by J Santiago
“How does it play out?” he inquired.
She scooted the chair forward, pulled the mouse toward her, and hit play. Tank watched as the quarterback eyed the hole but didn’t react, instead stepping left and absorbing a hit from the guard on that side who’d filled the gap.
“Should have stepped into the space,” Tank commented without taking his eyes from the screen.
“Exactly. He has a big body, is really quick, and has a great arm. But he has no vision, no creativity. That drops him from a four- to a three-star. You could argue coaching or confidence. But you see him watch that hole open up, and he just can’t envision himself stepping into it. You could teach him to read the defenses better, but you can’t teach heart.”
Tank turned his head slightly, just in time to see her shrug with indifference.
“It’s too bad because his physique is incredible.”
Her analysis was spot-on.
In his final season at Kensington, after he’d found out who she was and they were able to talk football, she’d astonished him with her take on his play. Things she said to him after games would come up with the coaching staff the following week during film review. She had an uncanny ability to break down plays on both sides of the ball. They were undefeated that season, so her postgame review of his play never bothered him—tweaks, small misses—because when you were winning, nothing really bothered you. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d react to her picking apart his play during the AFC Championship Game. He imagined his ego would take a beating as any memory of that game still made him cringe.
Tired of looming over the table, Tank walked around and pulled up another rolling chair. “What else you got?” he asked.
She turned her head toward him, but once again, Tank couldn’t figure out what she was thinking. They stared at each other for a minute before she made some room for his chair and pulled up the next video.
Tank and Amber scouted fifteen players, ranging from age fourteen to seventeen. Mostly, they agreed on the ratings with a couple of exceptions. Tank found her to be a much more critical evaluator of talent. Where he would have awarded four stars, she would point out what was missing and try to talk him into agreeing on three. She won most of their arguments—not because he’d let her, but because she’d made valid points that he couldn’t always counter.
Amber was about to pull up another video but stopped to adjust her glasses and rub her eyes.
“Tired?” Tank asked.
He could stay up all night just to spend this time with her, but she looked wrecked.
Perched now on the edge of her chair, she stretched her arms over her head, unconsciously thrusting her chest out. Tank fought to maintain his appreciative sigh at the sight, but their close proximity had long since been messing with his brain and his ability to keep his hands to himself. His hands itched to touch her, and his mouth watered every time the space between them decreased as they moved in to study a play. His want for her was limitless, and in that second, with her innocent yet provocative stretch, he thought he was going to lose the tentative hold on his libido. He pushed his chair slightly back, so her outthrust breasts weren’t in his direct line of sight.
“I’m a little tired.” She dropped her arms and looked over at him. She must have noticed the leer on his face because she smirked.
He answered with a shake of his head, a denial of what she knew she had seen. She chuckled softly, and he couldn’t help but give in to the grin tugging at his lips.
She rolled her chair away from him.
Cocking his head to the side, he said, “That inch of space isn’t going to help.”
Her laughter split the air and the tension in the room.
That! That sound.
“I love your laugh,” he admitted, no longer able to deny himself. He reached forward and ran his finger along the edge of her jaw. “God, I love that sound.”
But the touch of his finger had strangled the sound in her throat, and she merely looked at him, her eyes awash with a million questions.
“Why?” she asked.
He wanted to feign ignorance and explain how her laughter was like the first sound of Christmas to a kid. But he knew she wasn’t asking about that. His hand dropped back to his thigh, and he took a second to collect his scattered thoughts. He didn’t want to get this wrong. It was too important. He glanced away, knowing his answer was going to be inadequate, and he wasn’t ready to disappoint her again.
“Are you mad at me for using your story?” he asked, swinging his gaze back to her, showcasing his greatest worry.
Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she started before glancing up at the ceiling. “I was stunned. You were stunning, mesmerizing.” She dropped her arms to her knees. “I was so proud of you because what you’d said was so important. I’m not sure I can even get words around it, ya know?” Her pause was about composure. “But, when you went there, my first thought was that you were an asshole. I couldn’t believe you’d used my story to further your cause—which I am not even sure I know what that is. But then Steele told me you’d been doing this for a while, and then I didn’t really care that you’d used my story. It was a confusing hour.” She sat back. “Tell me why, Tank.”
“I hated that story.” He rubbed his hand over his head, frustrated with his inarticulate response. He liked having her close, so he copied her earlier position, elbows on his knees, a seesaw of positions between them. “I hated it. I wished all sorts of bad shit on a guy who was already dead and also on Southern cops in small football towns.
“But, later, with some distance, I got that it was a bigger issue than me just being pissed that someone I cared about had been hurt. It could and did happen to people, and I had a forum to talk about it.” A sheepish grin appeared on his face. “Hawk is all about public image and insisted I have some cause I could get behind. It was easy from there. I watched some presentations by TeamUP and talked to some of their trainers. I went to a private train-the-trainer session. Then, one of their people helped me craft my presentation. And I didn’t intend to include your story or in any way violate your trust.” He grabbed her hand. “You know that, right?”
She didn’t pull away from him, which he considered a minor victory. But it took her a second to answer him with a nod.
“It came out during my practice session, and the guy working with me really liked that I could give them a starting point to connect with such a violent act. So, it stayed.”
“Okay.”
He squeezed her hand. “Since few people knew about our shared past, I knew I could keep it safe. Ya feel me?”
“So, Franco’s never seen it? Because he would connect the dots. He would know.”
Ah, I should have thought of that.
Tank shook his head. “He’s never seen it. We don’t advertise it. But I’m committed to it now. Especially now. But, if you want me to take it out, I will. Just say the word.”
“No. Keep it.” She conceded like it was no big deal, but it was a gift, and he knew it.
“Thank you.”
She was inches away from him, and he didn’t want her to wonder anymore.
“You said something else earlier about not knowing why I was here. I want to clarify.”
She radiated skepticism, but he pushed forward. He released her hand, grabbing the arms of her chair. The wheels conceded to his gentle pull, rolling her closer until their knees touched. He lifted his hand and laid it on her jaw, the scarred tissue so familiar. Her eyes closed, a deep sigh escaped her parted lips, and the pulse point on her neck jumped. Tank reveled in her response, still there for him. He dropped a quick, lightweight kiss on her mouth before he pulled away. Her lids fluttered open, and she stared up at him.
“I’m here for you.”
Then, he kissed her.
It was a perfect first kiss.
Even though it probably numbered in the hundreds between them. A first because—the man in front of her, the one with his hands strategical
ly placed on her right jaw and her left hip—this man was different than the man-child he’d been. Every dip of his tongue, nip on her lip, exploration of the cavern of her mouth was a first. A perfect first kiss.
A diving-board kiss that made her want to plunge into the warm, languid pool of Tank Howard. She wanted to swim to the bottom and touch the deepest part of him. She wanted to wade through the rhythm of the blood pumping through his body. She wanted to splash and dip, to stroke and breathe, to hold her breath and sink until she had to surface to inhale his air.
She was going to fucking drown.
Tank ended the kiss and dropped his forehead to hers while she struggled to get control of herself.
“Come home with me,” he whispered, “or let me come home with you.”
He dropped his mouth to hers again and nibbled on her bottom lip before dragging tiny kisses across the shredded skin on her jaw and neck. Her heart rate kicked up, and every part of her body clenched in response.
Needing sanity, she pushed off the ground with her feet and sent the chair rolling back, leaving Tank’s mouth hanging open and her heated skin cool. With a little bit of space between them, she was able to regulate her ragged breathing, but she had to shake her head to try to regain her composure.
When she was sure she could handle it, she looked at Tank. His green eyes were heavy with desire and want. But he didn’t push. She knew he could move in for the kill, convince her with his body to continue their night, but he waited patiently for her to make a decision. His patience was one of those subtle differences separating the man from the boy. Tank of three years ago would have pushed once, thrown his hands in the air, and walked away, expecting her to follow. The impulse seemed to be gone or leashed because he didn’t press, didn’t seem to expect her acquiescence. Instead, he watched her, probably looking for signs of her thought process. He would be disappointed. Her brain had atrophied. Thoughts lay trampled, her fears scattered. She was a desolate wasteland of nothingness. She couldn’t gather a litany of objections even though she knew there were many and they would eventually make themselves known.
But, right at this moment, she wanted him.
Amber stood up and held her hand out to him. His fingers intertwined with hers as he followed. It was one beautifully choreographed moment. They didn’t speak, but so many things passed between them. He gently squeezed her fingers with his, acknowledging what was there and what was sure to follow. He brought her hand up and pressed her palm against his open mouth. Her eyes closed involuntarily.
She let go of his hand and turned to the equipment in front of her. She closed out of the windows, saved her spreadsheet to her shared drive, and shut down the computer. The break from the moment helped her gather her senses.
This foray with Tank didn’t have to mean anything or everything. It could just be a giving-in, a concession to the wonder. What would it be like with a clean slate?
She’d played their last two moments together numerous times over the last few years. In the hotel room, on the night he’d won the Heisman, he’d brought his hope, and she’d brought her good-bye. And, at the wedding, she’d carried all her hurt and anger. And maybe some hate.
So, she couldn’t even begin to guess what it would be like to just offer him her desire.
When everything was closed out and she had no excuse to delay, she turned back to him. He immediately reached for her hand again, maybe wanting to remind her of the connection between them, maybe just needing to touch her.
He let her lead them from the room, through the halls, and down the stairs to the atrium. As she stepped outside, she realized she didn’t have her stuff.
“Shit,” she exclaimed as the door closed behind them. “I have to go get my things.”
“Okay. Do you want me to wait here or come with you?”
“Can you get me back here at four thirty?”
He chuckled. “What time would I have to get up if you went back upstairs?”
“Five,” she responded cheekily.
He tugged on her hand, walking her to his car. “Figured.”
He unlocked the car and walked her around to the passenger side to open her door. He waited for her to get in, and then he pulled on the seat belt, leaning over her and locking it in place. He overwhelmed her with his size and his proximity.
She quirked an eyebrow at him, trying to take some control. “Really?”
He turned his head, and at the same time, each of his hands wrapped around one of her wrists. His body moved minutely. He merely stared at her, but a myriad of emotions swirled around him. Where her page was blank, his was covered with scribbles and doodles, none of which she could decipher.
“Really.” He smirked, covering his emotions with a familiar face.
She shrugged, the movement reminding her that he still held her wrists. He dropped a quick, chaste kiss on her mouth before he removed himself and closed the door.
He walked behind the Range Rover, and Amber watched him in the rearview mirror as he stopped and ran his hand over his head. For the first time, Amber thought he might be more nervous than her. The notion filled her with an uneasy sense of power. Then, he moved, and it was gone.
Tank yanked on the door and slid gracefully into the seat. He turned on the car, leaned his arms on the steering wheel, and turned to face her.
Snickering, he said, “My place or yours?”
She couldn’t help her answering laugh. “Yours,” she said without hesitation. No need to have lingering memories of Tank Howard in her bed.
He reversed out of the parking lot and began the drive.
Amber looked at the time on the dash. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she remarked.
Tank took his eyes off the road for a split second to look at her. “Four thirty’s going to come quick.”
“I hope not.”
He shook his head but couldn’t hide his grin. “Gutter.”
“I am always surprised at how late it is when I watch film.”
Tank nodded. “Tell me about that.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You said it’s not part of your responsibilities. But that spreadsheet of yours is pretty impressive. What do you love about it?”
His question caught her off guard. Of course he would phrase it like that. He had spent an hour with her and knew she loved it.
“That’s an interesting way to ask.”
“What you love about it?” He glanced at her, and when she nodded, he shrugged. “You do love it, right?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
She never talked about it with anyone. Steele and Nicky knew she looked at film, but they had no idea how much time she spent analyzing players. There was something about being able to spot talent and determine if it would become something or go to waste.
She’d been doing it since she realized she had access to all of this film. For three years, she’d looked at thousands of players. She’d rated them and then followed their careers, tracking their successes and failures. She didn’t listen to the expert opinions on them. Instead, she’d created her own evaluation. It took a lot to earn five stars from her.
“I just love that part of it. The scouting more than the recruiting. You can tell so much from watching film over a couple of years.”
“Do you share your opinions?”
“No.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he quipped.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s not really about that. I mean, I love pitting my knowledge against Whitey’s, but he doesn’t know I’m doing it.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve spent some time with him over the last couple of weeks. I don’t think your extracurricular activities are much of a secret.”
“He knows I watch the film, but he doesn’t know the extent. And I don’t ever offer up any contradictions.”
“But he asks you, doesn’t he?”
She thought about it for a moment and found herself smiling. “He does.”
Things got quiet between them, the low hum of the music the only sound in the car. Amber thought about what he’d said and revealed. As wrapped up in himself as Tank could be, he happened to be pretty damn observant. She’d forgotten that about him, probably because it was one of his more endearing qualities—his ability to notice the people around him.
They quickly arrived at his house, and Amber’s previously lost inhibitions returned. As Tank pulled the Range Rover into the garage of the bungalow, the regrets and prohibitions rose from their lust-induced death. She didn’t even have to name it because she knew exactly what thought beast was waiting to roar in its all-mighty voice.
The thing about Tank was just that—Tank. He made her feel everything. Fear, hope, completeness, loneliness, jealousy, pride. He came with all these feeling triggers. She’d existed the last three years in relative happiness, perhaps born from a desire to be numb. But she was content with her life, her job, her choices. She was even content with the choice she was about to make.
Tank found his way to her door, opening it before she even realized he’d stepped out of the car. She unbuckled her seat belt and stood, trapped between the V of the door and Tank. He smiled down at her and linked their hands before he turned and led her into the house. She didn’t bother to look around. This wasn’t his place. There was no need to study the furnishings. There were no Tank secrets on display in this temporary house. So, she followed him as he beat a determined path to the bedroom.
She was ready for him, more ready than she’d ever been, and in the moment, there was clarity.
Closure.
For a split second.
Tank stopped at the foot of the California-king bed and maneuvered her around, so they faced each other. He looked like he was about to say something. But she was already there and didn’t need any crazy assurances, so she grabbed the bottom of her shirt and pulled it up over her head, foregoing the buttons. She stood in her bra and skirt in front of him. His eyes dropped down, and she watched as he took a very slow inventory. She reached behind her back and slid the zipper down, letting her skirt fall to her feet.
