When I release him from my mouth, he cups my cheek, looks in my eyes, and says, “Why the fuck are there unwritten rules against this?”
I can’t help but smile. “You’re supposed to like rules. Isn’t that what your job is? That’s what the game is. Rules.”
“And finding a way to get around them. As you should know, Miss Lawyer. Isn’t that what your job is?”
“Touché,” I say with a small smile.
Then he presses a tender kiss to my lips. “Stupid rules,” he mumbles when he breaks the kiss.
“But we have to follow them,” I say softly, my voice a little sadder than I expected. “It’s too risky. I just don’t want to be the person who brings more scandalous attention. The front-office personnel dallying with the new star player. I’m sure the press would find a million ways to make this look like the next Chuck-and-Bambi. They’d probably have a field day with the fact that I’m older than you.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “I know I’m having a field day with it.”
I laugh. “So you’ve got a thing for this huge four-year age difference?”
“Absolutely,” he says, his eyes drifting down to his crotch. “A huge thing.” He zips up his pants. “So was that our last hurrah?”
I laugh. “More like first hurrah and last hurrah. Technically, we would need more hurrahs for it to be the last.”
He laughs too. “Damn shame we didn’t have more. I sure liked hurrahing with you.”
“The only thing better would have been a full hurrah.”
“That would have been fantastic, I bet,” he says, as I straighten my skirt while he starts the car to drive me home.
Soon enough, we arrive at my house. Cutting the engine, he takes a breath and stares out the window into the dark of the night. I don’t make a move to go, though I know I should.
Without looking at me, he says, “I don’t feel friendly toward you, Dani.” He turns to meet my eyes. I can see the heat in his. “Fact is, I’m even more turned on than before. Didn’t think that was possible.”
“Me too,” I say, my voice feathery.
He tips his forehead to my home. “You better get inside then, before I try something like making you come so fucking hard on my lips that you’ll be whistling a happy tune when you walk into work tomorrow.”
“Just so you know, I’m about to get in bed and enjoy that image you just planted.”
He grins. “Just so you know, you’ll be on all fours on my bed in a few minutes.”
And that image does the trick quite nicely for me too.
But some other part of me, the saner part, the professional part, knows I must erase these thoughts of him going forward. We had our first and last hurrah, and no matter how far and fantastically the aftereffects of the traffic jam spread through my body, it’s time to let it go.
Chapter Seven
Drew
Resisting her is easy for the next two weeks. The season starts and I’m in the zone.
The first game is at home and we play like a well-oiled machine. I put the team ahead in the second quarter with a forty-yard pass to Elkins, who turns that into an absolutely beautiful touchdown.
The crowd goes wild, and the sound of their cheers is such a high. When Elkins chest-bumps me on the sidelines, we’re both grinning like fools. It’s early in the game, but it feels so fucking good.
“Nice work, man,” I say, and he does a little dance, then flexes his arms.
“Told you I’d get it in the end zone. You get it to me, and I’ll bust my ass to put that ball where it belongs.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He points to his socks. “Lucky socks.”
Maybe he’s right about the footwear. He nails another catch in the third, and our top running back drives it home on first down.
We finish with a twenty-four–fourteen victory, and it’s both a thrill and a relief. After Los Angeles’s topsy-turvy record last year, and its slew of off-season problems, the tight game play is all anyone could ask for, the coach included.
The next week, we travel to Arizona, and we’re on fire in the desert too. When we win our second game with a running touchdown in the fourth quarter, Coach pulls me aside on the way to the locker room.
“You’re looking good, Erickson. Keep up the streak,” he says, his voice gruff, because it’s always gruff.
“Do my best, sir.”
After a light workout the next day and some game tape review, I catch up with Jason in Santa Monica for dinner. There’s a new taco truck he’s been raving about, and tacos sound damn good to me.
“Two in a row, man. That’s the way to do it.” He claps me on the back when I join him in line at the red and yellow truck named Flipper’s Tacos.
I give him the side-eye. “How the fuck is that the name of a taco truck?”
Jason takes off his aviator shades. They complete the look he has working—the pressed pants, the polished shoes, the tailored white shirt. By contrast, I’m in jeans, a T-shirt, and ball cap, thank you very much. He flashes me a grin as he tips his forehead to the vehicle. “The guy who runs the truck has a Chihuahua named Flipper.”
“Ah, well. That makes perfect sense to name a truck after a dog.”
Jason points past the window to the illustration of said canine. “There’s the main man.” He lowers his voice. “By the way, Flipper’s owner is a big fan of yours. He’ll probably want a selfie with you. You cool with that?”