by Dylann Crush
Sadie gave a meaningful look to Heather, then to Anna. “His methods are suspect, I know, but he means well.”
“Sadie is correct, I mean well.” Roman smiled a shit-eating grin.
“You do deserve a night of fun.” Heather slipped Anna’s eggnog martini back into her hand. “If you don’t want to spend it with Drake, I’ll tell him to take a hike. People don’t say no to a pregnant lady very often.”
The problem wasn’t that Anna wanted Heather to whisk her away. The issue at hand was that Anna wanted to spend the evening with Drake.
Hell, she wanted to spend more than an evening with him.
That was the problem.
She wanted to go back to the way things had been before.
Another fan caught Drake’s attention. He paused. Smiled. Made what seemed like small talk. Another photo. Another handshake. A hearty laugh. The guy was totally genuine.
Except when it came to his feelings for Anna, it seemed.
Finally, his focus moved to her again.
That gorgeous smile of his melted any residual resolve she had managed to hold onto.
“Anna,” he said, his voice a low rumble of golden boy goodness.
“Drake,” she replied, totally serious.
“You look amazing.”
She flashed him her best I’m-good-how-are-you smile. “I do, don’t I?”
“She does,” Sadie concurred.
Heather and Roman both nodded. Roman’s nod was way more smug than it needed to be.
“I…uh…” Drake glanced at his polished dress shoes that probably came from Saks Fifth Avenue. “Can we talk?”
She shook her head. “We talked enough when you made it clear you don’t want a future with me.”
That caught him off guard.
He slid his gaze toward Roman.
Roman, who appeared horrified.
Clearly, Drake had forgotten to mention that little morsel of knowledge to her brother when he’d manipulated this evening.
Her Babushka probably didn’t know it, either.
“I get it. Football is life,” she said.
The sheer curtains she’d hung around the edge of the room had been backlit with a blue glow that totally matched the way her chest felt—like she was inhaling a whole lot of sadness.
“Sports are just sports,” Drake said. The way he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at? Totally made her melt into a puddle of eggnog martini.
“Like flowers are just flowers,” he continued.
“Flowers are not just flowers.” Well, they were, but… “We can agree that flowers are more than just flowers and football is more than just football,” Anna said, pretending to throw a pass with her martini hand, sloshing the eggnog all over his shirt and her wrist.
For a split second—Anna clocked it—Drake seemed utterly confused as to what to do with her or the puddle of eggnog slowly saturating the cotton weave of his white button-down shirt. The slosh of eggnog martini started to slide down her wrist toward her elbow.
God, she was such a mess.
Her chest got tighter, her cheeks flamed like she was sitting too close to a fireplace, and dammit, what was she supposed to do with this? Normally, she’d just lap it up with her tongue and make it a joke. Normally, she wasn’t face-to-face with a star quarterback ex who she’d just baptized in martini. Normally wouldn’t work right then.
She shot a panicked look at Heather and Sadie, who were twin mirrors of the shock Anna felt inside. She didn’t bother looking at Roman because he would obviously have no idea what to do, either.
Then, and this was interesting, Drake expertly extracted the martini from her grip, set it aside, and—using a corner of a silky handkerchief from his pocket—wiped at the puddle of eggnog martini dripping from her forearm, totally ignoring the wetness soaking his shirt.
His entire focus was on her skin. Like, his whole focus.
This was not a normal swipe and go.
Oh no, no, no.
Drake took his time running the silk over Anna’s skin in a move she was certain he hadn’t intended to come across as erotic. Yet, she had to clench her thighs together and take a huge breath to bring herself back to the present.
She gripped the satin with her other hand, pulling a little as he released. The man carried a handkerchief. How awesome was that?
He grabbed a glass of ice water from a nearby table and held it for her.
“To dip the cloth.” He gestured to the silk or satin or whatever-the-hell she still gripped. “Or you’ll stay sticky.”
Oh God.
She was going to stay sticky.
Unless she dipped the satin.
“Can I?” he asked, already pulling the handkerchief back to dab the tip in water. Then, like a man who was able to throw a football down an entire field of players with precision, he carefully took hold of her heart without even realizing he’d done so.
“I’m sorry,” Anna said, wishing she could go find a sinkhole to suck her in. That sorry meant so much more than just the spillage.
He seemed to get it.
“All good,” he said with a smile that didn’t shine in his eyes but had the wattage of a billion twinkle lights all the same.
“Marlee’s here,” Sadie said, breaking free from her horror. “She’s with her dad. You know Jackson Medford, right?”
Drake’s spine visibly stiffened. He nodded and looked from Anna to where the king of Denver football and his daughter had just arrived.
Of course, he knew the Medfords—they owned the Denver national football franchise. The Stallions had been two shakes away from winning the last championship when their quarterback got sacked so hard that he blew out his knee. The career-ending injury devastated the entire city because Denver didn’t just have a football team. No, Denver lived the sport.
Drake needed an escape, and Anna needed to give up on a night that didn’t involve embarrassing the hell out of herself along the way.
“You should go do the football thing.” Anna blinked as pointedly as she could toward where the Medfords mingled.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Drake asked, the timbre of his voice low and calm and settling Anna’s nerves.
She shook her head and took the handkerchief from him to finish up. “You really should go say hello.”
“I’ll go with him.” Roman gave his fiancée a look broadcasting the fact that she was now in charge of ensuring Anna didn’t bolt. His expressions were pretty easy to read, and Anna had had a lifetime of practice.
Drake adjusted his jacket to cover the spill on his shirt before heading toward the area where the Medfords stood surrounded by a group of men who looked like…well…linebackers.
“That was quite the...” Sadie bit at her top lip.
“Sometimes things just get off to a rocky start, that’s all,” Heather assured, but her tone lacked that inexplicable yet undeniable quality that actually did reassure a person.
Anna continued to wipe at the skin along her forearm, even though she didn’t need to because Drake was nothing if not thorough. “I’m so freaking wet right now.”
“Your arm?” Sadie asked.
Also my panties, Anna thought. Instead of saying this out loud, she said, “I mean, did you see him? Hear him? Can you believe I actually had that? Even for a little bit? He’s so far out of my league that it’s like we’re playing different sports in different countries on different planets.” And his scent? Amazing. Like expensive shampoo and quarterback. “He smells nice, too,” Anna said.
“Do not sniff his hair in front of everyone,” Sadie said, suddenly serious. “That’s the thing that could definitely make this evening more awkward.”
“Ahem.” Anna heard the deep rumble that she knew very, very well came from behind her.
She glanced at her friends, her heartbeat seeming to stop completely.
Horror, once again, took residence on their faces.
There was something els
e that could make the evening more awkward.
“He’s behind me, isn’t he?” she asked, all the blood free falling from her head to her toes.
Slowly, like her life was a slow-motion replay of a particularly gnarly injury, she turned.
“You know what?” Heather latched on to Sadie’s arm. “We’re just going to—” She pointed toward a random spot near the entrance and pulled Sadie along with her.
“I…” Drake fumbled the word, recovered, and said smooth as a testicle ornament, “Sorry to interrupt, but I need our table number.”
“Twelve,” Anna said quickly. “Lucky number twelve.”
He smiled at that. A grin that totally lit up his eyes this time.
The wattage of that look…dear goodness, the wattage was something that she wanted to tuck in her clutch and remember forever.
Twelve was, of course, his player number.
Because of course it was.
3
Drake
The fact that Anna was still into him meant something. Something he hoped he’d be able to turn into more. Now that he had his opening, he wasn’t about to step away again.
The conversation he needed to have with Medford could wait.
Despite what his fans might think, he wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. At least, that’s what his grandmother told him relentlessly when he showed up to visit her for Thanksgiving every other year. More recently, that’s what the owners of his pro football team told him when they handed him walking papers. Countless completed passes, hundreds of wins, four championship rings, and they were still pushing retirement. Early. Retirement.
That was the problem in his life. See, on the field, he knew where he was supposed to be and when. He was the best at his job and everyone in the football world knew it—until recently. Drake had an impressive accuracy that made commentators and other pros sit up and take notice.
Unfortunately, last season wasn’t his best. He’d been dealing with a rotator cuff that acted up and a hamstring that could’ve picked a better time to go to shit.
But it was one season out of a dozen. Another shot was all he needed to get back in the game, if he was going to be cliché about it.
“Thanks for this.” Anna handed over the now-sopping handkerchief.
“Sure.” He took the handkerchief, searching for a trash bin or someplace to drop the thing to be disposed of easily.
One of the waiters took pity on him and relieved him of the cloth.
Anna lifted her gaze to meet Drake’s and he took it like a hit in the gut. He’d missed her like hell since they’d had their argument. The argument that came two hours after Miami’s formal request that he retire.
He had been in a spiral, and clearly, Anna moving to Miami had not been the best option given that he wouldn’t be there.
But he’d handled her feelings like a rookie and hurt her.
That was unacceptable.
His chest went tight at the memory.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her expression earnest.
They’d dated for the past two months while he was home in Denver, after his hamstring got pissy.
“Fine.” He nodded, clearing his throat. God, he’d missed her.
He’d stopped by Anna’s flower shop in Castle Rock to buy his mom a bouquet of roses, and he and Anna had clicked immediately.
Then he had ended up stopping by her shop to buy every person he knew flowers.
They’d dated.
Then he’d gotten canned.
Now everything’s gone to shit.
“You don’t look fine,” Anna said, giving him a solid once-over.
What wasn’t there to be fine about? Well…everything, really.
“Too many people?” she asked.
Shaking his head, he said, “You’re here and you’re speaking to me, so I’d say the rest of the people don’t matter. And since I’m here and you’re here, things are better than fine. Being next to you is so far beyond fine.”
Her expression softened at his words.
Drake preferred quiet, and Anna knew that. He liked throwing around a pigskin. She knew that, too. She also understood what most of the world didn’t—Drake could live without the thousands of fans. They didn’t drive his need for success.
Fame wasn’t important to him. It was a byproduct of doing what he loved that he tolerated instead of embraced.
The game, though, was everything. It had become who he was. Without it, who was he? He’d have to figure that out. And soon. That scared the shit out of him.
“You look beautiful.” He wanted to resist the urge to touch her hand. Really touch her hand because he missed her.
He couldn’t force himself to deny the urge. His fingertips touched Anna’s for a breath of a second, and in that moment, he didn’t feel so alone anymore.
“Mr. Valsh.” An older woman with a thick Russian accent approached him. “I am looking forvard to buying you later.”
Sorry. What?
The elderly woman took a martini from a waiter and sipped. She pulled a face that was clearly not impressed and spit the mixture back into the cup in a slow stream. Carefully, she set it back on the tray.
“There is no vodka in this.” She waved a hand over the cup.
“It’s eggnog, ma’am,” the waiter said, eyebrow raised.
“Exactly.” The woman scowled. “Be a good boy and get me a proper eggnog vith vodka, yes?”
“Um. Of course.” The waiter looked like she’d asked him to bring her a narcoleptic skunk, but he headed back toward the bar area to get vodka’d eggnog.
“Now, about the auction. I look forvard to purchasing you for my favorite granddaughter.” The woman sidled closer to him.
“No, Babushka.” Anna shook her head furiously. “You and your methods are not needed here.”
“I am alvays needed.” Babushka linked her arm with Anna’s. Drake couldn’t be sure if it was because she needed Anna for support or because she didn’t want Anna to run. He had a hunch it was the latter.
“Drake, this is my babushka.” Anna made big eyes at him.
Right. The infamous Babushka.
“And you may call me Babushka, my grandson.” Babushka patted his cheeks with both of her palms.
Uh…
“Babushka.” He tested out her name.
She smiled like he’d told her that he has season passes with her name on them.
Anna had told him about her grandmother and her need to meddle in her grandchildren’s lives—especially when it came to relationships. That’s why he hadn’t met her yet. Anna had promised him it was for his own good.
He glanced at her for guidance.
“Ven the bidding begins, I vill be first and last,” Babushka assured.
Huh?
“No. You won’t.” Anna patted her grandmother’s arm.
Babushka harrumphed and said something in what must have been Russian.
Anna replied in Russian.
He tried to follow the conversation, but given that he didn’t speak Russian, he obviously failed.
“Babushka, leave Drake alone. He’s not for sale,” Anna finally said, speaking English again so he could understand.
But about the for-sale thing… Actually, according to his agent, he sort of was. Which was why he needed to catch Medford soon.
Anna looped her free arm through his and the world that had gone topsy-turvy righted itself with her touch.
Denver.
He’d stay in Denver.
Even if Jackson Medford offered him minimum wage or asked him to play strictly for charity, Drake would make it work.
Two more seasons—that’s what his agent insisted Drake had in him. Perhaps a few more if Drake could get his arm to cooperate and managed to pull out a championship in the upcoming season.
When it was all said and done, then...then he had to deal with what came next.
The obvious thing? The thing that made him look forward to the future and not dread it?
Off the field, he was just a guy who had no idea where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to do.
But Anna knew what to do. That’s one of the things that drew him to her. He had a bag of tricks that he used with fans to help make them feel comfortable around him—a vetted array of rehearsed responses he’d honed over his twelve-year professional career. But beyond his standard chitchat, big events like this one gave him hives.
“Now, vhere vill ve go on our date?” Babushka asked Drake.
“You said you’re buying him for me.” Anna stared her grandmother down. “Now you’re buying him for you?”
“There is enough of him to go around,” Babushka said with an exaggerated shoulder lift.
He ping-ponged between the two of them as they picked up again in Russian. Had he received a head injury around the same time he’d pulled the hell out of his hamstring?
“Apologies. I don’t know what you’re referring to with this talk of purchasing me.” He did the thing where he crossed his arms while giving the fan his full attention. Arms crossed signaled for them to move along—which usually worked—while giving his full attention made them feel valued and appreciated.
Babushka held her program open. Slowly, licking her fingertip between each turn of a page and moving at the speed of a sloth, she flipped the pages until she came to one with his photo and then held it out for him to read.
His gut seemed to take an imaginary punch.
There was a bachelor auction, that he’d known. What he hadn’t known was that he was one of the eligible bachelors up for sale.
There was a photo of him in his jersey holding a football on the field with a shit-eating grin and messy hair in place. Right alongside that was his professional league photo in his suit, still holding the football. Next to the photos were the words Most Eligible Quarterback.
Hell. To. The. No.
His agent’s specific instructions were to lay low while he did his dance with Medford and arranged for the change. A public bachelor auction was not laying low.
As if he’d taken a direct hit to the gut, his stomach clenched, then fell, then tried to empty itself all over the photo spread.
He swallowed—he hadn’t agreed to be the grand prize in the auction. He never would have agreed to do that. He snatched the program, a sheen of sweat probably appearing on his forehead.
