I’m falling in love with Willow Underwood, a twenty-one-year-old college student who doesn’t have two dimes to rub together, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
What the fuck?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Presley
My heart is still skipping to its own tune Wednesday afternoon, a whole four days after a revelation I thought would knock me on my ass. Don’t misconstrue. I’m shocked about how quickly I’m developing feelings for Willow, but for the first time in my life, I’m not scared about them. The past weekend was good. The team closest to us on the ladder was defeated, meaning even with our bye last week, we’re still in top position. I’m lighter on my feet—I’m sure you already know why—and after she wrapped up her dance class, Willow returned to my condo to spend the rest of her weekend with Syndi, Emerick, and me.
I hardly saw her since Syndi and Emerick hogged her time, but the slices of peace we snuck between family obligations and work strengthened my belief that I’m falling in love. It feels so obvious now, I wouldn’t be shocked to be accused of walking around with love hearts in my eyes.
Tonight will only make matters ten times worse. It’s my birthday. You know that celebration I wasn’t looking so forward to only a few months ago because it will put a ten-year gap between Willow and me? I’m not as worried about it now. Dalton was right: age doesn’t matter when you stop seeking its expiration date.
Foster’s lips purse as he bobs his head. He’s impressed by how fast I scrub up when my game plan goes from on the field to off.
“I clean up alright, eh?”
He awards me a frisky wink. “Not bad at all. What’re your plans for tonight? I heard Berkley say something about—”
I stuff his question into the back of his throat with a tap of my knuckles on his shirt. Willow may not be in my sight, but I can sense her presence.
“Come on out, Will; your cover has been busted.”
Foster chuckles when she emerges from the shadows with a sexy pout on her red-painted lips. “I tried. Your boy is too smart to fall for our tricks,” Foster explains when her narrowed eyes glare at him.
I’m about to have a go at Foster for ganging up on me with Willow, but my scan of her body has me choking on my words. She’s wearing a dress. A fuckin’ smoking hot dress. Its flirty hem sits high on her scrumptious thighs, and the cropped jacket keeping her warm from the late hour is fitted to accent the generous swell of her tits.
“Damn, Willow.”
She swivels on the spot, fanning out the hem of her sexy all-red number. “Too much for cake?” Because she’s nervous, her Australian accent is on full display.
Before I can answer her, Foster rejoins our conversation. “There’s no such thing as too much.” He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek before his eyes drift my way. “If you don’t snatch this girl up soon, you’re gonna need to move aside so a real man has a chance to seal the deal.”
He moves aside when I shove him out of the locker room. Grabbing his crotch, he laughs. His old gangster lifestyle is never forgotten when it comes to brawling over a fine-looking lady.
I hear his throaty laugh for another thirty seconds before it’s swallowed by the freeway that roars along one side of the 69ers home stadium. His lengthy departure gives me time to settle my erratic heart rate, but it does nothing to ease my sticky palms. Sweat is practically dribbling off my hands.
After dragging them down my pants, I curl one of them around Willow’s. Because the heat roaring through her body is as boiling as mine, she only slightly grimaces when she feels the wetness of my hands.
“It’s weird being here after hours. It’s a little spooky.” She pauses, seeking a ghoul in every dark corner we pass.
“This is my favorite time to walk the halls. There’s something euphoric about being in a space which is usually such a hive of activity. I swear when I just stop and listen for a few seconds, I can hear the crowd chanting my name.”
She smiles before raking her teeth over her lower lip. “You should probably get that checked. I don’t think that’s normal.”
“I had my hearing checked last week, thank you very much. It’s perfectly okay,” I tilt down close so my lips brush her ear, “for an old guy.”
Her giggles overtake the thump of my heart from her sugary scent. “Who is nowanotherstep closer to the grave.”
When her hand digs into her bag, no doubt seeking the present she tried to give me before practice today, I place my hand over hers. “Not yet.”
“I’ve been waiting to give this to you all day, E. How much longer do I have to wait?”
I tweak her protruding lip. “Whose birthday is it?”
“Yours. It’s your birthday.” She huffs as her shoulders sag. “Doesn’t mean you get to be a party pooper, though.”
The low hang of her shoulders barely lingers for a minute. They inch up high when we walk through the corridor the players charge through a minimum four times a week.
