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“I turned down the offer from Torino,” he told them. “Thanks for giving me your thoughts earlier.”
Didier sat up, alert. “Mais c’est magnifique, ça. You’re going to start your own coaching business now,non?”
“I doubt that,” he said, touched by his friend’s genuine enthusiasm. “The psychiatrists and psychologists have years of training.”
“And they talk bullshit,” Didier declared, his nose wrinkled like he smelled something bad. “You don’t want to learn bullshit. You want to speak the truth, like you already do. They already come to you. Now you just charge them a lot of money.”
“It’s not that simple,” he said.
“Mais, oui, c’est simple.” He waved his hand dramatically. “You open your door and they come to you.”
He laughed. “That’s just what I need, prima donna footballers camped out in my living room.”
“Tu as raison,” Didier said. “You should get an office.”
Shaking his head, he said, “Don’t wait up for me,” and headed over to Rachel’s.
She was sitting on the porch, just like she’d said. The lights were out, but the almost-full moon lit her silhouette as well as a streetlamp. She leaned against the post at the top of the railing, her head tipped up to the sky. She looked like she was letting down, a little hopeful and a lot tired, in casual clothes with her hair in a ponytail and without makeup on.
She looked fucking beautiful.
The gate creaked as he let himself into the yard, and she turned to watch him approach.
“You look like you could use a shoulder rub,” he said as he jogged up the steps.
The corner of her mouth quirked. “That’s a pickup line if I’ve ever heard one.”
He grinned. He’d never had to use a pickup line in his life. “In case you missed it, we’ve been past the pickup line stage since we met.” He sat next to her and leaned in to kiss her cheek. He lingered there for a moment, inhaling the just-washed scent of her skin, like lemony soap.
He heard her sigh as she brushed her cheek against his before leaning back against the post. “You always smell so good. What is your cologne?”
“Creed.” He was their spokesperson, so he was required to wear it. But he liked it, which was why he’d agreed to the endorsement. His dad had taught him that your name and what you stood for mattered—you didn’t misrepresent yourself.
She frowned at him. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“They make men’s cologne.” He hadn’t misrepresented himself to Rachel, but it was time to be completely forthright. He took out his mobile. “I’ll show you.”
“Oo-kay,” she drew out. “But I don’t normally wear men’s cologne. I don’t wear women’s either. I’m more of a soap girl.”
“I know. I love that about you.” He opened a browser and searched for the latest ad. “Try to look at this objectively.”
“Oo-kay,” she said again. She blinked at him. “Why do I get a feeling that I may not like this?”
“Because you’re smart. Truth be told, I don’t like it much, either, come to find out,” he muttered as he pulled up the ad.
Moving closer to her, he took her hand and held out the screen.
She leaned closer, staring at the ad. “That’s the cologne?”
“Yes.” His heart was oddly pounding heavily as he waited.
“Uh, Jamie?” Frowning, she pointed at it. “That guy looks just like you, only without a shirt.”
“That’s because that guy is me,” he replied.
She looked at him, her nose wrinkled. “I thought you said you weren’t a model?”
“I’m in sports. I play football.”
