by Kata Čuić
“She is.”
Damn. That’s the surest I’ve been about anything since I arrived in Chelsie’s new hometown. An invisible weight has been lifted from my chest. I’m gonna have to call Evie and apologize for basically throwing her out of my house when I had a temper tantrum like a fucking toddler.
A different toddler’s babble carries through on a speaker that’s sitting on the kitchen island.
Chelsie’s eyebrows pop. “Time’s up. You need to go. Charlie’s only two, but he’s smart. He knows what his daddy looks like even though he doesn’t see him much anymore. You do not fit that description. Anytime someone asks me why I’m not dating again, I simply tell them I’m not ready to have that conversation with my gifted toddler.”
I rise from my stool. “No apologies necessary. Time to get back to the mom gig. I get it. It’s a way more important job than mine.”
She escorts me to the door and gestures vaguely in my direction. “I hate that all this misplaced guilt brought you here, but it was good to see you. I’m glad we finally got the chance to set the record straight between us.”
I give her a hug that oddly feels like letting go. “If you ever need anything, don’t let what happened between us keep you from calling. Even if it’s only for a free babysitter when you decide you’re ready to date again.”
She laughs as she opens the door. “I might take you up on that, buddy.”
“Please do.”
Chelsie peers past me to my big truck parked at her curb then slaps me hard enough on the arm that it’s probably going to leave a mark. “You left her out here all this time? What in the hell is wrong with you? She’s gonna think you were in here cheating on her!”
Sure enough, Tori’s sitting in my truck. She seems content, playing on her phone and bobbing her head to a beat I can’t hear. The truck engine is running. Her hair moves slightly from the breeze of the AC. She must have gotten overheated on her walk. Pale skin like hers burns easily, and I didn’t see her apply any sunscreen before our road trip.
“She kept me company on the drive, but she wanted to give us some privacy. She trusts me.” That sounds a hell of a lot better than admitting Tori didn’t trust herself not to commit physical violence.
Chelsie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Wife that one up, Mitchell. Trust is worth its weight in gold these days.”
“I hope you find someone you can trust again, too.”
She winks before she closes the door. “He’s upstairs, calling for his mommy.”
I didn’t admit to Chelsie that I never pictured her as my wife—not even in the distant future. I was holding onto something that I never really had in the first place. It wasn’t about love; it was about failure.
Staring at Tori as she sings along to whatever she’s listening to, I don’t have the willpower to keep lying to myself. I want her. I’m pretty sure she wants me, too. My career can’t afford the sort of distraction she has the potential to be, and she doesn’t want to sleep her way to the top. I need to find a way to obliterate this friend zone while giving us both what we want.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Mike mutters behind a glass of expensive scotch that he’s not actually drinking.
“Hey, not only did I rock doing my own makeup, including false eyelashes, but I also think I did a great job after the game today playing a totally supportive, loving girlfriend for the cameras.”
It wasn’t all that difficult of an act to pull off. The Wolves—and Mike—had another amazing season opener, and I’ll admit I got caught up in the excitement on the sideline. Kissing Mike isn’t exactly a hardship.
He tips his untouched glass toward me in a half-hearted toast. “That’s an argument for why you deserve a reward, not for dragging me here.”
“It’s called leverage, Mitchell. You agree I deserve a reward for all my hard work. My reward is getting you to attend your team’s post-game celebration. Two birds, one stone.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow at me, shakes his head and sighs, then takes a tiny sip of his drink.
I understand now more than ever why Mike isn’t tight with his teammates; why he never seems to let his guard down around them, and why there’s almost no social media proof of him bonding with them. The press is starting to paint him as being a loner among the Wolves. A player who thinks he’s too good to rub elbows with his co-workers who don’t necessarily perform at his level. That’s not just bad publicity. It’s fodder for his teammates to resent him, which could lead to problems in the locker room that I can’t mitigate. What the general public doesn’t know is that Mike has every reason to not only distrust his teammates, but quite frankly, to be terrified of the guys he shares a locker room with. It’s my job to make his job easier—on and off the field.
“Part of your media profile is bonding with your teammates. You need to be seen out and about, having a good time with them.”
“Peaches.” He levels me with a stern expression. “I might be a professional football player, but I have never considered going to a strip club a good time.”
“Night club,” I correct him.
He rolls his eyes then gestures vaguely to the stage. “And I suppose your PR brain would label her an exotic dancer instead of a stripper.”
Just to prove my point, I glance over my shoulder at the nearly naked, oiled-up woman on the stage who obviously gets full-body waxes because there is no way that two-piece could hide even a single stray pubic hair. “That is correct. She is an entertainer. A dancer who is performing a routine for paying customers.”
“Mmhmm.” Mike sticks his tongue in his cheek. “So, from a marketing perspective, Templeman up there—stuffing Benjamins into her G-string—is tipping generously for excellent services rendered like a good customer should?”
“Yep.” I manage not to squeak. “There are plenty of videos circulating on the internet about teams celebrating a big win in exactly this way. It’s…expected.”
“Sure,” he drags out. “I just didn’t think strip club patron was the image of me you wanted to present to the public.”
“That’s why I’m with you.” I smile my brightest to lessen his justifiable anxiety. “You’re hanging out with your teammates in their favorite party spot, but you’re still wholesome enough to bring your girlfriend.”
“There is nothing wholesome about half the team being in champagne rooms right now.”
“I thought professional football players don’t drink much during the season?”
Mike’s body rumbles all around me as his face turns a weird shade of purple from obviously trying not to laugh in my face. After a few deep breaths, he manages a stuttered, “Nope. I can’t be the one to take away your innocence.”
I haven’t been a virgin in a very long time, but Mike’s words send a jolt of anticipation through my tense muscles. A literal shudder rolls through me with the effort of holding myself together. In hindsight, sitting on his lap to act as a human security blanket for him wasn’t my brightest idea.
“You cold?” His tone is genuinely concerned.
I take a healthy sip of my martini. “Nope. I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
His expression shows he doesn’t believe me for a second, but his attention is diverted by a large body plopping into the cushy leather seat beside us. “Finally run out of cash?”
Templeman shakes his head with a frown. “Nah. I got plenty left, but she ain’t the unicorn for me.”
Mike chuckles, releasing a wave of way-too-pleasurable vibrations beneath me. “I keep telling you that you’re looking in all the wrong places, man. You won’t listen to me.”
A decidedly evil grin lights up Templeman’s face. He leans closer. “How you doin’ tonight, baby? Enjoying yourself?”
“No,” Mike commands in no uncertain terms. He places his glass down on the end table between the chairs then wraps his solid arms around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest.
Torture, thy name is Mike Mitchell.
>
“Tori is not your unicorn either.”
“Right. Because she’s yours.” Templeman visibly pouts. “How is the front office gonna assign you a dick-gracer and not me? This shit ain’t fair.”
Mike punches Templeman in the arm.
“Ow!” He yelps then rubs the spot. “You have any idea how bruised I am from blocking for you today, motherfucker?”
Mike grins. “Yep.”
Templeman punches him back.
Mike glowers. “You do that again, and I swear to God, you won’t be able to play next week.”
Even though I understand Templeman is one of the few Wolves who Mike has somewhat of a relationship with, this situation has the potential to turn into a PR nightmare if they keep up this pissing contest.
“Elliot?” My gamble pays off. Using his first name gets Templeman’s attention faster than throwing my drink in his face to cool him off. “Why are you so obsessed with unicorns?”
Mike laughs again, his body a delicious—torturous—shuddering all around me. He picks up his glass and gestures toward Templeman. “I couldn’t bring myself to explain champagne rooms. I’m not going to even try to explain your definition of a unicorn. Mostly because it’s stupid.”
My arousal evaporates. I suddenly feel like the butt of a joke instead of a mediator. Templeman’s usually happy expression changes into something resembling anger.
He leans over, his gaze a laser on Mike. “Number one, it’s not stupid. Number two, how you gonna bring a sweet woman like Tori here if she don’t even know what a damn champagne room is? That ain’t right, Mitchell. I thought you were better than that.”
“This was not my idea,” he grumbles back even as his expression shows obvious shame. “I didn’t want to bring her here at all.”
I snap my fingers between their almost touching faces. My temper is running dangerously hot. “I am right here, so please stop talking about me in the third person. There are plenty of other players’ wives and girlfriends at the club tonight. It’s not like I’m the only woman. One of you better tell me right now what a champagne room is because I don’t like feeling stupid.”
Templeman straightens in his seat and turns a pitying gaze to me, which doesn’t make me feel better in the slightest. “Baby girl, these other women understand exactly what they’re getting into. The whole team knows you’re Mike’s PR. No one expects you to have a jersey chaser mindset. You’re about the business of football, and that’s all right.” He clears his throat as he glances around at the chaos then gestures with his chin toward the quarterback, whose wife is also sitting on his lap. “Derek over there? In about an hour, he’s gonna tell his old faithful she should head home for the night to check on the kids, and that he’ll follow once he makes sure the team ain’t gonna get into any trouble without him. Soon as she leaves, he’ll be back in one of the champagne rooms.”
A sinking sensation takes root in my stomach, but I don’t dare interrupt. Templeman is giving me a behind-the-scenes play-by-play that no one in the front office would ever trust me with.
“Castle? You know him?” He goes on without waiting for me to nod. Obviously, part of my job is knowing everyone on the team. “That ain’t his girlfriend. She’s still in Georgia, and she knows damn well he’s got a woman in multiple cities. She’s hanging on, thinking she’s gonna wait out his wild side. I almost feel bad for this new chick. She don’t know the score yet. She thinks she’s winning because he’ll take her back to a champagne room later. He sure as hell wouldn’t take her to his home though.”
Mike nods and follows another sip of his drink with a hard swallow.
“The fellas who don’t have a guaranteed spot on the roster are in the champagne rooms right now, blowin’ damn near all the money they’re making in a single night. Living it up like kings with women who worship money. They’re enjoying themselves past what’s smart because they know if we don’t win next week—if they don’t play their best—” Templeman snaps his fingers. “This’ll all be gone in a heartbeat. They’ll be beggars who can’t be choosers overnight.”
I don’t need to hear anymore. I place my empty martini glass on the side table and wave to a waitress who blatantly ignores me.
Mike’s warm lips brush against my ear. “If you want another, I’ll get it for you. But, Peaches…it’s a good idea to keep your wits in situations like this. You never know what’s gonna happen when everyone else has had too much.”
Of course. This is the full innocence Mike didn’t want to steal from me even after he confessed the horrors he’s already lived through. I nestle my head into the crook of his neck, wanting to give comfort enough for the both of us.
“Can you get me a water, please?” I whisper.
He kisses my forehead in response.
Templeman relaxes fully into his chair with a deep sigh. “Do you understand what champagne rooms are now?”
I nod, a deep sense of dejection weighing me down. How am I supposed to fix any of this for Mike? “I’m not sure I want to know about unicorns anymore.”
Weirdly, Mike chuckles.
Templeman’s eyes light up. “We ain’t all bad, sweet thing. Some of us just wanna play the game we love and find the right woman to enjoy the ride with us. She gotta be perfect for this crazy life—understanding, loyal, beautiful, confident, got her own goals to attain, not willing to take any shit from us or from anyone else.”
This concept is way more confusing than what a champagne room actually is. “You do realize most of those qualities seem contradictory, right?”
Templeman cackles. “That’s why she’s a unicorn! A woman like that is a myth!”
“I told you it was stupid,” Mike mumbles into my hair. “And that coming here was a bad idea.”
Templeman scoffs. “It ain’t a bad idea. Ya girl just needs to know what she’s dealing with, that’s all. She ain’t gonna be able to work effectively for you if she don’t know the rules of the game.” He gestures to me with his glass. “Now you know.”
I know Mike is protecting me with his big arms as much as he’s clinging to me for help to get through this. I know Templeman doesn’t have to sit here and teach me some of the ropes, but he is.
“You’re right, Elliot. You’re not all bad. The bad ones just get more press. So, help me out some more. Tell me about the good guys.”
He grins. “On this team? Girl, you’re sitting with the only good guys.”
“That’s not true.” At least for their sake, I hope it isn’t.
He laughs. “All right, all right. It’s not completely true. A football team is like any other group of people. Bad ones, good ones, everything in between. So long as we work together to play good ball on the field, we deal with the rest.”
“We’ve been playing some damn good ball,” Mike concedes.
Templeman nods. “So, we get to celebrate a little and to hell with the rest of it.” He flags down a waitress who immediately responds with a wide smile. “We’ll have three shots of tequila, three Dos Equis, and three waters.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Templeman.”
Mike barks out a laugh that jostles me. “Hearing someone call you mister Templeman is so weird.”
Templeman grins. The kind that just screams trouble. “Do you call him mister Mitchell when there aren’t any cameras around?”
I do sometimes. He absolutely hates it.
“You’re going to get punched again,” Mike warns.
Not on my watch. “Tell me more about your unicorn search, Elliot.”
This smile is entirely different. There’s a sparkle in his nearly black eyes that can’t be contained. Over tequila shots, gross beer chasers, and laughter, Elliot Templeman weaves a tale of his desperate search for his one true unicorn to share the ups and downs of life with.
I’m a quivering mess of romantic hope by the time he finishes.
“I want to find my unicorn, too.” My sigh is full of girlish wistfulness. It’s not even the tequila talking. Mostly. I had drea
ms of a big wedding once. I could still have that. Someday. With my unicorn.
Templeman drains the rest of his beer. “You can’t find what you’re not looking for.”
“I can’t look. Not as long as the front office wants me to play pretend. I can’t even casually date.” I wince as soon as the brutally honest words leave my mouth. Rude doesn’t even come close to saying that out loud to one of his teammates while I’m sitting on Mike’s lap, basically curled up into a sleepy ball.
Instead of being justifiably offended, the backs of Mike’s fingers sweep up and down my arm in a soothing motion. “I think it’s time to get out of here. You slurred that last part.”
I peel myself away from the solid warmth of his chest, meeting his gorgeous brown eyes directly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”
He smiles in return. This one also offers an entirely different world of trouble. “No offense taken.”
Templeman clears his throat. “I’m gonna, uh…head out, too. Night, y’all.”
Mike barely even acknowledges his teammate’s departure.
And me? I’m trapped in his focused gaze—my tongue heavy in my mouth, my heartbeat racing faster than the tempo of the club sauce blaring over the speakers.
He’s so deliciously handsome, made even more so by the warm, genuine person he is behind the scenes.
Mike drags the rough pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. If my carefully applied lipstick doesn’t hold up, red will be smeared across my cheek, following the path of his touch.
Something about that mental image sends curls of pin-prick awareness rushing through me.
He’s putting on a good show in the public eye. That’s all this is.
He leans closer, his breath a ghost against my lips. “How real do you want this to be, Peaches?”
“It’s not real,” I whisper. Crumbling. Oh, so slowly giving in to the attraction to him that’s only grown stronger since we first met. “It’s all for show.”
