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Wow.
Holy fuck.
We got very, very carried away, is what it boils down to.
And I can’t stop the foghorn that’s currently trumpeting the reality of this situation behind my brain: it should never have happened. It can’t happen again.
I lost my mother. I lost my sister, who loves California so much I can’t ever see her moving back to the east coast. I can’t lose my dad too.
And I can’t be the reason Elias O’Shea gets kicked off the team, with the season just starting and the NFL draft picks looming.
I’m not that obtuse when it comes to football. I’m aware that Elias has a very good shot of getting some seriously good offers from the NFL. Which is, of course, a huge deal. It’s every football player’s dream to go pro. It’s the pinnacle, where you hone your skills and showcase your talent on the world stage, while meanwhile getting paid astronomical amounts of money.
Something I possibly should have thought about a little more carefully last night, instead of getting completely swept away by the dreamboat elite athlete whose strong arms are still slung protectively around me, even in his sleep.
God, he feels good.
He tasted good too.
Goddamn it!
Very carefully, before he can zap me with his lust wand again or lull me into a sexy stupor with his poetic soliloquies about undying love, I slide out from under his toned, muscular arm. He stirs but doesn’t wake.
Not bothering to search for my shredded G-string, I grab a hoodie and my bag and slip out the door.
But not before giving him a long, last glance. He’s even more beautiful in his sleep, if that’s possible, his handsome face relaxed, his off-black hair an unruly mop, his massive bronzed, sculpted chest rising and falling gently with his breath.
It was the most beautiful night of my life, O’Shea, but there’s too much at stake here. I refuse to be the cause of your downfall.
Silently I pull the door closed behind me.
Thankfully, the art building is quiet and empty. I pull my phone out of the front pocket of my bag to check the time as I making my way quickly down the stairs.
4:51.
There are a bunch of missed text messages.
From Isla, late last night.
Where are you?
Everything okay? Text me back when you get this.
I’m hoping you went home for the night, roomie. Hope you’re okay. Call me!
From my sister.
Yesterday might be the first day of our lives we haven’t talked to each other. Ever! I miss my little sister. Love you, Z. I hope you’re busy getting laid by a hot bo-hunk with killer abs and a great sense of humor [eggplant emoji, splashing water emoji]
Those emojis are giving me flashbacks his—no. You’re no longer allowed to go there.
And one from my dad.
Hi, punkin. Just wanted to let you know I’m proud of you. Hope you’re having fun with your new friends. Make the most of every minute. Love, Dad.
My dad always signs off, like he’s not sure I’ll know who it’s from.
And it brings me back down to reality.
