by K. Bromberg
I stare at Finn for the first time and shake my head. “I don’t remember any of that.” But if Drew was fresh off the draft, then that means I was in my second or third year of college and was preoccupied with all good things that come with it—studying, partying, boys, and training.
At that point, I had written him out of my life, so why would I have paid attention, let alone to someone with a different last name.
“Anyway, the Tigers brushed the Internet fodder under the rug, moved him to second string while they secretly ran an investigation into whether he did it or not, and when he emerged free and clear from any wrongdoing, he dropped Hemmings and used Bowman.”
“How do I not know any of this?”
“I’m good, what can I say?” His smile is quick and highlights the lines at the corners of his eyes. Can’t say he’s my favorite of agents, but he knows sports inside and out—football especially. So much so that I trust what he’s saying as truth without having to look it up. He may be a shark, but his reputation for being knowledgeable is undisputed. Too bad he was an ass to my little sister, Chase, when they dated or I just might like the guy a bit more. “Plus, it was right before the player’s strike so timing helped him at first with the accusation and then hurt him when he was cleared, because the whole thing was overshadowed by the walk-out.”
“So he was cleared, then?”
“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs as he winces when one of his players misses a pass.
“And he was what? Then put back in the starting lineup when play resumed?” I ask as I try to make sense of all of this.
“No. Not sure why. He played out his contract on the sidelines. More of the same when he was traded somewhere else for a year. Now here.”
I nod at what he’s saying but my eyes are fixated on Drew. “So he’s relegated to second string forever then?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but his agent is Longmire. I mean, how hands-off can you get? It’s akin to not having an agent at all.”
“So no one’s fighting for him is what you’re saying.”
“Correct. But it sounds like you might be looking to throw your hat in the ring on that fight.”
If he only knew.
“I’m always looking to throw my hat in the ring. Question is, is the player willing to fight alongside you?” I murmur more to myself than to Finn as my thoughts are preoccupied with the data dump of information he just provided.
And as if on cue, the general manager of the Raptors heads out of the tunnel and motions that he’s ready for our meeting.
“She’s been summoned,” Finn murmurs and laughs.
“I have.” I pick up my briefcase leaning against my leg. “Make sure to look after my player for me.”
“Whittier?” he asks.
“No, Hobbs,” I say, making sure to get the last laugh.
DREW
SHE’S NOWHERE TO BE FOUND when I leave the locker room.
That’s probably a good thing, because the way she looked in those jeans and heels is just as devastating as the confusion over how she makes me feel.
But Christ, her kiss . . . I may have been more than buzzed at the wedding but the memory of it has lingered like it did all those years ago. It was like lightning in a bottle, and I’ve never wanted anything more than to open the lid and see what it feels like to let it loose.
I glance toward the practice field, the parking lot, and over where Manny is talking to some people, but she’s fucking gone.
I’m a tad wounded that she didn’t hang around to see me, but then again, that’s not the smartest of things to do.
Not here.
Not with eyes watching.
Not with—
“Hey there.”
And there she stands, with her hips resting against a pony wall, her feet crossed at the ankles so the red sole on the nude heels she has on shows, and a smile a mile wide on those gorgeous lips of hers.
It takes mere seconds in her presence to have me question my masculinity. Women are supposed to get butterflies, not men . . . and yet the sight of her has excitement turning over in my stomach.
Just like it did all those years ago.
“Nice shoes.” You waited for me.
“They seem to get the job done.” A sly smile lights up her face as her eyes take me in and my mind wanders to all the places she can wear those while getting a different job done.
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought we had some unfinished business to discuss.”
“Like?” I play coy.
“Like the merits of loving mustard as a condiment.”
“We’re still on that?” I ask, and then glance down the corridor to where some of the guys start laughing before looking back to her. It’s weird to have a woman in this space who gets what I do and who isn’t intimidated or enamored by the trappings of this industry.
“We are.” She shrugs shyly. “Or we could move on to discussing other things that deserve merit.”
“Such as?”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and the action has my full attention.
Does she have any idea how many hours I lay in my bed the other night thinking about that mouth? Wanting that mouth? What I’d do to that mouth?
“Such as unfinished kisses.” She purses her lips as her eyes meet mine. “Such as finishing what we started. Such as following through on promises made.”
I take a step toward her but the little shake of her head tells me not here, not now.
“That’s a lot of unfinished promises.”
“It is,” she murmurs.
“And what do you propose we do about that?”
“Oh, the possibilities,” she teases and the throaty laugh that follows has my balls drawing up at the sound. “I’m free later if you’d like to discuss them.”
“I like the sound of that, but I have things already planned that I can’t get out of.” I glance over my shoulder at the laughter coming from where the guys are heading toward us. “It’s Laughlin’s birthday. We’re all taking him out to Top Golf for a little competition and a drink or two.”
She nods. “That sounds like trouble.”
“Could be. Perhaps.” I itch to reach out and touch her. “Tomorrow maybe? I have training but after?”
She hisses in dismay. “I can’t. I have plans with someone who’s here from out of town.”
Our eyes hold across the short distance and anticipation dances in the air between us.
“And I’m traveling after that.” I chuckle. “It’s been ten years, I guess another day or two won’t hurt.”
“Guess not.” She angles her head to the side. Fuck me. She looks like the perfect mix of siren and saint, and I want a piece of both.
I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that she’s here in front of me. How exactly did this happen?
“Hey, Bowman. You ready to get your ass kicked?” Hanover asks as he slaps me on the back. “Oh, hey, I didn’t see you there, Brexton. Sorry.”
“Hey, Hanover. Great game on Sunday,” she says, referring to his three sacks and one interception.
“At least I’m good at something.” He laughs. “Because golfing ain’t one of them. I’d invite you to come along, Kincade, but I have a feeling it’s going to get U-G-L-Y and I’m not talking about this guy’s mug.”
“Thanks for the invite, but I’ve got work to do,” she says.
“All work and no play makes for a boring life,” Hanover says. “You need to help her with that, Bowman.”
“Me?” I cough. “How exactly should I do that?” I ask but I already have plenty of ideas.
“You’re a smart boy, you’ll figure it out.” He winks and then shouts down the hallway. “C’mon, assholes, time’s a wasting.”
The two of us watch him walk away and when I turn back to face her, that smile is back on her lips. “What?” I ask.
“You’re a smart boy, Drew, you’ll figure it out.” And as she walks away giving me a
gorgeous view of her backside, her laugh echoes off the concrete around us.
Fuck, yes. I will.
DREW
“HAVE ANOTHER DRINK, BOWMAN.”
“Nah, I’ve got somewhere I need to be,” I say and glance at my phone. It’s almost midnight. I’ve been sitting here all night laughing with my friends and teammates but my mind has been somewhere else completely different.
It’s been on Brexton and that little challenge she laid down for me to figure it out. It’s been on the curves of her body as she walked away from me. And it’s been wondering how in the hell I’ve let a woman own my thoughts when I’ve never let one interfere like this before.
“Somewhere you need to be? Seriously?” Hanover asks. “It better be some good-ass pussy if you’re leaving us for it.”
All I give is a smile and a chuckle.
Let them sit on that.
“Later, guys.” I throw a peace sign up as they groan and throw their balled-up napkins my way. Then the names follow that have me shaking my head and laughing as I set my golf club down.
“Seriously, Bowman? You’re going to leave just like that?” Laughlin slurs.
“You know I love you, brother.” I bump my fist against his. “But I’ve gotta go.”
Another round of protests sound off, but I keep walking. I’m just about out of the door when I hear, “Hey, Drewski?”
I don’t hide my sigh or the fact that I don’t really want to talk to Justin right now. In fact, other than talking to him on the field when I have to, I haven’t said shit to him since he ran his mouth at me after the game the other day.
“I’m not in the mood, Hobbs.” I want to leave, to keep walking out the door, but I stand there and wait for him to start some shit. Clearly, he needs to reassert his precious fucking ego.
“Look”—he holds his hands out in front of him in surrender—“I come in peace.” He laughs nervously before glancing over his shoulder where the suite suddenly gets awfully quiet, as the guys all stand and watch whatever is about to happen.
“And?”
“And I apologize, okay? I already did to the rest of the team, but you weren’t there so I wanted to say it to you as well.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I’m sorry.”
I nod as I chew the inside of my cheek and contemplate if any of the guys put him up to this. It’s been chillier than the polar ice cap in the locker room the past few days, but deservedly so. Hobbs needs to grow the fuck up and if they’re not going to put him in his place for acting like a prima donna, then I will.
“So, apology accepted?” he asks.
“Step up and lead the team, Hobbs.”
He nods and then lowers his voice. “It’s my family, man. They’re on the West Coast and I’m here and fuck, man, it’s not easy.”
It’s in moments like this I’m reminded of how young he really is. Twenty-three years old and still figuring his shit out.
“Everything okay with them?” I ask, wondering where this sudden homesickness is coming from and when he grimaces, it’s slight but there, I know the answer before he speaks.
“My mom’s sick, and it doesn’t matter if I have all the money in the world because I’m still here and she’s still there.”
“Which is why you want to move to California.”
He nods.
“I understand where you’re coming from,” I say and do. Regardless of the rocky relationship between my father and me, playing for the Raptors has afforded me the opportunity to be near him physically. My resentment of him and what he did to our family may be strong, but a part of me acknowledges his illness is a death sentence. The same part of me doesn’t want to look back on any time and regret that I wasn’t near.
It’s a constant balancing act mindfuck. Resentment against regret. Obligation versus love. Bitterness vying against forgiveness. The need to know he’s proud of me against needing to know the truth about what happened.
A battle I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
“What do you mean you understand?” he asks.
“I just do.” I meet his eyes. “If Finn isn’t going to find a way to get you to California, find an agent who will. Remember, they work for you.”
BREXTON
I STARE AT THE PHONE in my hand as if it’s going to give me answers, but yes, the doorman did just call and ask if one Drew Bowman can come up to my apartment.
And then chaos hits as I run to my bedroom and change my shirt. Then realize I have to change my bra because the black bra under the white tank top doesn’t look right. I spritz body spray in all places, dry shave my legs in a desperate attempt I know I’ll regret later, pinch my cheeks to add color, fluff my hair . . . and am completely out of breath by the time the doorbell rings.
I blow out a long, calming breath as anticipation hums through my veins.
Or at least I try to.
Drew Bowman is on the other side of that door. Does he have any idea how many nights I lay awake as a teenager hoping, wishing, wanting this scenario—for him to be standing on the other side of my front door and be there for me—only to be crushed because it never happened?
I put my hand on the knob and let it swing open.
And there he stands. Drew is leaning against the wall opposite my door. His hands are shoved in his pockets and when he sees me, a crooked smile plays across his lips. The same crooked smile I swooned over all those years ago is even more devastating now when accented by a little scruff, eyes full of desire, and a body made to sin with.
“I’m guilty,” he says raising one hand and breaking the stretch of silence between us.
“Is that so?” I ask, and he nods. “Guilty of what?”
“Everything.” He shrugs.
“That’s a broad statement.”
He purses his lips and nods again. “It is.”
I don’t hide the smile seeing him brings. “I get the feeling you’re coming to me drunk again. This is becoming a thing, Bowman,” I tease. “Should I be worried that you’re standing here tipsy?”
He shakes his head yes but then says, “I’m not drunk,” while his eyes roam the length of my body.
“No?”
“I only had one shot.”
“Only one?” I ask, fascinated by this peculiar conversation.
“Mm-hmm. I have my reasons.”
“And those are?”
“We’ll get to those in a second.” He pushes himself off the wall and steps into my personal space. He smells of soap and sandalwood and all I want to do is reach out and touch him. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” he murmurs.
“How did you know where I lived?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “The same way you found me.” My eyes flicker down to his lips and then back up to his eyes. “I lied.”
“About what? How you found me?”
“No.”
“Then what about?”
“I had two shots.”
“Thank you for clarifying.” I chuckle. “Why two?”
“The first one was because I’ve been trying to tell myself that this is a shit idea. I’ve talked myself out of it every which way because there’s too much history. You’re Bratty Brex and I’m Dreadful Drew but fuck, Brex, all I can think about is the taste of your kiss. The way I wanted it way back when you’d strut by in your bikini, so I decided I needed a shot.”
“I assure you, I didn’t have anything to strut back then.”
“I beg to differ,” he murmurs as his eyes dip down to where my nipples aren’t doing a very good job of hiding beneath my tank top.
“Wait? You wanted me? You could have fooled me by the way you hesitated during spin the bottle that night.”
“I was a fool.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Young and dumb and not prepared for what you hit me with that night.”
“Really?” I ask and hate how there is so much awe in the sound of my voice.
“Really.” Our eyes hold for a beat as our desire builds.
How is this even happening
? How after all these years later, are we standing here like this, both wanting the same thing?
It’s crazy.
It’s surreal.
It’s perfect.
“You said two shots. What was the second one for?” I ask for some stupid reason, as if his intent in being here wasn’t already known.
“The second shot was because I was sitting in the bar across the street trying to work up the courage to come up here.”
His confession startles me.
“Why do you need courage?”
“Because there’s something about you, Brexton Kincade, that makes me nervous.”
“You? Nervous?” I spit the words out almost in relief as if knowing it will calm the racing of my pulse and ease my own anxiety.
“Mm-hmm.” He reaches out and tucks an errant piece of hair behind my ear, resting his hand on my shoulder when the task is done. My body hums beneath the warmth of it, begging to know what comes next but patient enough to wait to find out. “Before, we were young and that first kiss was—wow. Way too much for a sixteen-year-old to decipher . . . and now? Now there is so much more baggage and I don’t want to unpack it all. I just want you.”
I reach out, put my finger into his belt loop, and pull him into me. “You told me the past was the past, Drew.”
And it’s not like it was unexpected—his lips meeting mine, me yanking him into my apartment, then kicking the door shut behind us—but holy hell, it feels new and exciting while old and comfortable at the same time.
The one thing I hadn’t anticipated in all of this was the desperation that owns me. The need to touch him everywhere, the necessity of it, but not wanting my lips to leave his.
And I know he feels the same way because we don’t speak, we don’t ask, we just act. With hurried hands and shuffling feet, we leave a trail of clothes on the way to my bedroom—shoes, socks, shirts, pants—until we stand at the foot of my bed.
It’s only here that we slow down for a beat. It’s only now with heaving chests and bruised lips that we stop to look at each other for a moment.
