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Broderick carefully did the same thing, an adorable trace of pride in his tone as he said, “Not too bad for a couple of amateurs, huh?”
“Speak for yourself, Professor,” I said, shrugging. “I think we can give Gio’s Nona a run for her money.”
His eyes flicked to mine, equal parts nerves and humor as he muttered, “I usually think your confidence is ungodly sexy, but let’s not get ourselves beaten with a cannolo.”
“Gio left the gun behind?” I said, grinning ear-to-ear that he’d just made a freaking Godfather reference in our Italian class.
“Exactly,” he said, smirking. “Besides, I wanted to see you blow it.” Logic said that he was referencing Gio’s other test to see if the dough was ready to be cut—evidently dough at the proper thickness waved like a flag when blown upon. It seemed like a comically unsanitary, albeit effective, way to test it in my humble opinion—but I couldn’t help my smile as I shook my head in mock disapproval.
“Relentless man,” I chastised as he laughed. God, that sound made my insides go molten. I could listen to Broderick Allen laugh for the rest of my life. The thought brought me up short after our earlier conversations. Yes, I didn’t have to have all the answers right now, and should probably just try to be present, but that didn’t keep my mind from wandering down years' worth of questions. Things like where the hell would we live? When I traveled, would he come? Would he keep teaching? Because those two thoughts were not conducive to each other.
All the worries in the world couldn’t eclipse the way my body melted as he wrapped around me, his chin returning to my shoulder as he folded our dough. He felt like home to me. Felt like everything I’d always known he was in my life without the hope of him choosing me over them. But there he was, sliding the knife over the wood surface and slicing our Tagliatelle with anxiously precise strokes. He gave it a few gentle tosses before setting the serving aside to rest. I turned in his arms, looking up and smiling as his eyes met mine.
“Thank you,” I whispered softly. When he quirked his head, I shook mine before looking pointedly around the room. “For this. I enjoy having firsts with you.”
That knockout smile burst across his face like the early rays of sunrise. “To many more firsts,” he said, reaching for the wine glasses and handing me mine.
Nodding, I clinked our glasses together in cheers and agreed, “To many more.”
Broderick
“What are the odds we walk away with a win?” El hissed Sunday afternoon, her fingers digging into my thighs like that might keep her anchored to the plush seats Pax saved us in the team’s friends and family box.
El had unavoidable business to attend to on Friday, and even a few calls on Saturday, but we’d taken advantage of every second of time in between meetings and after dark. Memorizing her body would be the highlight of my lifetime at this rate. The sweet little whimpers she made, the cranky edge to her voice if she needed to eat. Made even more hilarious because her assistant, Chris, could hear it too, and we both knew we had t-minus seven minutes to get protein into the woman before an explosion or meltdown. Which brought me to the next thing I loved—the respect and adoration her team showed her, the way they catered to her drive and dedication, anticipating needs both in and out of the virtual boardroom. It wasn’t just Chris, but her social media girls, the blogger who said very little on the video meetings but smiled to herself every so often at something they said, the PR team that sat in on strategy calls—they all loved her.
But there was nothing quite like the way she smiled as I settled over her naked body and read my current novel aloud for her to enjoy. She was always tracing feather light fingers over the veins in my arms. Weird kink, but I loved it. It was like she was working just as ardently to memorize me as I was her. Beyond the best fucking sex of my life, we’d talked this weekend. Finally, really talked. Future, past, it all came out between us.
The game had been riveting, and my girl was bouncing at the edge of her seat, eyes trained on the field, those pearly teeth digging into her lower lip as Pax and the o-line took their places after the Wolves called a timeout. They were down by a field goal with less than sixty seconds on the clock.
“I don’t know, baby, but I’ve seen them pull off wilder comebacks.”
“Pax has something up his sleeve, right? God, he’s always got an ace tucked away.”
I chuckled, watching her lip lose color as she worried it with a canine. Reaching up, I pushed her lip free with my thumb, turning her in my direction for a quick kiss before she wiggled with anxiety. I chuckled as those brows winged up, like she wasn’t sure what to do to dispel the energy of a nail biter match. The stadium went eerily still in home field anticipation. The echoing hush of one hundred thousand people holding their breath was a surreal kind of high. We dragged our eyes back to the field as other people in the box stood, hands braced over their mouths.
“Come on, Wolves,” she muttered under her breath, anxiously tapping her clenched fist against her lips. “Let’s go, Pax.”
The entire stadium sucked in a breath when they hiked the ball. The defense was gunning for our man though, and bellows of frustration filled the stadium when the line broke, and Pax bolted sidelong, before throwing the ball away.
“God dammit,” the man behind us muttered. He’d been thrilled to learn we were here to support ‘that Rhodes prodigy’.
“He saved his skin, he’ll make it up,” the woman to his right said as the ref announced the penalty, and the team made the walk with sagging shoulders.
“With forty seconds on the clock?” the man snipped back skeptically.
“Give him a break. This is Paxton Rhodes we’re talking about—he’s got forty seconds, two time outs, and his best receiver out there, and we just need a field goal to go into overtime. The game ain’t over,” another woman muttered. Did I take pride in our little Mistyvale hero inspiring that level of faith? Yeah. The kid was like a little brother to me. But it was nothing compared to the beam and glow of the woman beside me as she preened.
“There’s our boy,” I said, nodding to the mega screen and giving El a little squeeze. She hopped up, tugging me with her and looping my arm around her shoulders as Paxton’s face—which was so like his brothers—popped up on the screen, partially concealed behind his face guard. He looked entirely unfazed by the setback as he barked directions to his guys. That didn’t stop Elora from winding her arms around me like I might keep her anchored through the anxiety.
The entire stadium lost their minds when they pulled off a killer trick play before the opposing coach called a timeout.
“Motherfucker,” El barked. “They’re just fucking with their momentum, the fucking fuckers.”
The woman singing Paxton’s praises hacked out a gulp of cola, hand flying to cover her mouth as she battled between laughter and choking. But I was grinning like an imbecile. If I hadn’t already known that I loved this woman, watching her swear like a sailor with a freakish grasp for my favorite sport would’ve done it.
“That sums it up,” the man behind us with the handlebar mustache said.
“I’m starving, let’s grab a snack in case we end up in OT.”
