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“Hi, West.” I barely even glance at him. I’m too locked in a heated staring contest with the brooding quarterback.
Elias’s expression is dark but there’s relief there too. He walks over to me and takes my hand in his, lacing his fingers through mine in a grip that’s somehow gentle and vice-like at the same time. “You and I need to have a little talk.” He pulls me toward a door that leads into a wide hallway with a staircase. Over his shoulder: “Thank you, brothers. And little sister.”
“Am I doomed to spend my entire college experience as ‘little sister’?” Isla grumbles.
“Yes,” confirms Gabriel.
Oh god. We’re going to be alone?
The squeeze of his strong hand is enough to kickstart my pulse, until it’s doing that thing it seems to do whenever he’s near me. Thrumming its little drumbeat in the most intimate places imaginable.
He leads me up the stairs to his room. All my alarm bells are clanging loudly. Do not go into Elias O’Shea’s bedroom under any circumstances whatsoever. You’ll be cashing in your V-card before you can say ‘virgin nymphomaniac goes wild’.
But it’s too late.
He closes the door behind us, letting go of my hand to lock it.
Help.
But then I’m distracted by his room. The space is a man cave on steroids. It’s cluttered but also organized. There’s so much to look at. This is the sanctuary of a college football legend, but one who’s grounded and disciplined. And awe-inspiringly good at what he does.
It’s a shrine to his legacy. The walls, painted a muted shade of gray, are a backdrop for framed jerseys, some showing visible signs of wear from particularly intense seasons. Professional photographs capture heart-stopping moments on the field. The ball leaving his outstretched hand. A sprint. Triumphant touchdowns. Championship wins.
His king-sized bed is made, a plush black comforter laid over the top. There’s a small, scribbled note pinned to the wall above the bed that says MAKE YOUR BED. Maybe from his dad or some coach who taught him about the importance of consistency.
At the foot of the bed is a wooden chest full of footballs. Some are signed by teams, others are scrawled with hand-written notes of motivation or gratitude. Probably game balls from particularly memorable victories. My dad has a similar collection in his home office.
On the left side of the bed is Elias’s desk. There’s a MacBook, a stack of well-worn playbooks, textbooks, a couple of speakers and a few football-themed coffee mugs. Even his lamp is a football player, offering the only low, golden light in the room.
The desk’s chair is piled high with a stack of boxes labeled with familiar logos. Gifts from sponsors or companies who want his endorsements, is my guess. Some of them haven’t even been opened yet.
A built-in bookshelf takes up one entire wall and is filled with trophies, plaques, awards and photographs. A corkboard is overflowing with practice schedules, play formation sketches and a few photos. There are some with his friends and teammates. One with Jake after a win. One with an older guy who must be his dad. The look on his dad’s face is one of pure, ecstatic pride.
This room says a lot about him. He’s a football god, which I already knew. But it’s the personal touches that hint at the deeper complexities of his character. He takes his studies seriously. He cares about the people in his life. He values his relationships. He’s careful about what endorsements he chooses to put his name on.
I notice then a photograph of a young woman with dark red hair. She’s achingly beautiful and I know who she is immediately. I can tell by the shape of her eyes.
I do it carefully. I know how this feels. “Is this your mother?”
He leans a brawny shoulder against a wall, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches me with a surly but beguiled absorption. “Yes.” Elias O’Shea has the ability to make me feel like the most beautiful thing in the world, just with the intensity of his fascination. No one’s ever looked at me the way he does. I think if everyone had someone to look at them the way Elias looks at me, there’d be no need for therapy in this world. The low-key adoration washes away insecurities. It plants little seeds of happiness that grow every time he does it.
And it’s entirely too addictive. I should leave before I get in too deep.
But I can’t.
Not yet. This new addiction—which I’m trying like hell to control—holds me in place. I feel too good with him to walk away, it’s as simple as that. “She had red hair,” I comment.
“My dad’s is black. I take after him.”
“I can see her in your eyes.”
Her memory has softened whatever aggression was in him before, but not by much. “I’m not happy with you,” he accuses gently.
“I came to the game, like I said I would. Thanks for the box seats, by the way. We made the most of the all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“Ignoring my calls? Not showing up when I told you to meet me at your studio? What the fuck, Zara?”
I turn back toward the bookshelf, perusing some of his trophies, trying to keep this light. “You know why.” I pick up a small box. It’s an actual action figure of him, unopened. “You played really well. You definitely live up to the hype. But I knew that already.” I place the box back on its shelf. Am I being bitchy? He’s hardly Prince Charming himself tonight. Our tensions are too high.
