Page 39 of Her Game Plan

We chat with Tate for a few minutes, slowly circling around the idea of the Stallions. Not mentioning a sponsorship, yet. That’s third- or fourth-date moves. Today is about getting a feel for each other.

After Tate, I spot Conrad Ferguson and offer a wave. Conrad and his brothers’ investment firm is at the bottom of my list. Not because I don’t think he’d be interested, but because he’s close with Callan’s friends, so he feels like a safety play. He might not come in at the sponsorship level I’d like ideally, but I think he’d come in at a high enough number that I could save face with my dad. Maybe have a chance of still winning this thing.

Not that I’m thinking about last-ditch efforts right now. I’ve still got eighteen weeks to make this happen. But I do stop and talk with him for a few minutes.

We make our way around the room, talking to everyone on my list except one. Callan is a trooper, smiling and talking, and genuinely seems like he’s enjoying the conversations, even if they all start out talking about him and the upcoming season. He’s good at this. Very good.

“That’s it,” I whisper as we extricate ourselves from the final conversation. “Preston Hale is the only one left, and we’re sitting next to him at dinner.”

I’ve done my research on Preston and Summit Forge Holdings. They’re an energy conglomerate with enough of a manufacturing division to be very interested in the brand alignment with football, especially since they’ve been making a push to dominate the Rocky Mountain region with their presence.

When they finally call us to our tables, Callan takes my hand again, the action almost instinctual at this point. I follow him, slipping between chairs until we make our way to table number four.

Callan scans the options before holding out the chair directly next to Preston Hale, even though his name is on the place card there instead of mine. “Here you go, Princess. Why don’t you take my seat?”

I slide into it and say hello to the table, trying to play it cool by not introducing myself too soon. Finally, the food is served, and I lean over and apologize to the graying man on my right. “Apologies if you were hoping to sit by Callan.”

Warm blue eyes meet mine as he turns toward me. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure there’ll be time after we eat to chat with him.”

“I promise there will be,” I reply as if I’m letting him in on some secret.

Then I introduce myself, making sure he knows I’m currently the acting owner of the Stallions and how excited we are about the next few years of the program. It goes well, and there’s something about the ease that makes me question the exchange. This should be harder, right? Getting someone to agree to a huge sponsorship deal should feel hard.

Not that he’s agreed. Or that I’ve even asked.

As if he can tell I’m spiraling, Callan’s hand is on my thigh under the table, the warmth of his hand providing the calm I need to think rationally. This is good. A first step.

The speaking portion of the event starts after that, with the organization introducing itself and presenting a few awards before playing a video highlighting the education system in Denver. Even if I wanted to, there’s no use trying to talk to Preston during it, but I’m not one to think my conversation is more important than the presentations these people have spent weeks, if not months, preparing. Callan and I both bid in the live auction, and fortunately, I lose—I’m not sure what I was going to do with a weekend on a cattle ranch in Hawaii. Callan bids aggressively for a signed Matt Larsen hockey jersey, utter glee sparkling in his eyes when he’s finally announced as the winner.

“What are you going to do with that?” I lean over so I can whisper the question in his ear.

His cheeks pinken slightly before he replies, “Wear it to the next poker night. Beckett is going to pretend he thinks it’s funny, but it’ll annoy the shit out of him. I might even gift it to Finley once I’m done.”

“You’re a menace.”

The event wraps up, and Callan and I make our way to the car, my hand wrapped in his once again. I try not to think about the way my stomach sinks when he lets go. But as soon as he’s in the driver’s seat, he casually reaches across the console and grabs my hand again, setting it on his leg like this is something we do: Hold hands in the car.

Despite the timing suggesting otherwise, I’m sure the little flips my heart is making are due to the adrenaline rush from the event and not the rightness of the casual connection between us.

The drive back is peaceful. Easy. I even let him play his “Music” playlist rather than the “Chill Vibes” one I want to pull up. His thumb strokes the top of mine, and I can’t force myself to end the contact, even if my brain is screaming at me that I should. That this is crossing into dangerous territory.

Reminding me that this thing with my star quarterback is fake.

Even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.

Callan finally releases my hand when he puts the car in park, offering me an almost apologetic smile, as if he just realized he’d been holding it this whole time. Like maybe the effect of his skin on mine isn’t quite as all-encompassing to him as it is to me.

I follow him into the house, entranced by the muscular movements of his ass in front of me. A thought that I barely manage to keep from saying out loud. One that would be appropriate if we really were dating. One that certainly isn’t in this situation.

When we stop outside the doors to our rooms, I reach out and take his hand. “Thanks again for tonight, Callan.” I realize too late the soft way I said his name, and my heart rate picks up, the words starting to flow out of me without any censor. “You were so great in there. I knew you were good at that kind of stuff, but you were extra good tonight. And I really appreciate it. Because I know you say you’re helping the team, and you are, but you’re really helping me.”

Callan brushes a strand of hair from my face, his gaze tracing it as he moves it behind my ear. “I was happy to help, Princess.”

“I know, but—”

Callan leans down, his hand on my cheek, his mouth gently pressing against mine, fully stopping my rambling. His lips are warm and soft, the pressure just right for a sweet kiss. But, instead of making my heart race like first kisses have in my past, the kiss does something far worse—it calms me. Settles me in a way I’ve never felt before. And fuck if that isn’t far more terrifying.

When we pull apart a heartbeat later, a crooked smile pulls ever so gently across his face. “Goodnight, Charlotte,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing over my cheekbone one last time before he turns and walks into his room.