I like making her happy.
That’s a problem. I know it the moment the thought hits me.
But the bigger problem is that she’s beautiful when she forgets to guard herself, when she gets so excited that her whole body reacts, and I want to keep seeing that.
She turns to me, eyes shining. “They’re actually wearing it.”
I huff a laugh. “That is generally how clothing works, yeah.”
Her hand swipes out, smacking me gently in the chest. “You know what I mean.”
It takes far too much effort not to grab her hand and keep it there.
After the store, I take her down to the field where a few players are already filtering in. Her designs litter the field — hoodies, quarterzips, training shorts over leggings, branded beanies. A receiver jogs past in one of the longsleeve compression tops from her line and Carly physically lights up again.
“Okay,” she says, half to herself. “This is insane.”
By the time Maddox joins us near the sideline, Carly’s still taking everything in with the kind of wonder that makes me want to keep surprising her just to watch her react.
Maddox claps me on the shoulder, then grins at her. “So this is the famous designer and nanny I keep hearing about.”
Carly laughs and offers her hand. “That sounds more impressive than it is.”
Maddox shakes it. “Gray’s been bitching about work shit but only ever has positive things to say about you, so I’d say you’re doing pretty well.”
“I never bitch,” I grunt, rolling my eyes.
“You do," he grins. “Constantly.”
Practice starts. It should be simple, should be standard, the kind of thing Maddox and I are good at. But it’s not.
Carly stands with us near the sideline in her coat and sneakers, hair moving in the wind, asking smart questions about fabrics and player preferences and what parts of their attire tendsto break fastest during games or practice. She’s genuinely interested, which the guys clock immediately.
And because they’re nineteen to twenty-two and apparently share one collective brain cell, they also clock that she’s hot.
I catch it in pieces at first. Lingering looks, elbows nudged into ribs, one of the defensive backs nearly missing his turn in a route drill because he’s too busy looking toward the sideline.
“Eyes on the field, Brant,” I bark.
He jerks and gets moving.
Maddox shoots me a look but says nothing.
Good.
A few minutes later, Carly laughs at something one of the equipment managers says, and two wide receivers glance over at the sound like fucking meerkats.
My jaw aches from how much it’s making me grind my teeth.
This is ridiculous.She’s just standing there, being friendly, being herself. It’s not her fault half the male population seems to react like she’s fucking naked in front of them, but I don’t enjoy it.
I enjoy it even less when one of the younger guys jogs past, his eyes locked on her. “Damn,” he says, quiet but not nearly quiet enough.
“Back on the line,” I snap.
He startles. “Yes, sir.”
Carly glances at me, brows pinching faintly, but I’m already blowing the whistle and sending them into the next set.
