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Shoot, he didn’t want to like her, not really. She was bossy and a know-it-all, and most of all, had nearly cost him everything once upon a time and never, not once, acknowledged it or apologized, so, yeah, he really didn’t want to like her.
But she was so…well, pretty. And he hated that he noticed that, but yeah, up close, and without her hair in a severe ponytail and under a hat, and out of her zebra clothes…Iris Marshall had looks.
She stood maybe five-five, a hundred thirty pounds sopping wet, had curves and muscle and pretty blonde hair that shone in the sun and blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
Except, of course, pivotal, game-deciding penalties, the kind that could get a guy injured.
So yeah, he should probably remember that.
Still, he’d made a promise.“I’ll get you home.”
“Oh, for the love!”
So, he’d booked them flights to Milan, although he’d found an Air France flight at 3:30 p.m., gotten in at 5:00 p.m., and then found an 8:30 p.m. flight on Austrian Airlines that got him back to Vienna by 10:00 p.m.
Because no, he didn’t want to spend the night on her sofa, thank you very much.
“Hudson, did you hear me?”
He looked over at Coach Clay.
“The flight leaves at six a.m. Sharp. Six. A.M. That’s themorning.”
“Right. Got it, Coach.”
“Good. Okay, guys, get some rest. See you in the morning.”
They broke and Hudson headed for the locker room. He liked the Viking’s set up. They’d inherited much of the space from the Austria Wien futbol club, which was a boon, because the Austrians loved their soccer. Which meant each player had more than a locker—they practically had their own suite, with a hanging closet, a towel and toiletries shelving, a towel rack, although his gear and towels were laundered every day by the trainers, a place for his shoes, also cleaned daily, and private showers. He especially loved the massive players’ lounge, with the big-screen televisions and lounge chairs.
He’d heard of some pretty impressive locker rooms in the NFL, but he still felt like a champion every time he saw his picture and name emblazoned above his area.
Reminded him sometimes how close he’d come to being a for-hire cowboy, living paycheck to paycheck.
One bad hit. One disastrous slam to his head.
But that wasn’t today.
He hit the showers, took his time, shaved, and emerged an hour later in a pair of jeans, a dress shirt, and leather jacket, carrying in his duffel his dirty clothes as he walked outside into the chill. He bleeped open his Maserati MC20, a splurge for sure—it’d used up his entire signing bonus—but he just felt, well, safe maybe, when he slid into the creamy Italian leather seats. Listened to the engine purr.
Not his father’s 1972 Ford pickup with the rusted wheel beds and torn seats. And he never started the car with the fear of sputtering or maybe ending up on the side of the road, waiting for a tow.
He parked his car in the private garage under his condo unit—probably, he could have walked home, but what fun was that?—and took the elevator to the top floor.
The mid-morning sun slanted in through the angled windows—part of the character of the penthouse—and burnished the parquet flooring. The place was warm, but he used his remote to turn on the gas fireplace anyway, then headed to the kitchen. He kept it clean, even with his house help, all his appliances and dishes behind onyx-black cabinets. It contrasted with the creamy white quartz countertops, and frankly, the place felt modern and sleek and…
Well, his agent had found it, and he was trying to grow into it.
Upstairs was the best—a master bedroom that overlooked most of Vienna, and especially the towering Romanesque spires of St. Stephen’s Cathedral. He could stand at his window and sometimes, on a good day, feel like he’d made it.
Seriously.
Aw, Iris in his head again. And not just when he’d agreed to take her home, but later, when their flight was delayed, and they landed with only an hour before his flight.
I can make it home on my own. My flat is an hour from here. What are you going to do, bring me home, order a pizza, tuck me in bed, and make it back by your flight?
She had a point there.
It still sat in his gut that he hadn’t driven her home, hadn’t seen her to her door.
