all that.

  This first circle of hell, also known as the ballroom of the New Jersey Summit Hotel, is flooded with golds and yellows and oranges—the perfect fall palette pulled directly from Hannah’s Pinterest board. Round tables surround a huge dance floor. The band, runner ups from a recent season of America’s Got Talent, shares the adjoining stage with tonight’s cake—a fondant monstrosity with Ken and Barbie doll toppers (surprise, surprise) in outfits that mirror their avatars’ buried in the frosting. Most of the guests are staying in one of the luxurious rooms for the duration of the events, but I’m hightailing it out of here the moment the clock strikes pumpkin o’clock.

  As was threatened, I’m seated in a corner beside the projector screen and directly in front of the speaker system. A couple of older men, Hank’s uncles, are at the same table. Great-Aunt Cynthia, partially deaf, took one glimpse of the set up, extracted her hearing aids and stuck them in her leopard-print designer purse. Teach me your ways, oh wise one.