“He’s a football player?” I don't really expect an answer, I just need to get a grip on the situation. I think back to our conversation. He did say that he worked with athletes. And now that I think about it, the physique makes more sense. Fuck, this could get complicated.
“Please tell me you knew who he was when you were talking to him on the plane.” I roll my eyes because, of course, I didn't. I rummage through my purse, trying to find my phone. Once it’s in my hand, I open the offensive app that is bound to cause more harm than good to my perfectly normal and calm life.
“He’s really a football player?” I ask, my voice pleading. I want this all to be a dream, but given the way Daisey shakes her head as she leans against the doorjamb to my office, I know I’m not that lucky.
“Come on, Ash. Even people who don't watch sports know who he is. Brooks Davis is a legend in this city.”
A legend. Great. Just what I need...a guy with an ego. Although he didn't seem to have one on the plane. Maybe he was just acting. I shake all the scenarios out of my head and scroll through, looking for the tweet.
It takes me a minute to find the message. When I do and access his profile, all I can seem to do is stare at his picture because…damn, he looks amazing in his uniform. Even for a girl who had no idea who he was when we met and could care less if he plays for our city’s football team, the man makes the colors look incredible.
After trying—without success—to message him and tell him to delete the tweet, I throw my phone down on the desk.
“What are you huffing about over there?” Daisey asks. When I tell her my plan, she laughs, makes her way to my desk, and picks up my phone. Her fingers move in a flurry over the screen, and my stomach drops.
“What are you doing?” I can't hide the panic in my voice because, knowing Daisey, she’ll tweet him back and start something I’m nowhere near ready for.
“Relax, woman. I’m finding his Instagram profile. You can message there without following each other.” I release a breath and sink into my chair. “Jesus. Good to know where you stand on being the star of my dream romance.” The eye-roll is involuntary, and Daisey just smiles and hands me back my phone. “Found it.”
I open the Instagram profile and look back at Daisey over my shoulder. I clear my throat as her eyes meet mine and then I arch an eyebrow.
“Don't you have some work to do?”
She huffs, pouting as she walks towards the door.
“You better message him, or I will kick your ass.” I wave her off as I sit back in my chair and look at the first picture, scrolling through as many as I can before I need to leave. There are a few shots of Brooks at what looks like practice, and a few of him working out in the gym. I might have spent way too much time looking at those. There are also a few of him standing with someone named Will Montgomery. I have no idea who that is, but from a brief perusal of the comments, it seems he’s the team’s long-time quarterback, and clearly a friend of Brooks’.
I finally stop drooling over Brooks’ account and find the message button. I stare at the screen for at least five minutes before I finally just type: Hi, it's Ashley.
Then I think about it for a second and add: From the plane.
I hit send before I realize how stupid that sounds. Oh, well. Too late now. I throw my phone back into my purse and hope that he’ll have messaged me back by the time I get home.
It takes twenty minutes for me to arrive at the house, and another ten for the Chinese food I ordered to show up from down the street. Usually, I wait until after dark to order, but the excitement of the day has made me ravenous. As I take my wine glass out of the cabinet, I check my phone for the millionth time and sigh—still nothing.
I take everything, including the bottle of rosé from the fridge, into the living room. Once I settle in and take a large swig of my wine, I feel my phone vibrate next to me. It could be anything: an email, Daisey texting to beg me for details. But in the back of my mind, I know precisely what that vibration means.
Sure enough, when I check my phone, I see a direct message from the man himself.
I see the tweet worked, followed by a winking emoji.
For the second time today, I wonder if the man I met on the plane is the real Brooks, but I shake away my hesitancy and decide to take a chance.
I quickly type out my response. It did, but do you mind deleting it? I know it probably won’t make a difference, but I’m just not really thrilled about everyone reading it.
The response is quick, quicker than I expected. Sure, not a problem. Now that I’ve found you, there’s no reason for it to be up anyway.
I find myself blushing because the idea of him spending any amount of time trying to find me is unbelievable. No one has ever paid that much attention to me before...especially men.
So, you work with athletes, huh? I tease, thinking back to the plane and realizing that he was trying to hide who he really was. I don't blame him. If I were a famous athlete, I’d rather talk to someone who knew nothing about me, too.
Sorry about that, gorgeous. I didn't want to ruin the conversation we were having.
I re-read the message about five times, loving that he called me gorgeous and basking in the warm feeling that settles over my body. However, I also wonder for the second time today who the real Brooks is. Is he the sincere, Harry Potter-loving man I met on that crowded plane? Or is he the legend that likely only wants to get in my pants? At this point, I shouldn't care. It's been far too long since a man has been anywhere near my pants. Honestly, I’ve begun to wonder if I remember how it all works.
You mean the riveting conversation about a boy wizard and which book was best?
It takes only a few minutes for a response to come through.
I would have talked to you about the weather for hours if you’d let me.
God, he's good. The lines coming out of him are stellar. And, honestly, they’re working. All I can seem to do is picture his perfect smile and those bright blue eyes as they stare right at me. I wish he was here so I could bask in the glory that is Brooks in person.
Can I ask you a question? My heart starts beating a million beats per minute at that because I have a feeling I know what the follow-up will be, and I have no idea how I’ll answer.
Sure. I type, hoping my nervousness isn’t evident, even though I know it's likely impossible for him to sense that through a private message.
Did you want to meet me after practice tomorrow? At the stadium?
I still. Is this too fast? Is it safe? I know I met him and sat next to him for a few hours but going somewhere with him alone probably isn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. And this, coming from a girl who dyed her hair green in high school because she was edgy.
When I don't answer, he messages me again.
I know it's sudden, but I know you felt the same connection I did on that plane. I’d like to see where this goes if you're up for it.
I smile. I appreciate the glimpse of his vulnerability, and I chuckle because the idea that I don't like him is laughable.
It's not the connection I’m worried about, it's the idea of being murdered that bothers me. I send and then re-read my message, slapping my hand to my forehead. He's definitely going to think I’m nuts now.
I promise I’m not a murderer. But if it makes you feel better, I can send you a picture of my driver’s license to send to a friend. That way, they know exactly who you're with. I take a minute to think about his suggestion. Honestly, it's a great idea, and I kick myself for not thinking of it myself.
What about your address? Wouldn't you be worried I’d sell it to the press? It's a genuine concern since I know he's fiercely private, at least given the way he acted on the plane. His response is quick and very to the point.
The press already knows where I live. There isn’t any info on my DL that they don't already have. So, what do you say?
How am I supposed to say no to that? I type my answer before I can think better of it.
Y
es.
He sends a smiling emoji and then takes the time to explain exactly where I need to go and how to get to the stadium. Although the idea of the press getting ahold of this freaks me out a bit, the feelings I felt and the connection between Brooks and I can't be ignored.
I finally set down my phone and then close my eyes and inhale the first deep breath I’ve taken all day. I either just agreed to meet the guy of my dreams or made the biggest mistake of my life.
At this point, all I care about is seeing him again. I want to feel his fingers graze my skin. I want to see those eyes bore into mine and continue feeling the lightness that consumes me when I think of him.
Everything else is just noise.
Chapter 3
Brooks
“Hey, Davis, you coming?” Lawson yells from across the locker room. I shake my head, looking at my phone for the millionth time in the last ten minutes. Ashley messaged and told me she was on her way a half an hour ago, but for some reason, I keep expecting a text that tells me she’s changed her mind.
Lawson waves as he makes his way outside. Once I make sure everyone else is gone, I pack up my bag and head to my truck. With my bag tucked inside, I notice a car coming closer and closer to where I’m parked, and I know it's Ashley. My pulse quickens, and I wonder for a split second if this is a good idea. I live half my life in the public eye. Bringing in someone who isn’t from this world could be catastrophic. I honestly don't know if she really understands what could come from this, especially since she clearly didn’t know who I was initially. But only time will tell.
Before I talk myself out of this date, she gets out of the back seat of the car, and I stop in my tracks. She's wearing skin-tight black jeans with rips on the knees and a simple white t-shirt tucked into the waistband. Her hair is down, curled slightly at the ends, and my fingers itch to run through the strands.
How the hell did I forget how gorgeous she is?
“Brooks?” she asks as the cab drives away, and we’re left standing in the parking lot alone. My eyes can't stop taking her in, memorizing everything about her from the Converse sneakers on her feet to the row of rings on her right hand. Everything about her is fascinating. “Everything okay?” she asks as our eyes meet, and I’m shaken out of my daydream.
“Sorry. Yeah, everything’s great. Just spaced out.” I could tell her it was because she looks so amazing, but from the blush already creeping up her cheeks, that might be too much. I watch the pink travel from the base of her neck to the apples of her cheeks, highlighting the strip of freckles that have haunted me since I met her on the plane.
As we stand there awkwardly, I suddenly realize that I have no idea what to do. Do I hug her? That seems both too casual yet way too forward. But shaking her hand seems too formal and impersonal.
Fuck. I’m overthinking this.
“It's nice to meet you...again,” she says, holding out her hand, and therefore making the decision for me. Her eyes tell me she wants to be anywhere but out here in the open, so I give her a grateful smile as I take her hand in mine. The second our fingers brush, I have to take a breath. There is no way I’m leaving here without knowing more about her. This isn’t just a physical attraction. I know that’s there in spades, but there’s also some tether between us that I can't explain.
“Would you like a tour of the stadium?” She nods as I continue holding her hand, guiding her toward the back door. Once it's open and she steps inside, she stops dead in her tracks.
“Wow,” she whispers as her eyes take everything in. To be fair, there’s not much for her to see right now, just plain white walls with blue paint accents.
“If I knew you were this easily impressed, I would have told you who I was on the plane,” I joke. She gives me that smile that makes me want to stop this whole thing and finally know what she feels like pressed against me. But I hold off, and instead guide her down a long hallway and then into the VIP elevators.
“Fancy,” she mutters while taking in the wood-paneled walls with a small TV in the middle. “So, this is how the other half lives, huh?” I chuckle, loving the hint of sarcasm in her tone.
“It is nice.” Her eyes shoot to mine as I give her a wink. The doors open to the concourse. “Follow me, I want to show you my favorite part of the entire stadium...minus the field, of course.”
She grins. “Of course.”
Her smile is slowly becoming one of my favorite things. As I retake her hand, I realize that feeling of her skin against mine is becoming a close second. We walk, and she takes in everything around her from the closed food kiosks to the dismantled tables and drink stations.
“Please tell me your favorite part is not the Pro Shop.” I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of me because I did not expect her to say that. The shy demeanor I expected is quickly morphing into a sarcastic tone that I love. I shake my head as we stop in front of the closed, see-through doors, and I spot my jersey on the wall.
“As much as I love to see my name on the back of that jersey,” I say, pointing across the store, “it's not my favorite part of this place. That is.” I gesture to my left, pointing out the wall opposite us. A very large football shape has been cut into the stone in the middle. Within that, over three hundred football helmets sit perfectly displayed.
“Holy shit, that is a lot of helmets,” she whispers as I walk her over so she can get a better look. “State of Football.” She reads the sign that sits directly in the center of all of those helmets. Her voice is hushed as her eyes meet mine, the question already in her gaze.
“Why are there so many? And why is this your favorite thing?”
“There are three hundred and fifty-five helmets in this display.” Her eyes widen as she looks between me and the wall. “Each one represents a high school in the state of Washington. For me, it represents the state’s love for the game and mirrors my own love for the sport. Whenever I see this wall, I realize that what I do isn’t just for me or for my love of the sport. It's for these kids. It's their dream to one day be in my shoes, and it reminds me to never take what I have or what I do for granted.” Her eyes soften as she turns away from the wall and faces me fully.
“What?” I ask, not really knowing what’s going through her head. It’s obvious she's not a football fan, and now I’m second-guessing everything I’ve been doing.
“You really love it, don't you?” she asks, her eyes never leaving mine. I nod.
“I’ll be honest,” she says. “When I found out who you were, and you asked me out, I thought you were just some dumb jock who wanted in my pants.”
“Well, the night is still young.” I take her hand once again, our fingers twining as we start toward the elevator. “Are you interested in seeing the luxury boxes up top?” I ask, pressing the button as we wait for the doors to open.
“Not really. I mean, is there anything special about them?” I shake my head because what’s really luxurious is the fact that you get food and your own private space. If there’s no game going on, then it's just an open room with empty seats.
“So that’s a no to the boxes. I guess that leaves the locker room and the field.” She nods her head just as the doors to the elevator open and we step inside.
“Am I boring you with all of this?” I ask, genuinely curious if she finds any of this interesting. “Since you had no idea who I was, I assume you're not into football. Please tell me if you want to stop and go home.” I hope to God she doesn't want to cut this short.
“No, it's fine. It's cool to see behind the scenes like this. Even though I don't love the sport as much as a fan would, I still think it's pretty cool. And I’m not a total idiot when it comes to football. I know some of the rules and have been to a couple of college games with friends. But it's just not…”
“Your passion,” I finish for her as she averts her gaze. “I find that refreshing,” I admit as the doors open once again, and I lead her down the painted blue hallway toward the entrance to the locker room.
“Why
is that?”
“I live my life in the public eye. Meeting someone who doesn't care who I am or how much money I make a year is not something I’m used to. I like it.”
“Who says I don't care about how much money you make?” Her tone is sarcastic, but behind the veneer, I see a glimmer of fear—almost like the idea of me making that much money scares the crap out of her. I open the door to the locker room and motion for her to go in ahead of me.
“So, this is where you are before every home game?” she asks as I nod, leading her toward my space. Before we get there, she looks around the room once more.
“I don't know why, but I thought it would be a lot fancier,” she mumbles, almost to herself.
I look around with her and can understand how something like that might enter her head. The cubbies are all cherry wood, our nameplates adhered to the top of each locker with the team’s logo next to it. The only fancy thing in the place is the line of leather chairs at the center of the room.
As she walks around the room, lightly touching the surface of each cubby, I watch her. She stops in front of my name and grazes the painted letters with her fingers, seemingly lost in thought. I wonder for the millionth time today what’s going through her mind. Ever since we met on the plane, I’ve thought about bringing her here and showing her this part of my life. While I wanted to keep it a secret for as long as I could, to interact with her as a man and not a star, I knew that wouldn’t last.
Do I want to impress her? Hell, yes. Of course, I do. But there’s an…aura coming off Ashley. One that makes me want to downplay my success because I know boasting about it will do absolutely nothing. And that’s a weird feeling for me.
“Shouldn't your jersey be on here?” she asks as she touches the hook attached to the locker’s back wall. I nod my head, going to stand behind her as my fingers brush her hips. She freezes at my touch, and I stop for a second to gauge her reaction. When she doesn't move away, I take a step closer, my chest pressing against her back as my fingers find the strands of her hair and pull them away from her neck.
Pick Six: A Quick Snap Novella Page 2
