What thehellis my life right now?
I adjust my tux jacket, check my hair one more time, and take a breath.
Okay, Hendricks. Don’t be weird. Don’t stare. Don’t propose marriage in the first five minutes. Just… fucking be cool.
Shit, I’ve never been cool a day in my life, but there’s a first time for everything, right?
* * *
The White House is lit up like Rockefeller Center at Christmas. I step out of the car and try to act like my heart isn’t trying to beat out of my chest because somewhere inside that building,Lina’swaiting.
She’s not waiting for you specifically, dumbass. She’s thedamnhost.
I make my way through security, the entrance hall, a sea of people in tuxedos and gowns. And then I see her.
Fuck.
Lina Kane is standing across the room in a gown that should be fucking illegal. It’s gold, subtle, warm, drapes over her body, clinging to every curve, and there are alotof them.
Her shoulders and collarbones are bare; the neckline covers the swell of her breasts. There’s a slit up one side that shows a flash of thigh every time she moves, and I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I cannot physically stop staring.
Fuck me.
Her dark skin looks warm and smooth against the gold fabric, and I want to put my mouth on every inch of it. Her hair is down tonight; the loose curls falling past her shoulders. She looks so fucking beautiful, sexy, hot…
I want to touch her so bad my hands are shaking.
She’s talking to some old guy, smiling her polished, public smile, and she hasn’t seen me yet.
Good, because I need a damn minute.
I grab a glass from a passing waiter and try to remember how to breathe like a fucking normal person.
She’s just a woman. The beautiful, powerful, incredible woman you’ve been fantasizing about for fucking years, and she’s standing right there in a dress that’s getting you hard at a fucking White House event, but it’s FINE. You’re FINE!
I down the drink in one gulp.
Not fine. Definitely not fucking fine.
Dinner is torture. We’re seated on opposite ends of a table that’s approximately a mile long. Protocol, I’m sure. Can’t have random soccer coaches sitting next to the president. But at least I can see her from where I’m sitting. And she can see me. We keep catching each other’s eyes across the table. Quick glances at first, just a flicker, a moment of contact before we both look away. Then they start lasting longer.
She’s talking to the French ambassador or whoever the fuck is on her right, nodding along, the picture of grace and diplomacy. But her eyes keep drifting back to me.
I slightly raise my glass in a silent, private toast. Lina’s perfect lips twitch, then she looks away.
Yeah. This is fucking happening…
Someone asks me a question about the tournament, and I answer on autopilot. Something about tactics, team chemistry, and home-field advantage. I have no fucking idea what I’m saying.
When I turn my gaze back to the head of the table, Lina is looking my way. And this time, she holds my gaze for three full seconds before turning back to her conversation. Three seconds doesn’t sound like a lot. But when you’re eye-fucking the President of the United States across a state dinner, that’s an eternity.
Jesus, I need air.
I excuse myself after the last course and find my way to a balcony off one of the side rooms.
The night air is cool, which is a relief after the heat of the sprawling dining room. I lean against the railing and stare into the night, trying to get my shit together.
What are you doing, Hendricks? What’s the endgame here?
