Home Field Advantage

by Liz Lincoln

  When the app ended, he opened his eyes, but instead of staring outside to be lulled to sleep, he shot a sideways glance at Natalie. She leaned away from him, halfway across the aisle, to talk to Matt. They chatted a few more minutes, then she straightened.

  Her shoulder brushed his arm. She started typing, fingers flying over her laptop keys at an impressive speed. He wasn’t quite a hunt-and-peck guy, but just barely a step up.

  She wore a short-sleeved floaty blouse thing with large blue flowers on it that made her eyes seem almost neon. Every time she moved even slightly in her typing or shifted her hand to her trackpad, the soft, filmy fabric and her bare arm rubbed his.

  It should have made him even more on edge, had him pressing deeper into the corner or bolting to the restroom again to escape. Instead he stayed where he was. The meditation had indeed calmed him. He still felt a little jazzed from the coffee and a great win to stay on top of the division, but it was a calm excitement.

  The kind of excitement reminiscent of how he’d felt around her in college, when just being near her was enough. When he felt so lucky to be her friend because even if she didn’t love him yet, at least she was in his life. Letting him spend time with her, letting him know the deeper sides to her, the sides no one else saw.

  This was treading into dangerous territory. He couldn’t let himself rekindle those old feelings. Not after what she’d done, the part she’d played in getting him ostracized from the league. He’d been self-destructing just fine; she hadn’t needed to come along and speed up the process.

  But in that moment, he couldn’t dredge up the old resentment and anger. Maybe it was that he’d let himself reminisce last night, remember that perfect first time they’d been together. He found the phrase “make love” a little schmaltzy, but sex with Natalie had always been equal parts fucking and making love.

  “Making sure I have this right,” she said, leaning in Matt’s direction again. It pressed her ass into his hip and he had to swallow a groan. “Sheldon Willbank took you down hard, your leg twisted under you at a funny angle, it ‘hurt like a son of a bitch’s mofo,’ but the X-rays are clean and ice, ibuprofen, and a cortisone injection have you feeling a lot better.” Natalie’s voice remained neutral and professional as she read her notes back to Matt.

  Quinn didn’t have to be professional. He laughed at his friend’s description of the pain. He knew it all too well. The kind that stole your breath but you knew would heal quickly. A son of a bitch’s mofo. Matt looked like an all-American golden boy, and loved to play that part, but the man swore more than anyone on the team.

  “Maybe don’t use that quote. Say it hurt like a beast.” He winked at Natalie. “I got a reputation to preserve.”

  Natalie snorted while Quinn’s laugh was closer to a guffaw. “You’re so full of shit,” he told the quarterback.

  “And you’re getting an MRI tomorrow to confirm it was just a bad twist that’ll be fine and nothing to worry about for Kansas City next week. Right?” As she spoke, Natalie’s fingers typed completely different words.

  How the hell did she get her brain to do that?

  “You got it. We’re bringing home the Lombardi Trophy. I know it.” Matt shifted in his seat, adjusting the bag on his leg and shoving his own rolled-up shirt behind his head. “And now, I’m getting some sleep. I have no doubt Crosby will either try to conduct film review on the train in the morning if he can, or else he’ll call Monday our day off and have us in on Tuesday. And I have the girls Tuesday, so that just fucks my shit up.”

  He closed his eyes and pulled his Dragons cap down over his face.

  The train was dark and silent, the only sound the rush of wind against the outside of the train and Natalie’s fingers tapping at her keyboard. In the bluish-white glow of her laptop screen, their little seat suddenly felt much too cozy.

  Yet completely without his permission, his left leg stretched, rubbing along her right one in the process. His foot brushed hers.

  Christ, what was wrong with him? He must be delirious with fatigue, practically playing footsie with his ex-girlfriend.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. Her voice was distracted as she stared at the screen and continued typing. “There isn’t room for me to move over any more.”

  He couldn’t explain why, but he hated the idea of her moving far enough away that they weren’t touching. Sitting quietly with her reminded him of when they were friends and hung out every day, even if it was just studying in the same room.

  It was an impossibility, after everything that had happened between them, but just for tonight, he wanted to believe they could go back. They could erase the hurt and betrayal. Maybe even erase their relationship; he’d be willing to sacrifice those memories if it meant having a friend who got him so completely, the way Natalie had.

  Just for tonight, he wanted to be her friend.

  * * *

  —

  Her pillow was hard and a little sharp, her neck had a kink, her lower back throbbed with what would likely turn into muscle spasms later in the day, and her mouth tasted like gross, stale coffee.

  Yet Natalie couldn’t remember the last time she woke with such a feeling of peace.

  Rather than open her eyes and ruin it, she used her other senses to get her bearings. Whatever she was sleeping on smelled faintly of dryer sheets, a little stronger scent of men’s deodorant. And coffee. She definitely smelled coffee. Blessed drink of the divine.

  Eyes still shut, she rounded her back and stretched the muscles there, trying to work out a few kinks while still half asleep. She thought she heard a groan from beside her, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Slowly she let more sounds filter into her awareness. A soft mechanical hum as they moved along. The train. Yes, that was it. She was on a train. Memories of the rain the previous evening filtered into her memory. She didn’t hear the pounding of the torrential storm from last night, so they must have passed it.

  The most prominent sound was Coach Crosby. He spoke in a raised, public speaking voice. Talking about yesterday’s game.

  “Here, you see Seth come in for the tackle. Now freeze it right there,” Crosby said. “See your foot placement? You can’t get around that guard. You’ll never get around him like this. You need to get your feet…”

  Ugh. Ugh blarg ugh. She needed to wake up for real. Open her eyes, sit up, get her laptop out and start work on today’s story. She could write about the team nearly getting stranded at the airport and instead taking the train. It wasn’t interesting to her, but readers would like it.

  After all, it was all about the almighty click.

  Sometimes Natalie wished she’d covered sports back in the newspaper days. When reporters didn’t have to spend half their mental energy wondering if an article would get enough shares on social media to justify how much she was paid to write it.

  Then she’d remember that as a female writing about sports, she’d likely be unemployed back in the newspaper heyday. Female sports reporters were still relatively new. And certainly not as respected, overall, as their male counterparts. She had hours of rants on that topic. Poor Annie had been forced to listen to them all. But she returned the favor by listening to Annie’s rants about the deterioration of the education system.

  She stretched one last time, this time arching her back and straightening her legs. The pull through her shoulders and hips felt so good, she couldn’t hold in a soft sound of pleasure in the back of her throat.

  Next to her came a strangled sound, like someone swallowing scream.

  Or a moan.

  OK, time to open her eyes. Ready, one…two…th—

  But dammit, she was so comfy. Whatever broad, hard surface she was curled up against was surprisingly welcoming. And so warm. It invited her to stay like this all day.

  Stupid work. Dumb responsibilities. Adulting sucked.

&nbs
p; Fine. She would do it. Slowly she lifted her lids and let her eyes take in her immediate surroundings.

  She’d been right in claiming coziness. She was sharing a train seat with Quinn, his big body taking up more than one space and encroaching into hers. So she’d practically been forced to snuggle into him as she slept. If she leaned the other way, she’d fall into the aisle.

  That was the only reason she was leaning her head on his shoulder. And she’d angled toward him for the same reason. She’d tucked her knees under his thighs for balance, not to get close to him.

  And her hand was—

  Her eyes flew wide, staring down at where her hand rested. On Quinn’s leg. On his thigh. On his upper thigh.

  She was a few millimeters from groping him.

  Holy shit. She sat bolt upright, jerking her knees away from him and twisting toward the aisle. She ignored the pulse of her muscles in her lower back as she tried to slide even closer to her armrest.

  Quinn cleared his throat and adjusted his own position. Because her eyes were locked on his…upper thighs, she noticed as he subtly adjusted himself.

  His cock. She’d been about to rub his cock. Sure, she’d devoted a lot of time to doing more than just rubbing it, once upon a time. But that was nearly a decade ago.

  The worst part was, she couldn’t seem to dredge up the mortification she was sure she should feel. Instead, she buzzed with excitement, arousal, and a hint of disappointment.

  Dammit, she did not want to touch Quinn Lowry’s cock.

  Except she totally did.

  She was so screwed.

  Chapter 8

  Having Natalie around so much of the past few days was not good for Quinn. After that far-too-intimate train ride on Monday, he’d almost welcomed the escape to practice even if he was sore and exhausted. But then during their day off on Tuesday, she’d spent the majority of the day at his house with Matt, and Quinn had been forced to hide in his room or the gym. He’d gone to the training facility and worked out so hard, he’d had to get one of the trainers to fix his shoulders.

  He’d injured himself trying to avoid Natalie.

  Yeah, that was about right. She was at practice all day, sat with them at lunch, rode with them to and from the facility. It was unnerving.

  Because he liked it. He actually fucking enjoyed having her around. And that was a huge problem. It was clear he was still attracted to her. And how could he not be? She was a beautiful woman, and they had an undeniable compatibility that made for the best sex he’d ever had. So why wouldn’t he still want her, on a purely physical level?

  That was fine. He could live with needing to rub one out on occasion while thinking of her.

  But if he started to like her, became friends with her, there was room for all sorts of messes. So he needed to stay the hell away from her.

  Which was nearly impossible when she followed his roommate around like a persistent puppy.

  Speaking of puppies, Matt had decided on Tuesday to take his girls to the humane society and get a fucking dog. So Quinn had come home to not only Natalie in his space, not only a throbbing shoulder, but a floppy mutt who insisted on playing.

  He was living in his own personal hell.

  Now he was trying to concentrate on his playbook and the pregame shows before Thursday Night Football. But he kept getting distracted by the gorgeous woman sitting on the floor of the living room in front of him and the fluffy coppery-gold furball running around her.

  Booker—Matt picked the name—was a mutt, but the humane society had been pretty sure he was part poodle and part golden retriever. A goldendoodle with maybe something else thrown into the mix. He had a few patches of white mixed into his soft, slightly curly fur. And he had more energy than Quinn would if he took fifteen shots of espresso. He was also the cutest damn thing Quinn had ever seen.

  “I think I’m shifting the focus of my article,” Natalie said, her voice raised so Matt could hear her in the kitchen. He was making dinner for the three of them. He’d invited Natalie to stay and watch the game with a couple of pros. Because of course he had.

  “Yeah, what’s it gonna be?” Matt replied, his tone lighter than Quinn had ever heard it. As much as it annoyed him that Matt had gotten a dog without at least warning him—he could hardly say no since it was Matt’s house—he had to admit it did wonders for his teammate’s mood. The only other time Matt came close to being this content was around his daughters.

  And if his friend needed a dog to ease some of the heartbreak of separating from his wife, well, Quinn was cool with that. He knew the pain of losing a woman he’d loved, and he and Natalie hadn’t even been married. Hadn’t had kids. It had to be exponentially worse for Matt losing Celia. He was so clearly still in love with her.

  “I’m writing a featurette on Booker.” She grabbed the dog and hauled him into her lap so she could scratch his belly. Lucky son of a bitch.

  Booker let out a groan and wriggled to find a comfortable spot.

  Focus, Lowry. Playbook, not puppies.

  And definitely not woman holding puppy.

  Maybe he should go down to the basement, hit the treadmill while he watched the pregame. Except his thighs ached from squats he’d done in the weight room this afternoon, and he’d feel better if he stretched them rather than running. So that escape route was out. Plus, he really did need to get the playbook changes etched into his brain. Kansas City was a tough opponent, leading the AFC West division. And they had a damn good free safety who would give Quinn a workout. He’d have to earn every inch he gained on the field.

  Hence Coach’s new schemes. Plus a couple new trick plays they had to learn, just in case Coach needed to pull one of them out.

  Quinn loved trick plays. To him, they were examples of how truly innovative a team could be if they didn’t rely on the same few plays for an entire game. In Vegas, and to some degree during his two years in St. Louis, the offense had felt stale. He was positive the lack of variety, among other things, was part of why the Scorpions usually came in last in the division. Quinn liked that Crosby was willing to take risks.

  But in the short-term, real-world reality of those innovative trick plays, Quinn had to memorize his routes so they could pull them off. Trick plays only worked when everyone came together and did their part. He could think of dozens of times when they had failed because just one player didn’t hit their mark.

  Thankfully Natalie got up, carrying a wriggling Booker as she left the living room area of the open, spacious main room. In the reflective glare on the TV screen, he could see her walking to the kitchen. She let Booker escape, settled on a stool at the counter, set her notebook in front of her, and started on even more questions for Matt. The rate she was going, she’d have enough material to write a whole book on the guy.

  Maybe that was her secret plan. Write a bestseller about popular quarterback Matt Baxter, rake in the cash, retire from covering other poor schlubs like him, and be done with the sports world forever.

  The thought caused an ache in Quinn’s chest. He tried to picture her sitting at home, living a life of leisure, spending her days reading and gardening and taking up origami or knitting or some other hobby.

  But the image wouldn’t come. Natalie was far too ambitious to give up her career. And while her breakout article had been a disaster for him personally, it had done great things for her. He could admit that. He knew her boss was Ellen Blake, and Natalie had talked about Ellen even back in college. Wanted to be like her.

  She had to be thrilled to work for Ellen.

  Focus, motherfucker.

  Quinn shifted on the couch, his thighs protesting every movement. He muted the TV and leaned back to study the play.

  Ten minutes later, he had it nearly committed to memory. The number two tight end, Vince Gibbons, had the crucial role and was the one who couldn’t fuck up even a little.
Hopefully it wasn’t too much pressure for the second-year player.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Matt called over.

  Quinn headed to the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of water as Matt dished up the pesto chicken with some kind of pasta on the side. Barely realizing what he was doing, Quinn snagged Natalie’s nearly empty water glass and refilled it.

  When he turned from the refrigerator, he didn’t expect her to be right there and he jumped back, splashing water on his shirt.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said quickly. She reached out as if she were going to brush off the water, then snatched her hand back.

  Quinn’s body strained toward her, awareness prickling his skin. He’d only ever felt this yearning sensation for one woman.

  He needed to put more space between them. She was standing close enough that he could smell the light, earthy scent of her perfume. The sense memory slammed into him, jolting him back a decade. Feelings and a flip-book of images wove through him, scenes from college. Hanging out, doing homework, watching movies, grabbing lunch between classes. All overlaid with the subtle aroma of a crisp fall day.

  Why wasn’t she stepping back? He needed more space.

  Oh, right, because he was still holding her water. He shoved it toward her. She gave him an odd look but accepted it, then blessedly turned away.

  “Game’s about to start. We eating in there?” she asked as she picked up a plate.

  “We’re not much on formalities here. Though I suppose we’ll have to be more careful about food with Booker around.” Matt led the way to the living room. He collapsed into the recliner he always occupied, leaving Quinn to share the couch with Natalie.

  Perfect. Normally that wouldn’t be so much of a problem. It was a wide couch. But with the smell of her and the memories brought on by that scent so fresh in his head, even the same room was too close. But hell if he’d let her kick him out of his own living room and make him head to the dining room table.