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Years ago, DeAndre and I graduated from culinary school before the Warriors picked me up. I wanted something to fall back on when I eventually retired, and DeAndre always dreamed of owning a restaurant. I had the money to make his dreams come true, so I invested as a silent partner. However, I didn’t remain a silent partner for long. I found myself filling in when we were short-staffed or when DeAndre needed a well-earned break. I completed inventory and paperwork, and showed my face and networked to get asses in seats.

People enjoyed eating at Andre’s because the food was delicious, the “vibe,” as Braxton called it, was there, and they wanted to catch a glimpse of me, hoping to strike up a conversation, snap a picture, get an autograph, or fuck—sometimes all four.

When I entered the patio, I was pleased to find our table immaculately set. The tablecloth was perfectly pressed, and the place settings were precise.

I quickly adjusted the propane patio heaters. I was sweating bullets and was grateful I chose the black dress shirt over the gray. I shouldn’t have been as nervous as I was. We’d been getting along well through text and realized we had a shit ton in common. I was blown away when she said she liked my favorite band, Obsydian Trip, and knew all their best songs. Of course, she could’ve snagged that information from my social media to impress me, but I didn’t get that impression, especially since she rattled off their earlier underground works before they became mainstream.

And the kicker? Vera stayed up and let me vent about our loss against the Atlanta Thunderhawks last night.

Despite Vera’s intimidating Sugar Rush profile, she was sweet, playful, intelligent, and a good listener. We already clicked, and unless I fucked up by sticking my foot in my mouth, I was 1000% sure we’d sign on the dotted line.

I glanced up from my phone when a small gift bag was placed on the table before me. My eyes tracked to the right, taking in a pair of shapely brown legs before traveling up a trim body and landing on a set of luminous, earthy eyes.

I should say something—anything-but her smile was utterly disarming, leaving me starstruck.

“Hi, Sweet Hart.”

Shit…I’m screwed

Dr. Myers

Hart

“Hi, Sweet Hart.”

I couldn’t see my face, but I was sure I was gaping up at her like a buffoon. Her perfectly arched brows joined together, and her pouty lips tugged into a slight frown.

“Hart? Are you okay?”

I snapped out of it and jumped up from my seat, bumping the table and sending the stemware flying to the ground.

“Shit!” I wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her away from the glass that shattered around her feet. “Are you okay? Did the glass cut you?” I asked, examining her feet. I wanted to die when I noticed her middle toe bleeding. “I’m so fucking sorry, Vera. I’m usually not this clumsy.”

“I know. I’ve seen what you can do on the ice,” she said, accepting a chair from DeAndre.

“I’ll grab the first aid kit and get this cleaned up,” he announced before scampering from the patio.

This is so fucking embarrassing. I feel like I’m in junior high school all over again—making a fool of myself in front of the pretty, popular girl.

“Um—”

“Relax, Hart. It’s just a scratch, really. I’m impressed with how easily you picked me up. It just goes to show all those muscles aren’t for show.”

She winked at me, and my cheeks burst into flames.

This woman is killing me.

“I got you something,” she said, leaning down to pick up the white gift bag that had fallen onto the floor.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, accepting the bag from her.

“It’s nothing. I didn’t want you to have to suffer through your teammates’ snoring on Saturday.” I gawked when I opened her gift and found a pair of wireless earbuds. I’d told her last night that I’d lost one and needed to buy a new pair before my next away game. “They’re the same kind I use, and they’re amazing. Put those bad boys in and you won’t be able to hear a tornado outside your bedroom window.”

Damn. If you want me to marry you, then say that.

“This is really thoughtful of you, Vera. I can’t thank you enough, and now I feel like a jackass for not getting you a gift.”

She shook her head, sending her braids sweeping over her shoulders.