The Relationship Pact: Kings of Football

by Locke, Adriana

  “I feel like you didn’t accurately describe what we were getting into,” I tease her. “I heard some work event for your stepdad, and you brought me to a who’s who of Georgia.”

  She giggles. “This is one of the more low-key affairs of the year. You should see the Fourth of July thing. They get a boat and caterers, and there are fireworks. Last year, someone brought a giant floating duck that attracted a shark, and things got a little hairy.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shakes her head. “Nope.”

  “Can I get an invitation to that?”

  She laughs.

  A woman approaches Larissa. I’m briefly introduced, but her name slides right by me. They get involved in a conversation that I lose interest in immediately. Instead of trying to follow along, I gaze around the room and wonder what her stepfather does for a living.

  The walls of the banquet room are covered in black bunting. Lights shine behind it that somehow make the room feel like a forest or some kind of magical cave. Trees and shrubs have been brought in to add to the effect.

  It’s definitely on a level I’m not used to. The five-piece band is playing smooth jazz, the commercially-oriented crossover jazz. From memory, I know it became dominant in the eighties. But it suits the opulence of the night and is doing exactly what it’s intended to do by creating an easy-listening ambiance.

  Maybe my music minor isn’t a bust, after all.

  Round tables are set up throughout the room, and I know from a communications class I took that the arrangement encourages conversation. I wonder if all the conversations tonight will include the life-sized ice sculpture of a man with a baseball bat pointing at the sky in the middle of the room.

  Larissa touches my arm and brings my attention back to her.

  “Okay,” she says. “Sorry about that. That woman is a talker.”

  “It’s cool.”

  She exhales. “My mother knows we’re here. Are you ready to start our mission?”

  “I’m ready and willing.”

  “Good. Before we go over there, her name is Trista Cunningham. Her husband is Jack Cunningham.”

  I gasp. “They have the same last name?”

  She smacks my arm. “Don’t be a dick.”

  “Anything else less obvious that I need to know?”

  Her gaze sweeps around the room before it comes back to me.

  “Jack co-owns the Savannah Seahawks. They’re a minor league baseball team. These people are management, players, former players, businesses that sponsor different ballpark events, or bankers. You get the idea.”

  I nod.

  “But,” she says, lowering her voice, “none of that specifically matters to us. Our mission is solely on my mom.”

  “Right,” I whisper conspiratorially.

  Something about her enjoys this little game of us teaming up to … do whatever it is we’re doing. But I get it. I kind of like it too.

  “Give me my marching orders again,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to make your mom think I’m totally obsessed with you, right?”

  “Well, I mean, if you have to be obsessed, then do.” She pretends to be flattered, making me laugh. “But really, I just want her to think I’m seeing someone so she’ll stop setting me up with random guys who I have no interest or business dating. Because if you weren’t here, she would’ve set me up with someone, and she’d be naming our future children by now.”

  “Rude.”

  She shrugs. “It comes from a good place. I think.”

  “I’m going to warn you,” I tell her. “If she’s after cute grandkids, you’re in trouble. One look at me, and she’s going to think about how she hopes her daughter breeds some of these genes into your gene pool.”

  “Breeding your genes into my gene pool?” She lifts a brow. “When you say it like that, it’s such a turn-on.”

  I laugh. “Would you like me to rephrase?”

  “No.”

  She swats me again, but this time, I grab her wrist. Her eyes go wide as they meet mine, and her breathing stalls in her chest.

  We haven’t talked about the kiss from last night. And while we might not have talked about it, I know she’s thought about it. She’s replayed it ten times in her mind since I’ve picked her up. I’m not judging her because every time I catch her looking at my mouth, I’m thinking about it too.

  Logic tells me that kiss was a mistake. Why bother kissing a girl who I know on a cellular level could get under my skin? I’ve made it a mission in my life—went completely out of my way—to avoid anyone I think might be able to get to me.

  Honestly? It hasn’t been that hard.

  I’m down to fuck. One-night stands are fine. Great, actually. I’m game for a friends-with-benefits situation too. But none of those circumstances involve kissing.

  Sex is different. It’s an exchange. Kissing, though, is a connection. You can fuck someone and not have to face them. You do what you want to the other person’s body, but it has nothing to do with them as a person. Intercourse is a pleasure transaction. Kissing is a communication, an intentional decision to face someone and form a personal connection.

  Fuck. That.

  Yet I kissed her last night. Even worse, I want to kiss her again against my better judgment.

  She squirms her hand free and lays it flat on the lapel of my jacket. Her breathing gets quicker.

  “Would you rather I demonstrate?” I ask.

  She tries to hide her smile. “Does that mean you’re thinking about kissing me again?”

  “This isn’t about me,” I tell her, lowering my face toward hers. “This is about what suits you right now.”

  She forces a swallow. Notes of amber in her perfume float through the air as her body undoubtedly heats.

  I’m playing with fire here. And I just can’t stop myself.

  “This is a public place, Hollis,” she says as if that would stop me.

  “Does that mean whatever you’re thinking about is not PG-13?”

  She flushes the prettiest shade of pink as she fingers the edge of my jacket. “I’m just thinking that I need to be the object of your affection while we’re here. Can you do that?”

  I nod. “I can do that.”

  She pats my chest, and I take a step back. She looks simultaneously relieved and disappointed at my movement. The thought that she liked me that close to her sends a surge of testosterone through me.

  “Okay,” she says, clearing her throat. “Let’s go see Mom and Jack.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  She turns to walk away, and I instinctively want to grab her hand. I stop myself, but then I realize that if I was her man, I’d sure as hell be holding onto hers right now.

  Play the part, Hollis.

  I reach out and take her palm in mine. Our fingers lace together.

  She looks at me over her shoulder and then down at our interlocked hands.

  “What?” I ask. “You wanted to be the object of my affection.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She looks away but not before I see her satisfied little smile.

  We wind through the faux forest, pausing every now and then when someone says hello to Larissa. She introduces me to each person as her boyfriend. Much to my surprise, the sound of that doesn’t make me cringe.

  She chats easily with each person, asks questions about their business or child and even someone’s cat. Her attention to detail is awe-inspiring. Judging by their contented expressions, each person walks away feeling like the most important person in the room.

  How the hell does she do that?

  I spot her mother before we even get close. She has Larissa’s blond hair and curvy figure. She also wears a version of Larissa’s smile. It’s not as warm or quite as kind, and I can’t really imagine her throwing her head back and laughing like her daughter either. But the resemblance is close enough to pick her out of a room.

  “Hi, Mom,” Larissa says as we approach them. “Hi, Jack.”

 
They smile as they see us coming.

  Jack holds a glass tumbler of dark liquid, and Trista clutches a glass of pink-colored wine. They both do a quick assessment of me. I’m not sure what Jack thinks, but I can tell I pass Trista’s inspection.

  Trista tears her eyes off me long enough to say hello to her daughter.

  “Hi, Riss,” she coos, pulling my date into a hug that requires me to let go of her.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  As soon as she releases her mother, I take her hand again. I don’t think she minds.

  “Glad you could make it, Larissa,” Jack says, smiling kindly. “And who is this strapping young fellow that you have with you?”

  “Mom, Jack, this is Hollis,” she says.

  I extend my free hand to Jack. “I’m Hollis Hudson. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

  He seems to appreciate the respect. His handshake is firm. “We’re glad you could join us.”

  Trista’s wineglass sways in her hand as she takes a closer look at me. “Where did you meet Riss?”

  “At Paddy’s,” Larissa says before I have a chance to answer. “We both reached for a chair at the same time.”

  Jack taps on the side of his glass, drawing our attention his way.

  “Your name is familiar to me,” he says, looking at me. “Are you from around here?”

  “No, sir,” I say. “I’m from Indiana, but I do go to college at Braxton. It’s not that far from here.”

  His eyes narrow. “You play football, don’t you?”

  I grin. I love it when this happens. In the right audience and in the right year—which this is generally not—it’s pretty cool to be me. I hope, for Larissa’s sake, this is that audience.

  “I do. Or, I did. I was the tight end,” I say, talking over the snort from Larissa. “This was my senior year.”

  “I didn’t get to follow college football much this year. You had a hell of a season last year, though, didn’t you?”

  Thank fuck he didn’t follow this year. He may not be quite as warm if he had.

  Not that it really matters.

  “Yeah. We won the National Championship. We had a great team and great coaches. It all worked out really well.”

  He nods, still thinking. “Did you ever play any baseball?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.” I laugh. “There are too many games a year and not enough opportunities to … express myself.”

  He laughs, reading between the lines and understanding that I like to hit and get hit.

  “I played football and baseball back in my day,” he says. “To be honest with you, I preferred football, but my body just wasn’t cut out to take the abuse, so I ended up focusing on baseball.”

  “Well, by the looks of everything tonight, that choice has served you well.”

  He smiles broadly. “I like this guy. Good job.” He tosses me a wink before excusing himself to get another drink.

  Larissa gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I squeeze it back.

  So far, so good.

  Trista watches me over the rim of her wineglass. I wonder how many drinks she’s had because her eyes are just a touch glassy.

  “Getting Jack’s endorsement is quite a feat,” she tells me. “I’m not sure he’s ever particularly liked someone who Larissa has been involved with.”

  The idea of Larissa being involved with anyone sends a ripple of jealousy through me, which is crazy. I’ve never felt jealous over a girl before. Women are easy come, easy go.

  Maybe I just ate too many cookies from Judy’s box this morning.

  “Well,” I say, forcing a swallow. “I guess he has good taste. He chose you, didn’t he?”

  She appreciates this. “That’s very true.”

  “I’m sure he just wants what’s best for Larissa,” I say, upping the charm factor. “You have an amazing daughter, Mrs. Cunningham. I’m honored to be here with her tonight.”

  Larissa lays her head against my arm. This doesn’t go unnoticed by her mother.

  “Well, Hollis,” Trista says, impressed. “I’m delighted to know that you are here. Larissa looks positively smitten with you.”

  “And I am with her, as well. But how could you not be? Just look at her.”

  “That’s what I think too. She’s an incredible girl and I’m just …” She touches her chest. “Just thank you for coming tonight. I hope we can have dinner soon.”

  “I would love that,” I lie. “But I’ll be going back to school soon. I need to finish my education so I can be worthy of your daughter.”

  Larissa pinches my hip and I try not to laugh.

  Trista beams. She looks over our head and waves at someone. “If you two will excuse me, I need to say hello to Petra. But we will have a dance later, Hollis. Mark my words.”

  “Absolutely,” I tell her. “I can’t wait.”

  “I’ll find you soon,” she tells me before disappearing into the throng of people.

  Once she’s gone, I spin Larissa around to face me. She’s beaming as she gazes up at me, and I feel a hint of pride that maybe she’s proud to have me here.

  “I think that went well,” I say, feeling her out.

  She tilts her head back and laughs. “You think?”

  “I think so. I just hope it went well enough that your mom bought it hook, line, and sinker and doesn’t try to set you up with someone else. Because, unlike Jacky boy, I can take a hit, and I can deliver one even better.”

  She rests a hand on my chest again. “You did great with my mom. Nailed it.”

  I shrug. “Did you doubt me?”

  She laughs. “No. Not really.”

  “I can charm anyone.”

  She raises her chin. “Do you think you’ve charmed me?”

  “Maybe.”

  I hope so.

  She looks around the room. I can tell she’s considering her answer because lines appear between her eyes. I think they’re adorable but know from experience never to mention shit like that. Women don’t think it’s as cute.

  “What would I have to do to charm you more?” I ask.

  She grins. “You’ve done just fine. Don’t lose any sleep over it.”

  A man dressed in a gray suit with a lavender shirt stops at Larissa’s side. They speak easily. By the time she introduces me, white noise screams in my ears, and I miss his name.

  It’s not like it matters. He was wholly unimpressive.

  “Did your mom send him over here?” I ask.

  “Hollis Hudson, are you jealous?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Nope. Don’t lose any sleep over it.”

  She laughs loudly and freely.

  “Is it wrong that I don’t like some pudfucker coming by and hitting on my girl?” I ask.

  I use the term without thinking.

  She doesn’t miss it.

  “Your girl?” she asks, raising a brow.

  “For tonight, anyway.”

  We watch each other closely. Somehow, using that term shifts the energy between us.

  She turns her body to face me. “You know what I told Bells before I came here?”

  “No.”

  “I told her I’d trust my gut.”

  I nod. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

  She presses her lips together. “Well, my gut tells me we should put a stamp on our fake relationship, so everyone here knows I’m taken.” She looks up at me through those damn lashes again. “Because I would hate for you to get in a fight over me.”

  Instantly, my cock strains against my pants.

  I wrap an arm around her back and pull her into me. She doesn’t fight it, doesn’t resist at all. In fact, she leans against me and brings one arm lazily over my shoulder.

  I’m fairly certain that it would always feel like a level of heaven to have her—a woman so beautiful and funny and smart and classy—up against me. But we aren’t in a frat house or a bar or even at a place that I invited her to like last night. We are here—with her people. People with money and class. People I don’t a
ssociate with much because I’m the poor college kid who barely scrapes by.

  To have her in my arms is amazing. But to have her willingly in my arms in this situation? It’s another fucking level.

  I grin. “Sweetheart, you're going to need to define what put a stamp on it means to you because the definition going through my head might get the police called for public indecency.”

  She sways back and forth just enough so that her body rubs against my groin. I think it's by accident, but the twist of her lips tells me it wasn't.

  “I’m warning you,” I tell her.

  “Warnings are for chumps.”

  I chuckle. “Is that so?”

  “People only issue warnings if they don't want to have to follow through.” She shrugs cockily. “I don't know what you're warning me about, Hollis, but I hope it doesn't mean that you're taking options off the table.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “Are you goading me?” I asked her, surprised. “Because you don't know who you're fucking with, and you just might be out of your league, little lady.”

  She runs her fingers against my lapel again. “You know what I think about you?”

  “No, but I'd love to.”

  “I think you're all talk and no action.”

  I stare at her dumbfounded. “Aren't you the girl who was telling me how you have this problem with guys like me?”

  She nods. “I do have a problem with guys like you. I like you,” she says, annunciating each syllable clearly. “But you, specifically, I have a definite problem with.”

  I lock my other hand at the small of her back and pull her into me even closer. The half an inch that was between us a moment ago is gone.

  “Please, tell me. What is your definite problem with me?” I tease.

  “I always end up in terrible relationships with guys like you,” she says slowly. “I don't know if it's the athlete part of it that's the problem or if it's the way that I interact with them, but me getting involved with guys that play sports—or work in the sports field, for that matter—is a no-go. Flat-out. But you, Mr. Hudson, are a special kind of trouble.”

  I'm not sure if we're still playing here. Is someone watching, and we're supposed to be making a show of being an item so they leave her alone? I don’t know, but I'm going to roll with this to see.