A Wild Card Kiss

by Lauren Blakely

  She’s open and honest and caring and fun.

  “She is amazing, and so are you,” I say, and it feels like a weight off my shoulders. I’m glad I put that out there.

  Maybe we’re a lot inevitable, Katie and me.

  My hands twitch. The desire to touch her, to pull her into my arms, rockets higher in me. I’m eager for all the next things with her.

  Is there any way to have them?

  I keep my hands to myself as I measure the sugar and butter.

  Sure, we have terrible timing, but the timing doesn’t always have to be bad, does it? Her contract with the team can’t last forever.

  Maybe dating is like a recipe. Maybe it’s monkey bread. It takes time for all the ingredients to come together just right.

  As I pour the sugar into a bowl, I stop and hit end on the song. Turn to meet her gaze. “Katie, I have this idea. Call me crazy.”

  “Crazy,” she says playfully.

  I step closer to her. “What if . . .”

  She laughs softly, clearly liking things so far. “What if . . .?”

  I go for it, run like hell with a brand-new plan. “What if we agree to date at the end of the season when your classes with the team end? I know it’s a couple of months away, but I’m not seeing anyone else and I’m not going to see anyone else. You’re the woman I want, and these last few weeks have only solidified that more. I don’t want to let you get away. I want to lock you up as my date,” I say, putting that out there and hoping she likes the plan too. I sure do. It feels like the only answer to the what can we do question.

  Her smile is radiant. Her hand flies to her chest, and her eyes well up with something like . . . joy.

  “I want that, Harlan. I do. Truly, I do.” But her smile disappears in a heartbeat, replaced by resignation. “The trouble is the team has already said it plans to renew the contract.”

  22

  Harlan

  I’m sadder than the time we lost the championship game five years ago.

  I thought I’d erased that awful memory, but it comes roaring back right now. I felt like shit the day we lost by a field goal to Baltimore, erasing our Super Bowl chances.

  Now, I feel worse.

  I should be able to fix this. My job is to find openings. It’s to solve problems on the field. It’s to dodge two-hundred-fifty-pound obstacles in the form of linebackers and quicksilver tight ends champing at the bit to slam me to the ground.

  I can move like a cheetah on the gridiron, spinning and whirling away from threats. But I can’t get out of the way of a problem like this.

  “That is . . . awful but awesome,” I say like I’m chewing on sand.

  “Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “You took the words out of my mouth.”

  I can’t even make a joke. “Well, I get it. You’re a great teacher. Hell, you’ve helped me. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart and my hamstring.”

  The smile that curves her lips is both tender and wistful. “I’m very glad it’s working. That makes me . . . professionally happy.”

  “But personally?”

  She takes a beat and moves the mixing bowl with the sugar in it a few inches away, then the brown sugar bowl. They don’t need moving.

  Letting go of the bowl, she turns to me, strength in her blue eyes. “But personally, I want everything you said. And I feel like I should be terrified because of what happened last summer . . . but I’m not.” She blows out a breath of obvious relief. “Whew. I kind of can’t believe I just said that, because for the last few weeks I was so dang worried. Worried about taking my time, going slowly, doing everything differently. Making sure I wasn’t caught up. But everything with you feels right, and I want what’s next. I want to pursue a relationship with you. But that’s not what worries me.”

  My heart beats faster. Never has a relationship sounded so good as it does on her lips. I want a relationship with her more than I want to win my next game.

  And I really like winning games.

  Trouble is, her thoughts are unfinished.

  “But what does worry you?”

  “I don’t want to hurt people,” she explains. “I don’t want to do in business what my mother did in love. I don’t want to go behind anyone’s back and hurt them through my actions.”

  Why is integrity so damn sexy? Oh, because it fucking is. “I understand,” I say, my heart sinking once more, up and down like a yo-yo.

  Katie nibbles on the corner of her lips, then takes a deep breath. Like she’s fortifying herself. “But what if I work to find a replacement? I would search through our roster of teachers and talk to Zachary—he’s our business dev guy—and also Olive. And tell them at the end of the season, I need to step back. I’ll say the Renegades can’t have me next year.”

  And it’s happy yo-yo land.

  Excitement buzzes through my veins. “So the Renegades can’t have you, but I can?” I ask, all flirty again.

  She grins, then giggles too. “I like this plan. I’ll make it work. I’ll figure it out.”

  “I fucking love it,” I say. “Let’s do it. Whenever it works for you, I’m by your side. Know that, okay?”

  She nods, her eyes a little shiny. “That’s kind of amazing.”

  “I mean it, Katie. You call the shots here. I’ll just be waiting to kiss you on the field whenever you’re ready. I know our timing has been all wrong, but let’s make this our time, once and for all. And thank you. I know this falls on you, when to do this, how to do this, so thank you.”

  “You can thank me by showering me with orgasms in January.”

  I growl, holding up a finger to admonish her. “Super Bowl is in February, Katie.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine, I can wait till then.”

  I close the distance, sweep her into my arms, and hug her tight. It’s risky, but so’s chasing a ball the safeties don’t want you to catch. So’s running in a touchdown. Holding Katie close is terribly risky but absolutely necessary.

  When we pull apart, my hands still on her waist, I don’t want to let go. “You feel too good in my arms,” I tell her.

  A breath shudders past her lips. “I sure like being here,” she whispers, all soft and irresistibly sweet, her arms still looped around my neck.

  So damn sweet that I’m not sure I want to resist anymore.

  Can I? Yes. But I don’t want to. “What if I steal a kiss right now?”

  She runs her fingers along the ends of my hair. “Don’t have to steal it,” she murmurs. “You can have it.”

  “It’ll keep me going until the end of the season,” I whisper as I inch closer then drop my lips to hers.

  Her breath hitches as I kiss her the way I want to right now—tender, gentle, but with a promise.

  Like this kiss is sealing our promise for next year.

  It goes to my head in an instant. My mind slides into a Katie-induced euphoria as I explore these lips I’ve missed desperately. As I kiss the corner of her mouth. As I flick my tongue against her bottom lip. She opens for me, a sensual sigh mingling with my own murmurs.

  I’m keenly aware of the ticking clock.

  But I take what I can get for the moment—a little more of this woman I’m falling for. I deepen the kiss, savoring every secret second. It’ll have to sustain me for the next two months, so I let myself get lost in the kiss, and in her, and in my hopes for what’s next.

  Soon, though, it must end.

  I break the kiss.

  Her eyes glimmer. Her lips are swollen. “Wow,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, I’ll say.”

  We let go, and I can’t wait for the calendar to jump to next year. But for now, I check the time. My kiddo will be here soon.

  I’m nervous and excited for the future . . . but mostly, elated.

  Once she enters the living room, Abby views Katie with studious eyes. “So, you’re the yoga lady?”

  “I sure am,” Katie says. “It is a pleasure to meet the little lady of the house.”

  A
bby giggles. “Lady of the house. I like that,” she says, setting her backpack by the couch and running to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. “Hey, yoga lady,” she says as we follow her, “do you know what yoga pose pirates like to do?”

  Katie taps her chin like she’s deep in thought. “Could it be . . . the plank?”

  Abby tosses her head back and laughs. “How did you know?”

  Katie beckons Abby with a crook of her finger. “I know all the good yoga jokes.”

  “Ooh, tell me another,” Abby demands, and I park my butt on the stool at the counter and happily watch them.

  Katie bends to six-year-old eye level. “How does a T-Rex feel after practicing yoga?”

  “I don’t know,” Abby says, nearly bouncing with excitement. “Tell me.”

  Katie rubs her knuckles against her lower back. “A little dino . . . sore.”

  “Ohhh. I like that.” Abby wheels around to the counter. “Monkey bread. Can you do a monkey impression like my dad?”

  Katie turns her gaze to me. “I’ve only heard your lion, Harlan. I’d love to hear the monkey. Don’t hold back.”

  I roll my eyes. “You ladies act like you’ve got me cornered. Like you’ve tricked me. Course I can do a monkey. Ooh-ooh, ahh-ahh,” I say, imitating a chimp.

  They clap and cheer.

  “You know what I can do?” Abby asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “I can be a baker. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

  Abby grabs a wooden spoon and gets to work.

  The three of us make monkey bread in the kitchen, listening to Dolly Parton and Adele while Abby tells us about gymnastics and her friend, and Gabriella’s dad’s funny jokes, and how awesome the balance beam is.

  When the bread goes in the oven, Abby stares at the clock. “I don’t know how to wait. It’s going to be so long.” Then she spins around and points at Katie. “Can I paint your nails?”

  “Do you have fuchsia? That’s my favorite color.”

  “I do,” Abby declares, then runs to her room.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Abby gives Katie a manicure, and I count down the weeks till the end of the season.

  That night, I read Abby four stories, including one about a girl who gets a pony.

  “That girl is so smart. She convinced her daddy to give her a pony,” Abby says, snuggling under the covers.

  “Gee, Abby. Are you trying to tell me something?”

  She flashes a yup grin. “But I’d also take a hedgie, a cat, or a dog.”

  “Named Dolly,” I say, repeating her plans as I drop a kiss onto her forehead.

  “Or Katie. I like Katie.” She yawns, so big it’s the size of a pie.

  “I’ll let her know you plan to name a pet after her.”

  A line creases her forehead. “Is she your new girlfriend? She seems like it.”

  Well, kids know everything, don’t they? “Why do you ask?”

  Another yawn takes over. “I could tell you liked her and she liked you.”

  I ruffle her hair, glad to tell her the truth about this. “I think she will be soon,” I whisper, then I press my finger to my lips. “Secret.”

  “I’ll keep it a secret. Do you think she liked me?”

  “I’m sure she loved you.”

  “Okay,” she says as her eyes flutter closed.

  I leave her room, shut the door, and head downstairs to finish cleaning up. But before I tackle the kitchen, I grab my phone and sink onto the couch, clicking open my text app.

  Harlan: The verdict is in. She loves you.

  * * *

  Katie: The feeling is mutual. She’s fabulous.

  * * *

  Harlan: Well, that was easy.

  * * *

  Katie: Some things are. You’re raising a good kid.

  I return to Katie’s words from the picnic lunch about whether she’d want kids. With the right man. The right relationship. I’d love to talk to her more about that, but via text message hardly seems appropriate. End of season feels like a better time. But I can at least say this . . .

  Harlan: You were great with her.

  * * *

  Katie: Yeah?

  * * *

  Harlan: Hell, yeah.

  * * *

  Katie: It makes me happy to hear you say that. I want to be good to her.

  Damn. This woman is doing all the things to my heart.

  Harlan: She asked if you were my girlfriend.

  * * *

  Katie: And what did you tell her?

  * * *

  Harlan: That I hoped you would be soon. Feels close enough to the truth.

  * * *

  Katie: What’s the truth?

  * * *

  Harlan: I see you as mine already. I just do. Call me possessive.

  * * *

  Katie: Possessive :)

  I don’t want to end the conversation just yet, so I spend a little longer texting . . . my girlfriend.

  The kid called it.

  23

  Katie

  I need to talk to someone.

  I can’t keep this to myself much longer.

  My friends have been my rocks, my gems, my everything.

  I should tell my sister, but I’m not ready yet. Besides, I’m closest with Emerson. She also isn’t my business partner, so that helps.

  That Friday afternoon, after I teach a class to a local financial firm, sub for one of Michelle’s Ouch! I Can’t Reach My Toes—Yoga for Flexibility classes, and visit another teacher’s session, I meet up with Emerson in the Sunset District to “recon” for an upcoming episode of her show. Her word, not mine.

  We trek up a staircase of 163-mosaic covered steps, each one a different design of colorful tiles. It’s a hidden gem in San Francisco, but I’m not sure why we’re here.

  “How exactly does this help you with a food show?” I ask, gesturing to the gleaming steps.

  “Because this new burger place is so off the beaten path, it’s at the top of the steps.”

  I scan the environs. Houses tower up on either side of the staircase. “Um, this is residential. Are they even zoned for a restaurant here?”

  Emerson tuts, patting my shoulder. “You’re so cute. I love your municipal concerns. This is a food truck we’re scoping out. It’s parked here today. Banging Burgers. It’s got all kinds of veggie burgers. I want to eyeball it before I come here officially, and the bonus of exercise ticked another box.”

  Ah, that makes more sense. Emerson loves to prep so she’s not surprised when she shoots an episode. She’s the queen of doing her homework. I bet she was a straight-A student in school.

  As my foot lands on a shimmering light blue tile, I decide now’s as good a time as any to dive into my dilemma. “So, I need your take on something. Remember that night at my house when I said I was ready to date Harlan again?”

  She whips her gaze to me as we walk, those curious green eyes already sparkling with questions. “The date that never happened, right? You said he became a client when you started teaching the Renegades. I’ve seen the pics on the team’s Instagram.” The Renegades social media shared photos of me teaching the guys, which looked great shared on Sassy’s Insta feed. “Did that change?”

  I answer her honestly. “Yes.”

  She freezes mid-step. “Whoa.” She thaws, setting her foot down. “Are you seeing him?”

  That’s a good question.

  “Sort of?” I say, my voice pitching up.

  “How is it a sort of?” Her voice hits the stratosphere.

  “We’re not really seeing each other, but we made a plan to see each other.” Finally, I just rip off the Band-Aid. “Ah, hell. I like him so much, Emerson. And everything with him is so good. It’s driving me crazy, but in a good way. But you said you regretted missing signs with my ex, and I’d feel like the worst friend if I didn’t tell you about Harlan. And I know you’d want to know.”

  My words spill out in a messy heap on these incredibly
beautiful, Instagrammable steps. Emerson is clearly ready to bombard me with questions, but a pack of tourists—judging from the Nikons and I Love San Francisco sweatshirts—are fast closing in on us.

  She tips her forehead to the top, and we trudge up the rest of the way, duck down the street, and stop in front of a pale-yellow house. “Start at the beginning,” my friend instructs.

  I tell her everything, starting with the first one-on-one session and finishing with baking with Harlan and his daughter.

  “Monkey bread and manicures!” She grabs the sides of her face. “That’s too cute. I die!”

  “I know, right?” I clasp a hand to my heart. “His daughter is amazing. Such a strong, bright, fun girl. And she likes me too.”

  “Obviously. You’re super likable. And clearly, he’s crazy for you if he’s introducing you to his kid. That’s a big step.”

  It felt huge to me too. Meaningful, bringing Harlan and me even closer. “I really like him. Falling-hard like. Falling-in-love like.”

  “Oh, babes,” she says softly, nodding sagely. “I can tell.”

  I grab her hand, squeeze it. “What do I do?”

  “I wish I could say oh my God, he’s amazing, but I don’t know a thing about him,” she says with a helpless shrug. “But I know you. If you’re going to do this, you’ll only feel right about it if you do what you said. Find the replacement for the classes, talk to Olive and Zachary, and just be open and honest. You’re not like your mother, but if you go into a relationship feeling like her, I worry you’ll beat yourself up. I’d hate for that to happen.”