Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

Last night, she was in her room when I came home tired and exhausted after training camp. She had a light on, and I thought long and hard about knocking on her door, just to see her face, but I didn’t. The less I see her, the better. Plus, the fire must have finally caught up with her, and she needed to rest. Then, this morning, there she was in the kitchen all perky and working, and I offered up Brandt.

He laughs and slaps me on the back, pulling me back to the present. “Good to see you, man. Love how you always get to the point. Let’s talk contract soon. That fourteen million a year can be negotiated to eighteen. I feel it. Look at Carter with the Panthers; he just got a bump, and your stats slay his.”

“Soon. How’s the new house in Brentwood?”

He talks about his home and the pool he’s putting in as we head toward Milano’s, a classy Italian restaurant Jack has in his portfolio. I tell him about training camp, and we discuss the upcoming preseason game we have in Miami.

“I was surprised you weren’t seeing someone,” I say.

“Recent breakup.” He shrugs broad shoulders in a gray suit, a rueful look on his face. “Turns out she liked my bank account more than me.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Right.” He grimaces.

“Giselle doesn’t care about money. She’s got her own future ahead of her.” Someday, she’s going to get out of this funk and find her way.

“I didn’t know you were such a matchmaker.”

“Is that what I am?”

He laughs. “Yeah, and thanks for thinking of me. I’m ready to meet someone nice.”

“Good,” I say as I study him. He’s a blond all-American type with a keen mind and the tenacity of a bulldog. Early thirties, handsome, and successful—I can see Giselle with him. Still, I feel uneasy, and for the hundredth time, I second-guess the setup—but it’s happening. It needs to happen. She deserves a good guy, and I’ll pull out the best I’ve got.

“What’s her story?”

“Recent broken engagement. He’s a dickhead.”

We step into the foyer, and he looks around, taking in the fancy farmhouse decor, rustic metal chandeliers, and wood beams across the ceiling. The place bustles with waitstaff and clientele. He lets out a whistle. “Damn, Jack is raking it in.”

“You’re a good agent.”

The maître d’ sees me and smiles, nudging his head toward the back of the restaurant. Craning my neck, I find her sitting at a booth near the bar, hair down in a sleek fall of blonde, glasses perched on her nose, her laptop open as she types. My lips twitch. The girl likes to write stories about aliens. Or she could be studying. She’s a dichotomy of contradictions, and since the night in the VIP room, I never know which Giselle I’ll get.

We walk to the back, maneuvering past tables, and the closer we get, the antsier I feel, hands tapping against my leg.

“So, friend of yours? Related? How’s your cousin, by the way?”

“Giselle’s a good friend. Smart as a whip and has a big heart. Selena is great. Just moved her up to GM at the club.”

“Is she hot?”

“Selena?”

He laughs. “What’s wrong with you? Giselle?”

Want me to make a list of what’s wrong? My dad is a train wreck, and he isn’t answering my calls; strange men are approaching me at my place and Giselle at Walmart; my teammate isn’t speaking to me at camp; my best friend’s sister-in-law is staying with me; and I want to put my hands all over her so bad I can’t fucking stand myself, so I’m setting her up with you. Yeah, best to not say that.

I push my hands into the pockets of my navy slacks, seeing visions of Giselle cooking breakfast this morning, her lips curved up as I ate most of the bacon she made. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she kept pushing her glasses up her nose. “Yeah, she’s hot.”

He follows my eyes and shoulder bumps me. “Is that her?”

“Hmm.”

“Niiiiiiice.”

I inhale, unease crawling in my gut. “She’s a serious kind of girl; you feel me? She isn’t a one-nighter.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you like this girl for yourself.”

“No.” I brush past him and arrive at the booth and slide in next to her while Brandt sits across from us. Her eyes take him in, glancing over his tailored suit, the hundred-dollar haircut, the boyish grin. Her lashes flutter, a blush rising on her cheeks as he shakes her hand.

Well? my eyes ask her.

She nods in my direction, smiles, and adjusts one of my tailored blue dress shirts she’s fashioned into some kind of top, the ends tied together, the top buttons undone, her creamy skin glistening. I hide my grin. She bought clothes from Walmart, but here she is, in mine. I told her to check out my closet and take whatever she wanted.