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He takes his things and puts them in the back pocket of his jeans. “Well, she did try to grab my butt when I gave her a blanket.”
I groan and cover my eyes with my hand. “See? Can’t take us lot anywhere. We’re positively feral.”
“It’s really not that big of a deal. I’m happy to help.”
I split my fingers in front of my eyes and look up at him. My heart lurches in my chest and I feel a foreign, yet somehow familiar feeling creeping in like a vine. It’s the predecessor to the four-letter word every poet knows by heart. It’s not love, per se, because that’s mad, but I definitely like Logan more than I should. The man standing in my room with his heavenly hair and to-die-for face and, most of all, his golden heart—he’d so easily do me in. No one need bother trying to fill the gap after he’s gone. There’d be no point. I’ll just turn into an old maid, adopt a few cats, and develop an addiction to the Home Shopping Network, just like Mum. How depressing.
But who cares? Who cares about the after because I so desperately want the now—badly enough that I’ll march into the headmistress’s office first thing on Tuesday morning and lay all the facts out there. Hell, I might even camp out there Monday night, right in front of her door so she’ll have to shove me aside if she wants to get in, all to ensure I get to talk to her as soon as humanly possible.
“Okay, well if you need anything, just call me,” Logan says, stepping closer.
“Sure thing. Thank you for coming round. You were brilliant.” I drop my hands to my duvet cover, letting my gaze follow.
He hovers near me for a moment, and I don’t dare look up at him. I see his solid shadow cast across my bed, and it moves an inch toward me. I think he might bend down to touch me, maybe drop a kiss to my hair or something equally as divine, but then he tips back on his heels and turns to leave.
My bedroom door shuts behind him.
Kat shouts farewell to him, and then the apartment door opens and closes.
Logan is gone.
And he’s damn well taken my heart with him. How rude.
Then I glance over at my bedside table again, noticing for the first time a small folded piece of paper. I reach out for it and laugh once I see it’s a check written out to me from Logan to cover the cost of my couture dress. I study his handwriting, smiling at his aggressive penmanship.
Then I tuck the check against my chest like it’s a love letter and fall asleep that way.
What an utter dweeb, I know.Chapter NineLoganI’m dragging by the end of training on Monday morning. Every muscle inside me aches, and I know from a quick glance around the field that my teammates all feel the same. A few of them are splayed out on the turf, too exhausted to move. I make it to the bench on the sidelines and sit down with a heavy groan, prompting a few athletic trainers to rush over to tend to me. I accept a water bottle filled with Gatorade and offer a quick thanks when one of them drops a cold towel around my neck.
Even though the NFL season only spans a few months out of the year, this is a full-time job. During the season, I’m dealing with muscle strain, long travel days, and injuries. The off-season comes with its own set of obstacles too, namely longer practices and harder drills. Our coaches know we can take the beating because we don’t have to perform in an actual game. This is the time to get in shape, and every one of our coaching staff agrees we should be working our asses off. It doesn’t matter that we won the Super Bowl earlier this year. We’ll have a target on our backs come fall, thirty-one teams who want to strip us of our #1 title. But for me, that’s not all. I also have to contend with a roster full of backup quarterbacks on my own team eager to take my place if I so much as flinch.
I shoot more Gatorade into my mouth then use the cold towel to wipe sweat from my brow.
Just because our morning training session is over doesn’t mean I have the rest of the day to myself. I’ve got a meeting with the quarterback coach after lunch to go over game footage from last season, and then I have a few press interviews. The reporters and photographers are across the field now, relegated to a press box, but I see their pens wagging and their shutters snapping away. They’re hoping to grab a photo of me where I look especially tired so they can morph it into a story about how I’m losing my edge. I twisted my ankle earlier today, and instead of giving in to the urge to limp off the field, I had to grin and bear it, knowing they’d play up the injury as something more serious than it is.
