Page 10 of Playing for Keeps

Leaving my half-filled glass of red wine—the same color as Chloe’s lips, not that I’m noticing—I move back from her gravitational pull, using the strength of every muscle in me to do it.

“You dating some lucky woman?” she says out of left field. Or maybe she thinks there’s a woman behind me, motivating me. No such luck. Only a dead uncle.

“You dating some unlucky man?” I smile, having no intentions of talking about my personal life with her.

She flips me the finger and laughs. Maybe she does belong with Sean. I grab her finger because there’s too much cognitive dissonance in seeing her perfectly polished finger flipping me off. As if she’s too much a lady for that gesture—or at least looks that way. But I know full well that any ladylike parts of her persona are laced heavily with the whiskey-drinking sports aficionado with a loud, bold streak.

Unable to avoid staring into those man-eater eyes, I wonder what else I don’t know about her. She pulls her finger from my grip and I let go. It was a stupid move on my part to touch her. I don’t want there to be any flirtation between us. But as I think the thought I realize that ball’s been fumbled, recovered by the opposition, and scored. Way too late to take it back.

“No man has measured up—so far.” She pauses, leans in again and touches my hand, just a brush of her fingers against mine. Enough to spark the air like a random lightning bolt. My fault for initiating contact, for giving her license to do the same. I keep my hand still, shift the sudden tension in every muscle to concentrating on not grabbing onto her hand and pulling her across the table so I can test those plump red lips of hers, see if they’re as kissable as they look. Knowing that’s what she’s tempting me, daring me to do.

“Maybe you’re the one, big boy.” She whispers the words, raising the hairs on my neck, raising my dick and spiking my pulse rate.

“You can dream,” I say, my eyes refusing to look away from that juicy mouth, except to drown in her deep-purple eyes.

It’s a test and I have no idea why I’m bothering, why I say anything. Except maybe it’s the alcohol and her impossible to avoid eyes sucking me in. Fuck. I should know better. Even if she wasn’t a reporter, she’s so not my type. Too bad my dick didn’t get that memo.

But I can control my dick, even in its current drunken, indiscriminating state. This is a rare night out only afforded the veteran players because we have films and the weight room tomorrow as long as we make the time in the mile run—meaning we’d better be in shape. Rookies have classroom, coaching drills, and running. Tonight is a one-off event midweek. I promise myself and my dick I’ll never again find myself in a bar drinking with her, or flirting with her ever, or staring into those damn eyes. My dick protests with a twitch as she pushes a blond curl from her forehead.

“I just might dream of you, Fontanna,” she says, her voice still low until she clears her throat. “In the meantime, how about if you come into the studio for an interview next week?”

“With you?” Surprise mingles with disbelief. She has iceberg-size balls and I’m torn between admiration and disgust, until she parts her lips and lowers her lids to half-mast in nothing short of a sultry look.

“You’re hurting my feelings now, Tate.”

“No.” I force the word out before I forget myself, before I start believing the vulnerable female act. She’s the tough SOB, not some soft, easy woman. Definitely not the kind of woman I’d want to be the mother of my children.

What the fuck am I even thinking? Running my hands through my hair, I stand, nearly knocking my chair over—and it’s a sturdy chair—while I get out my wallet and throw down a couple of twenties for a tip. Max paid the bill with his credit card before he left, but I can’t help over tipping, a holdover habit from being in the family’s restaurant business all those years. Until I escaped by way of football with my uncle’s help.

“You leaving, Fontanna?” She doesn’t bother standing, doesn’t seem to care if I come or go. I don’t know if it’s a genuine shrug-off, but I can’t afford to care.

“It’s that time.” She’s a big girl and can take care of herself, got here on her own, but as I step away from the table, I feel guilty. It goes against every grain in my body to leave her here alone at this hour of the night. My mother would throttle me and then my father would kill me.

“You’ll be all right?” I turn and say over my shoulder.

She stares at me, filling my veins with racing blood, her slow smile too enigmatic to puzzle out.

“I’ll be just fine, Fontanna. Go.”

Her soft voice and ironclad confidence chase me out the door as the spark in those unfortunately unforgettable eyes burns a permanent impression in my brain. As I get in my car, I know I’m going to dream about her tonight.

And I’m not sure if it’s going to be a wet dream or a nightmare. Probably both.