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“Remind me to sell off my left kidney to thank Pax for these seats when we get home,” I said as I followed her toward the in-suite smorgasbord where Mustache’s wife was walking away with a couple of sodas. Snacks were a luxury in a match this tight, and there’s absolutely no way we could survive the lines in the main stadium and make it back in the two minutes they cut away to sell cars and more soft drinks. But then my stomach did this little sinking thing because I’d said we. When we get home. There was no ‘we’ when that happened. It would be me, back in my townhouse on my own while El started her book tour. Nope. Didn’t like that even a little bit. Now wasn’t the time to mope, though.
“I already gave him my right one, so we’re all good,” she tossed over her shoulder playfully. But my eyes fell to the way those dark pants hugged her curves. El was wearing a purple jersey with her brother’s number on it, their last name emblazoned between her shoulders. She tied the jersey above black jeans that sat over her belly button, tan skin playing peekaboo between them. Black boots that doubled as a weapon really topped off the look, and I couldn’t wait to peel it all off her and bite that perky ass she’d been teasing me with for the last three hours. She was unbearably appealing in her purple Wolves beanie and matching scarf. Yeah, it looked like the apparel shop threw up on us, but her dedication was adorable. When we reached the buffet, I jerked my gaze up to her face as she asked, “So, Professor, what’s your go-to snack these days? Smoked pork loin? Barbeque shredded beef? In more of a drink your calories kind of mood?” she asked, motioning to the wet bar.
I nodded to the pretty blonde attendant who blushed when she smiled before turning my attention to El. The attendant shuffled away, ducking out of the room like she had been all afternoon when supplies needed replenishing. “Tough choice, but I’m leaning toward chips and queso—something crunchy to dispel some of this anxiety as Pax works his magic.”
“Can’t beat the classics.” Her smile twisted sideways as she added, “I’m less concerned with Paxton’s magic and more with what’s going through that head of yours.”
“What makes you think my mind is occupied with anything but football?” I asked with a shrug. “I mean, I was definitely admiring your ass on the walk over here.”
Her eyes flicked sidelong, ensuring the attendant hadn’t come back, her voice low as she said, “Still thinking about what you did to it last night?”
“Thinking about all the things I’d like to do to it,” I countered.
She gave a little groan that made my balls tighten. It was the same sound she made when she needed me. “Fuck, you make it hard to focus on anything else.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“Glad the feeling is mutual.” Eyes sparking, she reached up and rubbed her thumb between my brows, like she could dispel the ache there. “But… this little furrow, for starters,” she supplied, answering my initial question. El lifted onto her tiptoes to press a peck to my lips. “And because every time I’ve caught you looking at me, you seem like you’re solving a very complicated puzzle.”
“Ahh, that. Well, nosy, if you must know, I’ve been pondering whether you’re more of a wine or whiskey girl these days.”
The little tick in her jaw said she knew I was full of shit, but the amusement in her eyes knew she wouldn’t get anywhere if she pressed. Relief sluiced through me when she shrugged and said, “I’m a woman of many tastes.” Before I could respond, the announcer came over the loudspeaker, and her eyes went wide. Saved by the bell. “Oooh, shit. It’s game time, Professor.”
“Go. Sit and watch. I’ll pour drinks.”
“You sure?” she asked, but she peered around my shoulder like she could somehow see the field.
Chuckling, I jerked my head back toward our seats and said, “Yeah, Pix. Go keep an eye on your brother.”
She blew out a stressed little breath that made me smile. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, babe.”
It was a physical fight not to scoop her into my arms at the sound of the pet name, but I resisted. Fuck, I’d waited for what felt like a lifetime to be more than just ‘Brod’ in her world. She hustled down to our seats, and I grinned as I watched her, the anxiety of the game seeming to return to that beautiful little body as the announcers came on the speaker, words about as clear as the teacher in Charlie Brown. We’d talk about our plans, but today wasn’t the day. Today, I was just going to enjoy being with her. By the time I made it down to our seats, everyone was shifting nervously, El included. She rocked on her seat as she accepted the plate of assorted snacks.
“Here we go. Fuck, I might puke.”
“No puking,” I said at the same time as our friend with the mustache. We all shifted in our seats as the team took their places. Then they were moving—Pax faked left and juked right. His guys held the line, and he bided his time. My stomach sank as I saw the break in the line, but Pax saw it too, quick on his feet as he shifted, eyes still downfield as opponents closed in. One was tackled with a brutal clap, but the other had a clear shot as Paxton wound up and let the ball fly like he shot the pass from a canon a beat before both players went flying out of bounds with an audible crack that had everyone wincing. Everyone except for Elora.
Her hand flew to her mouth, but when I glanced her way, her eyes were down the field, not at her brother on the sideline. Downfield, as that rocket flew sixty, seventy, eighty impossible, gorgeous yards, directly into the open hands of a sprinting receiver as he crossed into the end zone.
The stadium erupted. But it was Elora, her arms around my neck and mouth pressed to mine, that consumed my mind. A dull cloud of cotton swallowed the outside world as everything in my body pulled into her. I tugged her little frame into mine, mind buzzing as I soaked in the feel of her. There weren’t words adequate enough for the sensation of getting to touch her like this in public and I decided right then to do whatever it took to keep her forever.
The frenetic roar of the stadium needled through the Elora-haze, mind replaying the last sixty seconds. She was incredible–such a badass little winner. Even through her own nerves, she’d kept her eyes on the goal, on what her brother had just put his body on the line to accomplish. Hell, her enthusiastic collision with my mouth was her priority before she peeled away to find that number thirteen on the field. Like she just trusted that he was okay.
Much to my relief, the cameras all trained on Pax as his team mobbed around him.
“That kid may have just set an in-game record,” Mustache roared over the crowd behind us. But my eyes were no longer tracking Pax after the guys dumped a cooler of electric blue liquid over his head as he shared a congratulatory hug with their coach. No, they were locked on the smaller screen off to the side of the main one. The one with a red heart and ‘Kiss Cam’ written across the top, replaying Elora jumping into the air with her arms up in victory before slamming her mouth against mine.
“Well, shit.”
Elora was watching me with a permanent furrow in her brow as I paced the length of the room, my phone pressed to my ear. She had Max scouring the internet for the footage, and blessedly coming up empty thus far. But that didn’t stop her from chewing a hole in her lip as she fast-forwarded through the replay on her computer. It seemed like the coverage had been properly trained on the celebratory chaos on the field.
It was only a matter of time, though, once they realized who had been in that private box. The golden boy’s big sister might not get coverage, but Elora Rhodes, the internet sensation, certainly would.
The obnoxious ringing finally gave way to that telltale click, and a gruff, “Hey, man. Good to see your name. How’s it going?”
“Uh, good, good. Everything’s good.”
His low chuckle filled the line a beat before he said, “Why do you sound like you’re convincing yourself of that?”
