Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“That one’s been in my wallet forever.” I stand, weaving a little, my legs still like jelly. “Do you have any at your house?”

She shakes her head. “No, tossed them a while back. Expired.”

I rake my hands through my hair. “Is there a store here in town where I can buy them?” I’m going to die if I don’t have her again.

Her eyes flare. “You can’t just waltz in the Piggly Wiggly at nine at night and pick up a box of Trojan Magnums! Everyone knows your face. What if the cashier takes a pic?” She pauses. “How do you buy condoms?”

“Amazon. Fake name.”

We study each other, eyes searching.

“I have plenty back at the penthouse.”

“Of course you do.”

I study the planes of her face, trying to read what she’s thinking, but her hair hides her face.

She walks over to her bra and puts it back on. Next come her shirt and leggings.

Chucks are next.

Dammit! Why did I bring up the penthouse?

She picks up her purse and pushes up her glasses.

I grab my shirt and slide it on. I grab my pants and put them on. “Fine. I’m going to the Piggly Wiggly, and then we’re going to your place. Don’t they have those self-checkout things?”

She huffs out a laugh. “Have you ever used one?”

“No, but it can’t be too hard.”

“It can be a surprising pain in the ass. Self-check or not, everyone in town will know by tomorrow.”

“I’ll wear a hat. I have one in the car.”

“Won’t work. Your hotness is world known, apparently, by everyone but me.”

We stand there for a few seconds, and it feels as if I should say something here.

Invite her to your real home, Jack.

But I can’t.

I want to, I do, but how can I trust what I’m really feeling right now?

I don’t even know what this is!

She watches my face, and I know what she sees—me retreating. Fortifying my castle walls. Digging a moat around it.

She inches closer to the door, her hands behind her back, probably on the doorknob.

With fumbling fingers, I button my pants. “Elena, don’t go.”

Why am I always saying that?

There’s a long silence, the only sound our breathing in the quiet room.

“Elena, I didn’t plan on this. I just wanted to . . . kiss you, and then I don’t know. Let’s go somewhere else.”

A smile crosses her face, tinged with regret and wry acceptance. “I know exactly what this was. It was you walking in this gym, and me wanting you, and you wanting me. Just two people without commitments. Isn’t that what you want, Jack?”

I close my eyes briefly. “Yes.”

A long silence wraps around us as we stare at each other.

“That’s what I thought.” Her eyes drop to the floor, then rise up to meet mine. “See you at the next rehearsal.” She scans the room, her gaze everywhere except on me. “Do you mind putting the desk back together?”

And then she’s gone, opening the door and walking away from me.

I don’t try to stop her.

Chapter 21

JACK

“The MRI isn’t great. You need surgery, Jack. It’s either that, or you’re going to take a hit on that shoulder, and the damage to your tendons might be irreparable.” Dr. Williams gives me a sympathetic glance, his hand holding my thick folder of records. He’s the best orthopedic in the state, well known for treating superstar athletes, from tennis players to baseball greats.

I came in last week for some x-rays and the MRI. Since the episode at the church, I’ve had another spasm that hit me while I was working out at the stadium. I was lifting when it hit, nearly making me pass out with the pain. Thank God Aiden wasn’t in the gym that day.

I exhale. “It isn’t even a football injury.”

He nods, taking a seat behind his desk and considering me. “Right. It’s an old wound, but the way you use your body isn’t like the average person. If you didn’t play football, you might never have had any issues, but as it stands, your tendons are being pulled away from your bone. I can reattach them, no problem.”

“Thank God.”

“Don’t get too excited. Have you had a particularly hard fall lately?”

I grimace, recalling the defender who yanked my face mask and slammed me down during the Super Bowl. The five interceptions that followed. “Super Bowl.”

He nods. “I’m assuming you still want to keep playing?”

I feel dizzy and grip the edges of my chair. “Hell yes. I still have good years left, Doc. I’m twenty-eight!”

He taps a pen on his desk. “I’ll be frank. I’ve done surgeries like this, and even when things go well, including rehab, some athletes never get back to full one hundred percent.”

My heart drops. I know the stats on shoulder injuries for quarterbacks. Even for a college player, once news of a shoulder injury reaches the NFL teams, it affects their draft status, pushing them down in the ranks. Few teams want to take chances on a player with an injury. For a seasoned player like me, it could be less playtime, early retirement. Fuck that. “I’m not most athletes. I’m the best. I’ve been using massage, needling, cupping, everything for the past few years. I even pay out of my own pocket for treatment. And those guys you’re talking about have the injury on their throwing arm. This is my left shoulder.”