Chicks, Man

She faces me, offering me her kind eyes. “Sure, I’ll take a beer.” I pour myself a hefty glass of whiskey and grab her a cold beer. “For some reason, I always imagined your place being full of sports memorabilia.”

“Why’s that?” Handing her the beer and taking a much-needed swig of my own, I watch her as she takes in my place. The walls are mostly bare, painted a subtle shade of gray. When I kicked Theresa out, I got rid of everything that reminded me of her. The only thing that stayed was the furniture, some old photos of the guys on the end table, and a large tv on the console in the corner. Aside from that, there’s nothing left to admire.

“I don’t know. I always thought you loved the game. Imagined it being like Kip’s place—full of sports stuff. You know, the stuff Stacey always complains she’s going to throw in the garbage when he’s at work.”

“That part of me kind of died when I turned down the NFL.” Fuck. Why’d I say that? Her smile, the one thing I constantly crave, falters.

“I’m sorry. I—”

“No, no. Don’t try that sad little Hannah act on me. I didn’t mean it in a pity me way. I meant it as I chose to leave it. It’s not who I truly was. I was good—”

“You were amazing.”

I pull her into my arms, loving the way her back molds perfectly against my chest. “Well, aren’t you my biggest fan. I loved playing. But I love doing what I do now way more.” I kiss the top of her head, inhaling the smell of her cherry shampoo.

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Yes and no. I miss the rush. The smell of the fresh grass mingled with mud and sweat. I miss feeling the wind in my face as I rush down the twenty-yard line. The winning. But I don’t miss the politics of it. The deals. The shadiness. People in that business are ruthless. I’ve seen players go down in freak accidents. Deals fall out. The cheating. Behind the love of the sport is a lot of ugliness. That shit, I don’t miss.”

She shifts in my arms, raising her chin, and I press my lips against hers.

“I came to every single one of your games.”

“You did?” Her cheeks flare a cute rosy shade at her confession. I suddenly feel like an asshole because I don’t remember ever seeing her.

“Yeah, I made Kip take me. And when he couldn’t, I went with my neighbor, Mrs. Bealson who I think was equally as obsessed with you—the team winning. You truly were amazing on the field.” My guilt grows like an unwanted weed. “Remember your last game, junior year. It was raining cats and dogs. You were down three points with seventeen seconds on the clock.”

“I tackled Jeremy Ruther, retrieving the ball and won the game. Got us the title.” Fuck, that was one of the highlights of my junior year. “You really are my biggest fan, aren’t you?” I tease, squeezing her closer to me. “Hannah…” I breathe into her hair, engulfing myself in her scent.

“Yes, boss?” her voice is soft, laced with desire. My naughty little girl wants to play. I squeeze her to me, my teeth grazing her earlobe. “No playing tonight. Tonight, I just want Hannah and Levi.” I take her lobe into my mouth. Having her in my arms eases the worry from work. The stress of hiding this from our family. The thorn in my side, Braydon.

“Everything okay?” she asks, her hands gliding up my chest.

“Yep. Just want to enjoy you. It’s been a long day. And this is helping.” She works her fingers in circular motions over my temples. My eyes close, and I rest my forehead against hers. “Feels amazing.”

“I don’t have to stay. If you wanted to get some sleep.” I’m discarding our drinks and she’s up and over my shoulder before she can even finish her nonsense. My hand finds her ass, and I offer her a nice smack, the sound echoing throughout my bare condo.

“Nice try. You’re not going anywhere. If you’re a good girl, I plan on ordering pizza from Savino’s—your favorite. But first, I need some Hannah time.”

With one goal in mind, I carry her into my bedroom. Turns out, it’s not always a bad thing to have dessert before dinner.

Hannah

“Stop!”

“I can’t. Plus, we have three more floors to go.”

Two. One. And he’s off me as fast as he was on me the moment the elevator doors to the office building closed. With barely enough time to adjust myself, the doors open to a busy Matthews and Associates.

“Morning, Mr. Dent. Ms. Matthews,” Vanessa greets us as we walk into the office, cool and collected—like we weren’t totally making out in the elevator. “Mr. Dent, Mr. Matthews is already set up in the conference room and asked me to inform you when you arrive.”