by Alexa Martin
“So . . .” I start. My conversation skills are on point. “How are you liking Denver?”
“I love it.” He takes another sip of coffee and places his cup on the table. “I wasn’t sure how I felt about it when the trade happened, and I’d be lying if I said I was welcomed into the locker room with open arms. A few guys are starting to warm up to me now that we’re winning. I’m happy to be here . . . for more than one reason.” He never drops eye contact and his foot taps mine under the table. It’s such an innocent gesture for the big quarterback across from me and it’s disarming.
Which sucks.
I need all the arming I can get around him.
“That’s good. Denver’s a good place to live.” I shove a bite of croissant in my mouth. Not because I’m hungry or lacking basic table manners, but because I need a minute to compose myself. “How’s the weather compared to Chicago?”
Good, Marlee. Weather is a safe topic. Mindless small talk, you got this!
Gavin’s lips curve at the corners the tiniest little bit, and I’m pretty sure he knows the game I’m trying to play here. Fingers crossed he goes with it.
“It’s great. You know Chicago. When it’s hot, the humidity chokes you, and when it’s cold, it chokes you. It’s nice and dry here, I like it.” He humors me. Thank god. “How’s your dad doing? He said his back was bothering him?”
Never mind.
The alarms are ringing in my head to get the heck out of dodge. Don’t answer. Discussing family is way out of small-talk zone.
“He’s okay. His back’s still bothering him a bit, but he said it’s getting better.” When Gavin leaves, I’m calling my mom and yelling at her for ingraining me with such superb manners.
“Give him my number. I found the best chiropractor; I’ll bring him with me next time.” He sips his coffee. You know, like he didn’t just casually offer to hang out with my FRICKIN’ DAD!
“I don’t know if he’s the chiropractor type.” This is true. I can already imagine my dad yelling about some quack trying to break his back. But even if he was an Eastern medicine junkie, I’d still say no. Jarod/Gavin (Javin) time isn’t going to be a thing. #StopTryingToMakeJavinHappen
#ItsNeverGoingToHappen
“Well, the offer’s on the table if he wants to try.” He takes the lid off his coffee and shoves his croissant wrapper inside. “Where’s your trash can?”
“I got it.” I reach across the table to grab his cup, but his large hand covers mine before I can reach it. The innocent touch causes goose bumps to spread across my arms.
“No, finish your food. I have two legs. I can throw it away myself. Where’s the garbage?”
“Under the sink.” I point into the kitchen.
“Thanks.” He winks and turns with his trash in hand.
I watch as his long legs make quick work of my small space; it only takes him about three steps to make it. I’m watching him in awe, like he’s some sort of chivalrous alien because he’s throwing away his own cup. That’s how fucked up my relationship experience is. I’m awed by a grown man cleaning up after himself.
“Marlee.” Gavin pulls me back to the present.
“Yeah.” My head snaps his way.
“Where’d you go?” He approaches, but instead of sitting down across from me, he stops beside me.
“Sorry.” I take a deep breath and paste my best faux smile on my face before looking up. “I’m still waiting for this coffee to kick in, last night kicked my butt.”
“It was a crazy night.” The words are right, but the tone is all wrong. He pulls me in for a hug that lasts a second longer than it should.
I know what this is. It’s the same way I’d talk to some of my girlfriends when they’d tell me about their cheating husband. It’s pity.
I pull out of his arms and put my coffee cup to my lips, not taking it away until I’ve finished it. I grab my scraps off of the table and follow the same path Gavin took to my trash can.
After I drop the cup in my tiny can, I close the cabinet door with more force than necessary. It pops back out and the edge nails me in the shin.
“Son of a!” I shout and grab my leg.
“Are you okay?” Gavin opens my freezer and then kneels, examining my life-threatening injury.
“I’m fine. It just—” My sentence falls away and a gasp takes its place.
With one hand on my hip, he holds the bag of frozen corn to my leg.
If you haven’t had it before—a big, tough, bearded football player on his knees, tending to your tiny scratch like it’s the most serious situation he’s ever encountered—you should try it. It’s sweet. It’s naughty. Even though the bag is cold against my skin, it doesn’t prevent heat from filling my core.
When he lifts the plastic pouch and grazes his finger near the scratch, I don’t even attempt to hide the full body shiver that takes over. Fingers crossed he’ll blame it on the corn.
“Better?” he asks, still on his knees.
“Y-yes,” I stutter. I move my focus to my floor beneath him instead of him . . . still on his knees. “I’m gonna go get out of this dress.” I pull back so fast, I almost go tumbling into the wall behind me. Smooth. “Make yourself comfortable or go. You know. Whatever you want.”
Smoother.
What can I say? When I’m on a roll, I’m on a freakin’ roll.
“Thanks,” he says to my back as I speed walk to my room.
Sixteen
I slam the door shut behind me and collapse onto my unmade bed.
I know it’s rude to keep a guest waiting, but it’s also rude for said guest to get me all worked up in my frickin’ kitchen.
I mean, how dare he. Right? It’s not like we haven’t had sex before and I don’t vividly remember every last detail about what he can do with his fingers. And I know I kissed him last night, but I was drunk! My armor is made of a special material that loses all hardness when doused in alcohol.
I roll around in my comforter and smother my face with my pillow until a few of my wits have returned. Once I feel a little better, I stand up and peel myself out of the dress clinging to my bloated midsection under Gavin’s sweatshirt and toss on some yoga pants and a tank top. I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth, apply some face lotion . . . brush my teeth again. I stare at my reflection in the mirror long enough to give myself a reassuring nod, but not long enough to harp on the dark circles surrounding eyes.
I walk back into the room with his mom’s folded sweatshirt and flip-flops, but I stop short at the sight of him lounging on my couch with my remote in his hand. The casualness of his basketball shorts and T-shirt is the polar opposite from the Gavin I spent last night with. His hair, which was gelled and combed to perfection, is falling carelessly in front of his face. The scruff on his face is a little bit thicker and a whole lot sexier. Chris never grew a beard. He was a pretty boy and spent double what I did on beauty products. Gavin looks like a sporty lumberjack and I can’t lie, I’m not mad at any of it.
I wonder what his beard would feel like against my thighs. I mean, it’s not like I remember him being clean shaven four years ago, or anything.
Trying to shake those dreamy thoughts out of my head, I word vomit all over my living room.
“Thanks for the sweatshirt,” I say a little bit too loud. “I wish I would’ve grabbed one last time I left your place looking like a call girl.”
Gavin’s relaxed body tenses, and he sits up. With the exception of him throwing my necklace at me—which is a pretty big freaking exception—we’ve barely discussed that night. And we definitely haven’t mentioned what came after.
I’m positive he’s about to run his tight ass out of my front door, but he holds still.
“Since you brought it up. What happened that night?”
Curse your big, careless mouth, Marlee Harper!
“W
hat do you mean?”
“I thought we had a great time. I know I did. Then the next morning, I grab us coffee and when I come back, you’re gone without a trace.” He stands up. “I searched through scraps of papers for days hoping you at least left a number.”
Uh . . . what?
“I’m sorry, but come again?” My cheeks start heating along with the rapid rise of my heartbeat.
“You just . . . disappeared. And four years later, I see you again and you’re with that jackass, Alexander—and have been for years! It’s fucked up, Marlee.”
“‘It’s fucked up, Marlee’? Are you serious right now?” I hiss.
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
“You lied to me. You told me you were an investment banker. I woke up the next morning to an empty bed. I went to find my clothes that were scattered all over your apartment.” We started undressing by his front door, I had to go into four rooms to gather all of my clothes before I gave up on finding my missing accessories. “And then I got punched in the freaking face when I saw the picture of you with the commissioner.”
He goes to speak, but I cut him off before he can say anything.
“Besides Chris, I have only slept with one person. You.” I pause to let that sink in. “Can you please try to understand what I felt like in your apartment that morning? I was so damn happy to have taken a huge step in moving on from Chris only to wake up alone and find out the guy I was with lied to me.”
“Fuck.” The accusing tone he was using with me is gone and in its place is one filled with regret. “I didn’t think you would wake up before I got back. I swear, I was only gone for thirty minutes. You must’ve woken up right after I left.”
“But you still lied to me. If I would’ve known you were a football player, I wouldn’t have gone home with you.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t have, but from my experience, me playing football is the only reason women do want to come home with me. I was trying to protect myself as much as you were.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” I narrow my eyes and purse my lips. Even mad I can’t deny the glory that is Gavin Pope. With his full lips, sharp cheekbones, large arms, and washboard abs? Homeboy’s a sculpture. “Trust me, that’s not the only reason.”
“Marlee.” He says my name like I’m supposed to know what he means.
“Marlee what? I don’t speak macho man shorthand.” Chris did that condescending shit all the time. Nothing pisses me off more.
“You just complimented me while yelling at me. Now I don’t know if we’re still fighting or if I get to kiss you yet.”
Wait . . . what?
“Kiss me? Did you really say that or am I hearing you wrong again?”
#NotMakingThatMistakeTwice
“Yes. Kiss you.” He closes the distance separating us in two quick strides.
“But I’m not done yet.”
“Yeah you are.”
“No, I’m not.” I fold my arms across my chest and stick out my hip.
He puts his hands on my back and pulls me close. “I fucked up. I should’ve let you know I was getting coffee. I should’ve told you who I was before you found out from those pictures. You were right to be pissed. But I’m not sorry I lied to you, and knowing you would’ve shot me down makes me even surer of it. Because if you did that, I wouldn’t be standing in front of you right now.”
Was that an apology?
No matter what Chris did, I always ended up being the person who apologized.
“You don’t fight fair, Pope.” I can’t prevent the way my bottom lip pokes out.
“Me? You coming to the fashion show dressed like you were dressed, walking the way you were walking, showing every single one of those women up and rubbing Alexander’s face in what he lost? Then kissing me the way you kissed me? You’re the one playing dirty, babe.” The way his voice gets even deeper and his eyes get darker as he talks? Game. Set. Match.
“I’m done now.”
He smiles again, the corner of his eyes creasing and the dimple on his left cheek deepening. He slides his hands down to my hips and tightens his grip before pulling me so close, my chest presses against his abs.
“But I’m just starting,” he whispers.
I have no time to respond before his teeth are nipping at my pouty lip and my instincts take over. I open my mouth, giving him full access, and let my hands roam his strong back.
I still intend to keep my no-more-athletes promise, but you know what? I deserve a little fun. And what’s wrong with a small indulgence before I turn my apartment into a Jesus-only convent? Not a damn thing.
I pull back, both of us breathing like we finished running a race, and I push him onto my couch. He watches me, hands clenched by his sides, as if my yoga pants and tank are the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. I climb onto him, my legs straddling his body, my hands tangled in his hair, and do what I’ve been wanting to do all morning. I trace a path from the base of his neck up to his chin. Each whisker against my tongue sends shivers through my body. When I get to his mouth, he loses control.
#FirstDown
His hands are off of the couch and on me before I even know what’s happened. The bun I threw my hair in this morning has started to unravel and Gavin takes full advantage, wrapping the loose strands around his hand and pulling to give himself full access to my neck. The slight ache on my scalp only intensifies the yearning between my legs. His mouth follows the opposite path mine made and he grasps the top of my tank with his teeth, pulling each side beneath the lacy bra that’s doing nothing to conceal my hardened nipples.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he whispers against my cleavage, the heat from his breath somehow causing goose bumps to cover my arms.
When his tongue starts tracing the scalloped lace edges against my breasts, my back arches, pushing my heavy breasts impossibly closer to him and causing my ass to rise just enough for his hand to slip beneath it. If my mind was capable of thinking about anything other than how to get closer to him without physically climbing inside of him, I might worry about where his hand is heading. Instead, the only thing I’m worried about is why it’s taking so long to get there.
“Please.” I manage to say as I roll my hips against him. Usually this is the point where I close my eyes and let my mind present me with a better, more exciting reality. But for the first time since my drunken night in Chicago, reality is so much better than anything I could dream up. Gavin doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t even answer, he just looks at me from beneath his lashes and unclasps my bra at the very same moment his fingers find proof of how turned on I am.
I try to keep my eyes open, I really do, but then Gavin bites down on my nipple that has been begging for attention and his thumb starts moving in delicious circles between my legs. I have no control over the way my jaw goes slack as every other inch of my body tightens until an orgasm so intense—I’m positive no other woman on the planet has felt anything like it—rips through my body and my eyes slam shut. But I think that just before they closed, I saw Gavin still watching me with a smile on his lips.
* * *
• • •
LATER THAT NIGHT, my phone lights up with a text while I’m catching up on the latest Real Housewives.
Had a great time last night and this morning. You looked beautiful and made a night I wasn’t looking forward to fun. Let’s make plans soon.
I start to type out a response, but before I hit send I remember my promise and delete it, hoping he’s not watching the bubbles of a response disappear into never-never land. Today was fun. I deserved a little pleasure after years of mediocracy and the possibility of an STD, but that was it. I did the athlete thing for ten years too long and I’m not going to go back on my promise to leave them behind because of one slightly—whatever, majorly—mind-blowing orgasm. I’m a grown-ass woman, I know that a little hand action on the co
uch doesn’t equal love or any kind of commitment.
And if I always respond the way I did to him this morning, I know even a friendly series of text messages could get way out of hand.
I can’t go down that road . . . not again. No more athletes.
I shut it down there and turn off my phone, wishing I had a voodoo doll so I could poke Chris in the eye for ruining yet another thing in my life.
Seventeen
The problem with being an adult is absolutely everything.
Bills. Work. The bone-crushing disappointment that comes from knowing the guy you want isn’t right for you. A slowed metabolism.
The only perk is being old enough to purchase wine to numb the pain while paying said bills. Except after I paid the bills, I realized I couldn’t afford any more wine. Then I made a spreadsheet to determine which bills I could cut in order to provide the necessary amount of wine and in the end, wondered if shelter is really necessary.
There’s a good chance I need a therapist. Maybe I should add a column in the budget for insurance? Or maybe not.
It’s been four weeks since I’ve talked to Gavin. Four weeks from the fashion show. Four weeks from coffee and croissants. Four weeks since we made out like teenagers and dry humped on my couch.
It hasn’t been four weeks since I’ve heard from Gavin, though.
I don’t know why I exchanged numbers with him. It just seemed like the polite thing to do. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The first week, he called or texted every day. The next week he texted a few times. The following week he called once. Now I haven’t heard from him at all.
I’m glad. Really, I am. I’ve got work, Brynn has entrusted me to take over all of her marketing, and I took on one final freelance client. Also, for the first time since high school (besides those stupid breaks), I’m single. And I need to stay that way.
