“Lucky number seven.” Lucas winked at me with a squeeze to my thigh.
I knew my face turned red, remembering his reference to me being his lucky number seven that night he went down on me for the first time.
Later,when I was helping his mom clear the dishes from dinner, she shared feedback about life with a pro football player.
“Can I offer you some advice?” She passed a glass over to me and I placed it on the top rack of the dishwasher.
“Always.”
“Let Lucas spoil you, give you the world. He’ll be working hard out on that field, taking blow after blow, and the highlight for him—besides winning—will be the satisfaction, the relief and pride of knowing his woman is well taken care of, happy as all heck, waiting for him at the end of every game.”
I blinked away tears, guilt stabbing me in each eye. The fact she didn’t pursue her career until after Lucas’s dad retired, bloomed like a corpse flower in my face. “Is that why you didn’t open your psychology practice until he retired?”
She bobbed her head. “God knows I wanted to before then, but I needed to be at every game, needed to be there cheering him on, supporting my man, especially in the event he got injured. Being his rock became my career and I did it like a boss, a badass baller’s wife for ten years.”
Ice coated my heart, visions of Lucas collapsing onto the green, recalling the sinking feeling of helplessness I felt three thousand miles away, unable to get to him for hours. The pain that coursed through my body then was something I never wanted to relive again.
When Lucas and I were ready to leave that night, I hugged her tightly, thanking her for such sound advice—a peek under the tent of football life.
Little did she know, her advice helped me decide what to do aboutCosmo’soffer waiting for me in London.
“Well, this is it, baby.”Lucas squeezed my waist as we stood in the living room of the empty space we’d called home for the last four years. “Lots of memories here. Parties, late nights spent on the couch studying, our first full-blown roommate argument over toothpaste…”
I cracked up at the memory. “You were wrong for not putting the cap back on the toothpaste, plain and simple.”
His eyebrows piqued. “I’ve never left the cap off since.” He pulled me into him. “We’ve also had some pretty unforgettable firsts here. Our first kiss,” he whispered as he brushed his lips against mine, “plus the first time I got to taste you.”
Our lips and tongues met with fury, heat, and greed as we feverishly worked each other out of our clothes.
“One more memorable fuck for the road paved forward,” Lucas rasped, our naked bodies crashing onto the cool linoleum where we bid a proper goodbye to our old life, ready to grasp onto the new one awaiting us three thousand miles away.
35
“Let’s stay here.”
My inebriated perusal cruised over Macy, drunk over the off-white dress that hugged her beautiful body, pausing on the mouthwatering contours of her breasts—an outline of her pebbled nipples visible through the fabric—then lingering on delicious hourglass curves.
“We need to go,” she reasoned, her voice laced with laughter as she took five steps backward in an effort to keep my grabby hands at bay. “It’s your first team party.” She backed into a wall by the door of our Tribeca condo. “We need to go even if it’s only for a few hours.”
Hands planted in my trouser pockets, I trekked over to her slowly, allowing my hungry eyes more time to drink her in. “Fine, we’ll go. But keep in mind,” I warned as I stood in front of her, fingering a lock of golden-blond hair, taking in the ragged rise and fall of her chest. “I’m fucking you during our limo ride home.”
The New York Jets Official Welcome Ball.
A formal meet and greet with players, coaches, staff, cheerleaders, you name it.
Held at the luxurious Bogota Hotel in New Jersey, it was an annual pre-training camp soiree complete with a live band, dancing, food, and plenty of liquor.
As we stepped out of the limo, members of the paparazzi called out my name, snapping our photos as I guided Macy to the entrance.
Her dress was backless, the opening kissing the small of her back, and when my hand slid over her hip, I didn’t feel a panty line.
I leaned in as we walked around the ballroom in search of our assigned table and whispered, “Are you wearingnothingunder this dress?”
Her lips fanned my ear. “I wouldn’t call my birthday suitnothing, Mr. Stone.”
Speech. Less.
Seated at our assigned round table we found AJ and Sage, along with another wide receiver, Damian Hicks, a known playboy from Arizona State.
