Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“That’s probably true. But I wanted to apologize. I should have…trusted our first night together and tried harder to track you down. Cara even suggested it.”
I straighten with interest at that last nugget. “She knows about us?”
“I told her, yeah. But she won’t say anything to Patrick. She knows that guy talk belongs in the sister vault.”
“Good. I haven’t said anything to him,” I admit, but then I wave off any concerns. “Just because he’d worry, since he’s my finance guy and all. He takes an interest in all my business affairs, so he might worry about…”
Fuck. I hate saying this out loud.
“How it would look,” she supplies, her tone heavy. She leans back against the counter, her mood clearly dampened.
Patrick’s concerns are more than appearances though. If I tell him about Brooke too soon, he’ll worry it’d be college all over again, like when I fell for Marie.
But the situation with Brooke isn’t the same. Not one bit. “Yes,” I say, but then I try to brighten the mood. “But my buddy Carter knows. I kinda couldn’t keep it from him.”
“Why’s that?” She sounds delighted, and I’m glad for the one eighty.
“He’s a giant cinnamon roll,” I say. “He even suggested we date in the off-season,” I say impulsively. I didn’t plan to put that possibility out there tonight, but maybe it’s not the worst idea? Maybe there is a way to pull us off.
She lifts a curious brow. “He did?”
“Probably nutty?” I suggest with a light laugh in case I’m coming on too strong. “But maybe not?”
She exhales hard. “I don’t know. What I do know is Stephen loves the good-guy image you have. He’s been so pleased with your press coverage, your social media. I mean, obviously he’s impressed with your game play, but he likes the whole package. I don’t want to ruin it.”
My hope deflates. Maybe that was too wild an idea.
“But,” she adds, like she’s reconsidering it, “it’s something to think about.”
I smile. I don’t try to hold it back. “Yeah?”
She reaches for my hand. Clasps tight. “Yeah. Let’s…think about it.”
I should be focusing on football, but two games into the season and I’m kicking ass. Maybe that’s a sign I can somehow manage…something with Brooke.
She squeezes my hand, then adds, “I like that you told him, then.”
“It’s impossible not to. He knows everything. He helped me deal with my last relationship when it imploded,” I say, since we’re having some kind of confessional night.
“What happened? May I ask?” She lets go of my hand and lifts her wine from the counter to finish the last sip.
“Of course you can. The last woman I dated was always taking selfies with me at games, and kind of parading me around when we went out. Talking me up for my role on the team. Sort of made me feel like she wasn’t actually into me.” I feel a little foolish as I share the story. But that’s how I felt at the time. “There’s this fine line between are you using me for your business, and do you just enjoy taking selfies? I worried I’d sound like a dick, so I probably stayed with her longer than I should have. And when I finally got out, there was a big scene. She yelled at me in the hallway of my building, and it was just…”
She frowns in sympathy as she sets the wineglass in the sink. “A hot mess?”
“Exactly. It happened during the off-season, and I sort of needed to escape for a while. Carter and I took off for New York and hung out with friends there just to get away. That probably sounds ridiculous.”
She shakes her head, her eyes thoughtful. “Not at all. That makes sense. Sometimes, we just need a break. I get it.” She takes a beat, tilts her head. “Is that another reason why you kept quiet about who you were at first?”
“Definitely,” I say, glad to be truthful with her. I only like games on the football field—and the good kind in the bedroom. “But I really enjoyed not talking football with you. I like that we can talk about anything.”
“Me too,” she says.
The clock on the wall ticks closer to eleven, interrupting us.
Or maybe giving me an opportunity. “Brooke,” I begin, gearing up to ask to stay.
Her shoulders tense. Her jaw tightens.
Oh, shit? Does she think I want to take off? “Honey, it’s not bad,” I say.
“I didn’t think it was,” she says, then she lifts her fingers to her temple and rubs.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a tiny start of a headache.”
“You get headaches? Sophie does. Those are brutal.”
“Migraines. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
“What makes it feel better? A hot shower? A massage?”
“Both?” she says, a little excited.
I seize the chance to make her feel better. “Then let’s do it.”