“What?”
He pushes open the door, and we’re on the streets of Chicago. Fans are still sprinkled around the area, going in and out of the bars.
“It doesn’t even compare to an evening with you.”
Tonight is going to challenge me in ways I’m not prepared for.
Chapter
Thirty-One
Penelope
* * *
The walk to Decker’s condo is quiet even with the fans lingering at the nearby bars and restaurants.
Even though the city moves around us, it feels as if it’s just the two of us. My brain is clocking everything about our proximity. His hand so close, every fifth step his pinkie finger brushes mine. His breathing is relaxed. His strides are a little shorter, so he stays on pace with me. Mostly, my brain zeros in on his scent, which oddly is the same as I remember back in college after a game.
A group of patrons spills out of a bar on the corner, still in Colts gear, and Decker quickly positions himself to block them from running right into me.
They all say excuse me, but one of them clocks Decker and opens his mouth. Decker nods, and the guy looks at the two of us walking close together and continues on with his group.
We continue down the street, coming closer to his building. I have no idea why my heart is racing. Well, that’s not true. I do, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
There’s a line outside of Peeper’s, mostly women, and the minute one of them sees Decker, the group starts talking and pointing. I can’t blame them—this is the reason they’re here, to meet a Colts player, since three of them live in the condos above the bar.
I inch closer to Decker, seeing some of the people break away from the line, ready to approach us. He must sense my discomfort, because his hand casually falls into mine. His palm is warm, his calluses prominent. His touch makes me feel safe, but people are still approaching. I fear at some point, we’re going to be torn apart.
Decker lifts his hand to the crowd. “Have a good evening, everyone.”
He leads me to the security gate, not tearing down the sign that says The Dugout with more notes and phone numbers than I’ve ever seen on it before.
I deny the petty side of me that wants to tear it down and drop it the ground, claiming that Decker is taken because he’s not. At least not by me.
A guy approaches, and Decker shuffles me through the security door first. “Deck, man, a picture?”
“Sorry, I don’t have time. Thanks for coming out.” He allows the door to shut and the guy mumbles, calling him an asshole.
“You could have taken the picture. I would have waited.”
“I came to the realization a long time ago that they don’t own me.”
He never was one to be enamored with the fame that comes from playing a professional sport. He truly just loves the game.
“Now he’s going to tell people you were an asshole when he met you.”
Decker waits for me at the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t really care.”
“You should. You know that how the city views you is important, and you’re in a contract year.”
He still hasn’t released my hand, so he walks up a few stairs, turning to look at me. “You keeping tabs on my contract?”
“My dad is your manager.”
His eyebrows raise, and I let him guide me up the steps. “Somehow I don’t think that’s the reason you know it’s my contract year.”
I say nothing.
