“Looking hot as fuck, Dyl,” one of them responds with a flirty toss of her head. “If only one night with you would be worth the risk.”
“I’m not worth the price of coffee,” he says with a laugh. “And that’s even if I were single.”
“Favorite Bachelor duties keeping you busy?” Kalli asks before looking at me. Does she know? No. No one can know—because there hasn’t been anything to know.
“Something like that,” he says before handing me a small envelope. “Before I forget, that sponsor asked me to give you his number.”
“Thanks.” I take the envelope and refuse to believe it’s from a sponsor. I can feel the ridges of something folded inside.
“No probs, and don’t forget to cheer loudly for the lonely fullback,” Dylan says with an impish grin. I don’t have to ask if that works on women, because the simpering cheerleaders are my answer.
“We always do.”
“Give us something to cheer about.”
“If only I could giveyoumy number.”
At the last one, Dylan starts walking down the corridor, calling back, “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
As my team follow him down the corridor, turning left where he turns right, all the chatter is about how he’shot as fuck, and wouldn’t they love it if he was down to fuck. Not one of them questions why he was talking to Skye and me.Hiding in plain sight.Could it be that easy?
I hurry to the restroom, hiding behind a closed stall door for privacy. Slowly and carefully, I open the envelope and shake out the contents.
It’s a swan. Made from larger paper than usual, in a different shade of pink with gold foil edges. Blinking, I unfold its wings to reveal the handwritten message.
Texts are too impersonal for what we are
Waiting until after the game is too long
Even if I have to crawl from my deathbed, I’ll be at Michael’s Piano Bar at 7:00pm
Hoping you’ll save room for dessert xoxo #13275
Dylan Fleski is not the man I just want. Dylan Fleski is the man I need.
Chapter 16
Grudge Match
Dylan
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Cross-town grudge matches fuel the crowd, and since we are a new team, some home games feel like away games.
The boos each time I go up for a bomb are designed to throw me off my game, but they only make me want to give a hugefuck youto each one of the assholes who turned up here today to cheer for the opposition. Our home grounds should be hallowedturf. Each person cheering against us should feel like a fucking traitor.
I need to blot them out.
I know I should blot them out. I’ve never been the type to get caught up in the noise, but today, it’s hard not to notice or be affected. The Southern Mavericks are up by two at the beginning of the second half, and everyone’s on edge. If we keep doing what we’ve been doing, the win is ours for the taking.
If we fuck up … if I miss a tackle or a catch, then it’s another reason for the nay-sayers to carve me up in the post-match media.
Although the press might not be all about me today. There’s something off with Dawson. I feel it. And if I can feel it, you can bet your last dollar that the opposition can smell it.
As far as the fans are concerned, he’s out there in the centers, doing his usual thing and carving up the field. But I see what they can’t and the cameras will only pick up if the penalties start to flow—he’s throwing elbows in tackles and leading with his shoulder when he doesn’t have to. Already, he’s niggling the opposition into fights. Normally, I’d let himhave at itbecause what happens on the field stays on the field. But he’s playing dirty and throwing the odd punch like he’s got something to prove. The problem is, he’s picking fights with players who are way outside his weight division and one of them is gonna react, damn the consequences.
The opposition has the ball and is playing on the other side of the field. As fullback, I play cover defense—be the last man standing, so to speak—but when our team lies over the tackled player, slowing down the play-the-ball, I edge close to Dawson. If I can get him for ten seconds and find out what the fuck his problem is, I might be able to calm his farm before he does something that we can’t back away from.
“Heads up,” Coops calls a split second before a long, cut-out pass comes our way. No. No. No. Their forward runs at Dawson, grinning as if to say,watcha gonna do about it?He’s twice Dawson’s size and leads with his elbow, narrowly missing Dawson’s jaw when he goes in for the tackle.
