The door opened up beside them, and Roy leapt away from him.
“Hey, Bowie! Thought I’d missed you!” Charity tottered in on her six inch heels, sundress riding up her thighs.
“Hey, Charity,” he mumbled.
“Chasity,” she corrected him and gave him a wraparoundhug.
And aimed to plant a kiss on his mouth.
He tried to jerk back, not fast enough. She missed his mouth, leaving a streak of lipstick across his cheek.
“Well, that’s my cue to leave,” Roy announced, her face a different shade of purple red. “Thanks for showing me where the gloves were, ‘Bowie.’”
With the dignity of a queen, she closed the door, and within less than an hour, Bowen realized he was good and truly fucked.
Because he didn’t get fucked.
Not by Chasity. Not by the next girl he chatted up. Or the one after that.
Three months later, he couldn’t muster an ounce of interest in anyone except Roy.
Fuck.
CHAPTER3
“Roy, if you can’t stop shivering, I’m sending you inside,” Glazier told her on the Browns sideline during the fourth quarter.
“I’m fine,” she insisted through chattering teeth. Her Cleveland Browns branded raincoat was meant for a much larger man. The relentless downpour of this late October game was made worse by the freezing wind blowing off Lake Erie.
The rain hadn’t slacked for the past ninety minutes. The wrath of the heavens had opened up midway through the first quarter, just in time to let the Browns go up 7-3 over the Seahawks.
Since then, it had been a defensive punching match. Bowen and the rest of the defensive line in the battle of their lifetime against the Seahawks league leading offense and the elements.
Passing into the torrent was nigh impossible now. The quarterback could only catch brief glimpses of his receivers, and the ball was highly likely to be blown off course. The Seahawks had attempted a field goal, which had comically been carried horizontally into the sidelines.
At least that’s what the instant replay showed.
The electric eye of the camera wasn’t limited by wind or rain. The lucky spectators at home certainly had a better idea of what was going on in the game than the die-hard fans huddled in the east end zone of the Dawg Pound.The medical team wasn’t much better off.
Fortunately for the defense, even though they were doing the majority of the work, the offense was limited to mostly hand-offs. They’d get a rare first down, but progress past mid-field was rare.
Bowen was largely responsible for the lack of progress. He never faltered to line up on the right side and shoot across the soaked grass to the quarterback. Thus far, he had four quarterback sacks and two fumble recoveries. His innate physical gifts and quick hands were worth the millions they paid him.
Not that she thought about his hands or his muscles or his tattoos.
Or his kiss.
No. Not only that, but she was also NOT worrying about his bruises or the cuts she’d taped up on his arm since he wasn’t wearing sleeves. Her heart wasn’t in her throat every time he got buried under a pile of helmeted football players.
Instead, she imagined going home to a hot bath and a cup of tea. With less than a minute to play, her fantasy wasn’t that far from being a reality.
Minus the two hours she, Glazier, and Jon Navarro, the fifth-year resident who’d joined them tonight, would spend checking the team for injuries.
Could she mention again that Bowen wasn’t wearing sleeves? Gloves, yes, sleeves, no.
The Seahawks were on their own thirty when they decided to attempt a reverse hand-off. The quarterback handed the ball to the running back, who handed it to the tight end...
Who couldn’t keep hold of it, and it popped out of his hands, shooting toward midfield.
