“That’s a great idea. I’m sure Poppy will appreciate that someday.”
We’re quiet for a second, and I hate the hesitation in her voice.
Fuck it.Maybe asking will scratch the itch I’ve had all week.
“Whatcha doing on Sunday? Wanna hang out?”
She doesn’t say anything at first, and I wonder if she heard me. I’m about to repeat the words when she responds.
“Do you need me to watch the baby?” she asks softly. “I think I can get you some time to do homework or whatever errands you need after—”
“No, it’s not to watch Poppy. It’s just to, you know, hang out. Maybe order some lunch or watch a movie. I have to get some homework done Sunday night too, but Bree said she’d watch Poppy for a few hours, and I could use some adult conversation that’s not about football or diaper rashes. We could even nerd it up and watch some National Geographics if you’d like.”
She laughs, and the sound fills me with warmth. Or something. Whatever it is, it feels amazing.
This is what I’ve needed.
I smile like a dumbass. “I’ll let you pick what we watch.”
“That’s quite enticing, Mr. Kingston. What if I pick the chickiest chick flick I can find?” Her voice curls around me, sultry and soft, and the anxiousness I’ve felt all day melts away.
Chuckling, I stretch out on the bed. “Then maybe you’ll feel sorry for subjecting me to it, and let me pick the food we order.”
“Sounds perfect.”
It sounds like a date.
No, not a date. Definitely not that. Itcan’tbe that. More like some hang time with my beautiful, off-limits babysitter and friend.
And who says I can’t hang out with a friend?
30
RIDER
Eyes stinging from sweat,I glance at the scoreboard even though I know we’re tied at thirty.
I can’t even blame this on screwups. We’ve been pretty tight this afternoon, but Oklahoma’s defense has been a beast, plain and simple.
With two minutes left in the fourth, it’s balls-to-the-fucking-wall time.
We burn through our downs and barely make any headway, but I can’t let it go to overtime. After driving all day yesterday and sleeping in crappy beds, I know I’m not the only one dealing with fatigue. We stand a helluva better chance of ending this now than in overtime.
The defense is all over my receivers, and even though there’s nothing I’d love more than to gun it into the end zone, I know that’s probably not going to be an option. We need twenty yards for a first down to put us in field goal range.
Maybe it’s time to make a house call.
My fingers itch to take hold of the ball. I huff out a breath and call the play, conditioning and practice and endless visualizing taking over.
When the ball snaps on the fourth down with fifteen seconds on the clock, I drop back and check my options, but I already know what I’m gonna see. And that mammoth-sized Sooner headed my way will nail my ass if I don’t move.
I juke the defender, make like I’m gonna pass to psych out the second guy zeroed in on me, tuck the ball under my arm, and hightail it through a narrow opening.
Out of my peripheral vision, that red uniform blazes toward me like a neon warning sign. He dives for my legs, but I leap over his outstretched arms. I stumble but somehow manage to regain my footing as my O-line plows a path for me.
And then I run.
Fifty yards.
