“I… I’m not expecting visitors,” I say, doing my best to stall for time.
“Good. We won’t be interrupted.” His tone is forceful, and I shake my head as I roll my eyes.
Clearing my throat, I push my hair back. I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and remind myself I’m the Quarterback Princess. I grew up doing this.
Placing one hand on my hip, I open the door with maybe a little too much flourish.
“Interrupted?” I say, gliding my eyes from his face quickly down his muscled body.
His square jaw is tense, and his eyes laser on mine. He’s practically vibrating with energy, and I wish I’d kept my eyes focused above his neck. That quick scan of his physique has my brain conjuring images of him naked.Not helpful, brain!
“You wanted to know what the hell I was doing?” His rich voice strokes my core, and he reaches up to hold the doorjamb like he did the first time he was here.
It causes the muscles in his arms to flex in a way that’s pure sin.
Closing my eyes,Ineed to recalculate.
I shake off my lusty thoughts and adopt a neutral tone. “Is this about the red zone failure?”
“You know it is.” He steps closer, and his seductive scent of sandalwood, soap, and something distinctly Knox Bradford wraps around me.
My jaw clenches, and I find my bearings. I was raised in a family of football players. I’m not thrown off-balance by a tall, muscular man… with a perfect body and a killer smile. He’s human, just like the rest of us.
“What are you saying, Knox? Did you want me to ignore it?”
He lifts his chin, and my eyes slide down his muscled neck. They drift lower to his collarbones, to his defined chest imprinting against his thin cotton tee.
The night is warm and thick with humidity. Fog rolls in with the clouds, and it reminds me of those sweaty old movies full of spices and sex.
“Why won’t you talk to me before the games?” He’s frowning, and I study the lines of his muscles.
“I’m a critic. Talking to you would dull my edge.”
“Why do you only criticize me?”
That catches me off-guard, and my eyes snap to his. “What do you mean?”
“You talked about my brother when he still played for Texas. He made mistakes. Why didn’t you call him out the way you do me?”
I swallow the sudden desert in my mouth, trying to calm my racing heart. My skin prickles, and I need something to drink, some water, preferably ice cold. My entire body is burning up, and I need relief.
By contrast, Knox is freshly showered. His hair is shiny, curling behind his ears. He’s muscles for days, potential energy just waiting to be released.
“Austin Sinclair was Jack Bradford 2.0.” I maintain a professional tone. “Your dad’s fingerprints were all over him.”
Knox steps closer. “So there’s nothing to criticize there?”
“There’s nothing new there. We’ve seen it all before.”
I can tell this is an issue for him, and I can understand why. He’s fighting with a legacy, both in his family, in his past, and in the team he presently leads.
I try to explain better. “You’re more interesting, and more infuriating, because you’re neither of them. You’re Knox Fucking Bradford. You’re the new generation of your family’s legends. I want you to get out of your way and own your legacy.”
His blue eyes blaze, but I can’t tell if he’s angry. I don’t know if he understands what I’m trying to say. His jaw muscle moves, and his hand tightens on the door frame.
The air around us crackles with electricity. The storm has grown closer, and light strobes in the clouds behind him as if he were a god.
He breathes, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. He reaches up and puts the other hand on the door frame, almost like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will.
