“I hope his blood pressure is okay.”
“He should probably have that checked too.” We share a look—amusement and understanding and acknowledgment of how weird this is.
“A lot of guys would be upset about a picture like that being public,” I say. “About the comments.”
“I don’t read the comments. Jesus, princess, don’t ever read the comments.”
I laugh. “I know.”
“And I’m not upset. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about me. I live life for myself.”
“I guess that’s a good philosophy.” I trace a finger over the tablecloth. “I think I care too much what other people think.” I look up at him hesitantly, through my eyelashes.
He reaches out to take my hand. “Why is that?” he asks quietly.
I can’t tell him. “I grew up with a lot of public attention. I suppose it was drilled into me that any trouble a Wynn gets into will be broadcast for the whole world to see.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter.
Our server brings our lunch. Wyatt ordered “truck stop” eggs, sausage, bacon, and potatoes. I guess he burns a gazillion calories a day. But my salad looks delicious—gem lettuce topped with beets, feta, sumac, and a Meyer lemon vinaigrette.
“I like food,” he says with satisfaction, cutting into a sausage.
“Me too. I wish I could eat as much as you.”
“You should eat however much you want.”
“If I want to weigh two hundred pounds, sure.”
He shrugs. “You’d be gorgeous if you weighed that much.”
My jaw drops. “You lie.”
He regards me with a puzzled notch between his eyes. “No.”
“Your privilege is showing,” I mutter, forking up a piece of beet. “You don’t know what the pressure on women to look good is like.”
“I guess I don’t.” He nods. “You don’t have to be perfect, you know.”
I pause. Oh yes I do. But I just shrug. “Can I try your potatoes?”
“Sure.” He moves his cutlery out of my way.
I reach over and fork up some potatoes, lifting them to my mouth. I close my eyes as I savor them…seasoned perfectly, crispy on the outside, melting soft on the inside. “Mmm. So good.”
When I open my eyes and look at him, he’s staring at me with a hungry expression and dark eyes. “Christ,” he mutters, then bends his head and stabs another sausage.
Oh. That must have sounded…orgasmic.
Oops.
Chapter 12
Everly
“I guess we should be clear about what we’re doing,” I manage to say, my face hot.
“What do you mean?”
“These ‘dates’ we have to go on. They’re just for show. Right?”
“Wrong.” He eats his sausage, meeting my eyes with a bland expression.
“What? What do you mean, wrong?”
“Okay, they are for show. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun together.”
“Oh no.” I shake my head, waving my fork. “This isn’t about fun. It’s about saving the team and the league from bad PR.”
“Come on, princess.” He leans forward, his lips curving downward in annoyance. “Why are you so against having fun?”
“Fun is dangerous. That’s what got us into this mess, remember?”
One corner of his mouth hitches up.
“Fun is only safe if it’s carefully planned and controlled.”
“That’s bullshit.” He calmly takes a bite of toast.
“Nope. Those are my rules.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to be setting rules here.”
I gape at him. “What do you mean?”
“I’m the one who doesn’t care what happens with this little incident. You, however, do. Therefore, you need to play by my rules.” He smiles.
My breath sticks in my chest. My heart bumps against my breastbone. God, that smile…
“You know what Vince Lombardi said,” he continues.
“What?”
“ ‘Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.’ ”
“Vince Lombardi didn’t say that.”
“What?”
I shrug. “Everyone thinks he did. It was actually Red Sanders.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you really believe that?”
“Of course.”
“Is this a game to you?”
“Everything is a game, princess. And if winning isn’t everything…why do we keep score?”
I’ve stopped eating, my fork poised in midair. I don’t know how to deal with this man.
“So,” he says, continuing to eat, as if we’re talking about the weather. “We’re going to have fun together.”
“Define ‘fun.’ ”
“Really?” He arches an eyebrow. “Here?”
My inner muscles squeeze up, my thighs tightening. “That’s what I thought you meant.”
He laughs.
“We’re not having sex.” I lean forward to whisper the words fiercely.
“That would definitely be fun.”
I sit back in my chair and grind my back teeth together. I want to scream! “That’s not what this is about,” I insist.
“True.”
I frown.
“But there’s no reason it can’t be part of it. Like I said, we can do this and put on a show, but what we do behind closed bedroom doors is our own business.”
I gasp. “And like I said, we’re not having sex.”
Oops. I might have said that a little too loud. I glance around.
What is he doing to me? I don’t lose my composure like this.
“We’ll see. How’s your salad?”
I blink and look down at it. “Uh. Good.”
At that moment, a woman approaches our table with a hesitant smile. “Hi there. I’m sorry to interrupt. My husband and I are just leaving, and I wonder if I could get a quick autograph? My son is a huge fan of yours.” She holds out a tent card from the table, folded inside out, and a pen.
Wyatt flashes a charming smile. “Of course.” He takes the card and the pen. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Brandon.”
He nods and writes on the card. He’s left-handed.
Gah. I don’t know why, but I find left-handed men so attractive.
The woman catches my eye and returns my smile, then takes the card and pen back from Wyatt. “Thank you so much! He’s going to love this!”
“Does he play hockey?”
Gah. More feels. He doesn’t have to be so sweet to her, but he is.
“He does! He wants to play for the Condors someday. Maybe he will! Thank you. Enjoy your lunch.”
She disappears with a wave.
Now other people in the restaurant are looking at us. Maybe they wonder who Wyatt is, or maybe they recognize him, but nobody else comes over, though I sense their interest as we finish eating.
“I’d better get back to work,” I say, my salad done.
“I thought this was work for you.” He says it mildly, not snidely.
“It is.”
He jerks back as if he’s been stabbed, slapping a hand to his chest. “Ouch.”
“Oh, all right. It was…”
“Fun?” he suggests helpfully.
“Maybe a little.”
It was more than fun. It was…exciting. Frustrating. Energizing.
He seems to have that effect on me.
But we’re not having sex.
Wyatt
“Hilarious.” I shake my head, looking at my phone.
My buddies, who are partying it up in Tahoe, have seen the blog
pics of me and the sex shop dude.
New boyfriend? Jabber texts me.
Something you want to tell us? Bergie asks, followed by, It’s okay, we aren’t judging.
Jimmy texts, Wish you’d trusted us enough to tell us. Hate finding out this way.
“Ha-ha.”
I text them back. Glad there’s no judgment.
Let them ponder on that.
Jabber then texts, Why the fuck aren’t you here anyway?
I stare at my phone for a long moment before I answer that one. I hate snow.
I’m also being tagged in all kinds of social media posts and comments. It nearly makes my head explode. The homophobia, I mean; not the fact that they’re being dickheads to me. I’ve got women telling me “such a waste” and men coming on to me and then there are the ones that say “homosexuality is a sin” and “you should be punished.” I want to respond to those so badly, but I’ve been strictly ordered not to. In fact, I shouldn’t even be reading them.
I’ve had haters on social media before. Shit, all you have to do is miss a shot when you’re down one goal, or accidently have the puck go in your own net off your skate, and people are all up in arms. They say shit on social media they’d never say to your face. I’ve learned to ignore it. But this is a bit of an eye-opener what it would be like for a player who’s actually gay to come out in this environment.
I was a little ambivalent about being the ambassador for Hockey for All, but this whole situation is making me embrace it. If there’s any small thing I can do to improve things for the LGBTQ community in this role, I’ll do it. I’d let people think I was gay, but I get where the team is coming from; pretending to be gay to advance LGBTQ rights is the exact wrong thing to do.
I can find other ways, though.
Everly
“This is freakin’ awesome!” Wyatt gazes around the Coliseum, where we’re sitting watching the California Cougars play. We’re right on the floor.
I’ve been to a few games, and I admit it’s cool, but I’m not a huge basketball fan. Wyatt seems thrilled, though.
“We’re close enough to smell the sweat,” I remark dryly.
He laughs.
The lights are bright, gleaming off the wood floor. The crowd and the music are loud, the atmosphere electric as the Cougars lead the Phoenix Suns by only four points.
“Traveling!” Wyatt shouts, leaping to his feet and pointing. “Come on! That was traveling!”
The crowd seems to agree with him, judging by the roar.
I tug at his shirtsleeve. “Sit down.”
He subsides back into his seat. “Jesus. These refs are letting all kinds of shit go.”
My lips twitch with amusement. “I had no idea you were such a basketball fan.”
He shrugs. “I like it okay. Don’t watch it much. Yeah!” He shouts and jumps up again as the Cougars sink the ball into the basket. “Woo-hoo! Way to go, Zay! Woop!”
Oh my God, he’s loud. He’s pumping his arms in the air and cheering. Everyone is cheering. I’m clapping too, of course.
The player who just scored, Isaiah Brown, jogs past and actually gives Wyatt a high five.
Wyatt’s face splits into a huge grin and he claps enthusiastically. His passion is infectious, and I find myself eagerly watching the play. He sits again, but in two seconds he’s yelling, “Let’s go, Jones! Ahhhhh! Come on, boys! Come on!”
“There are assists in basketball, too?” I ask.
Wyatt turns and gives me an affectionate smile that damn near melts me. “Yeah. You get an assist if the scoring player takes two or less dribbles. Regardless of how long they have the ball or what move they used to score.”
“How the hell do they keep track of that?” I frown. “Two or less dribbles? Jeez.”
“It’s not as objective as hockey. In basketball, it’s kind of a subjective stat and it depends on the official stats person at the game. Sometimes players get rewarded for assists even if the scoring player does most of the work.”
“Huh.” I hitch one shoulder and sip my beer. “I’d rather watch a hockey game.”
“I like hearing that.” Wyatt turns, leans in, and kisses my nose. “Hockey players are better than guys who play with balls.”
I choke on a laugh. “Um, yes.”
Surprise jolts me at his affectionate gesture, but then I remember we’re out in public and on full display. And no doubt Wyatt’s antics during the game have garnered a lot of attention.
The team mascot comes our way, a giant cat wearing a Cougars’ jersey. He stops in front of Wyatt and puts his hands…er, paws…out. Wyatt stands and gives them a smack. There’s a time-out or something. The music is a peppy song by Shawn Mendes, and Court the Cougar starts dancing with Wyatt.
Sweet smiling Jesus. I can only shake my head and laugh as Wyatt boogies down with the huge cat, people around us cheering him on. Then Court gives me a high five too.
It’s the last few minutes of the game, and the crowd starts chanting “defense, defense!” and of course Wyatt’s right in there, fist in the air. When the Suns score, there’s a huge groan from the crowd.
“Damn!” Wyatt drops his head forward briefly. “It’s okay, it’s okay. We got this. Go Cougars!”
Everyone is on their feet as the game winds down. Even I’m holding my breath when the Suns make another attempt but miss. And even I throw my hands in the air to cheer when that happens and the Cougars get the ball and Isaiah Brown dribbles it up the court. The crowd goes crazy as he shoots…and sinks it with two seconds left.
Wyatt cheers and grabs me, picking me right up off the floor in a jubilant hug. Then he plants a hard kiss on my mouth, draws back, and smiles down into my eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about, baby!”
He’s such a force…energetic and enthusiastic and engaging. He pulls me into his web of excitement. I’m as joyful as he is, and I don’t even care that much. I’ve never had so much fun at a basketball game. I grin back at him, holding on to his shoulders as he spins me around.
We make our way out of the arena, Wyatt’s arm protectively around me. Then we leave the crowd behind, because of his security pass that takes us out to the parking garage, where he was able to use his parking spot tonight. He nods at the vehicles we pass. “Ever wonder why the hockey players get the shittiest parking spots here?”
I laugh. “Because the Cougars players get the best ones?”
“Yep.” He shakes his head. “We know where we rank here.”
“Hockey’s getting more popular.”
“True. Not popular enough to give us prime parking spots and pay us thirty million dollars a year, though.” He opens my door for me.
“Five million’s not enough?”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Wait. Don’t tell your dad that. Or Théo. Because they should definitely pay me more.”
I can’t help but laugh. When he’s in the driver’s seat I say, “Thirty million does sound obscene.”
“It’s crazy. Where to now?”
“Home?” I ask hopefully.
“My place or yours?”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“No way, princess! We need to celebrate that win. And it’s early.”
“Here we go again,” I mutter. “Okay, it’s Saturday night. Where do you want to go?”
“I thought you’d have this all planned out for us. Maximum exposure, right?”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“You never disappoint me, princess.”
“Except if I want to go home too early.”
“I’m fine with that as long as I get to come too.”
“Wyatt. We talked about this.”
He roars out of the parking garage. “We’re playing by my rules,
remember?”
Shit.
It wouldn’t be a problem, except that I’m so damn attracted to him, I want to unfasten my seatbelt, climb across the console, and straddle him. I’m weak. I want him. I know I shouldn’t, but he keeps making me like him, and looking at me like I’m beautiful and fascinating, and making suggestive comments that have me think he wants me just as much, and how the hell am I supposed to resist that? How?
“Okay, we’ve done our duty tonight. Let’s head back closer to my condo. There’s a little place near there I like.”
“A bar?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He was right; usually I’d be planning things out and making sure we were going to the best place to be seen. I said I want to go home; but the truth is, I want to spend more time with him.
Dammit.
“You’re a pretty crazy basketball fan,” I comment.
“I figured it would get us some attention.”
“You mean you did that on purpose?”
“Well, sort of. I was having fun. But it did cross my mind.”
“Oh, you’re good.”
“Why, thank you,” he says with false modesty.
A short drive later we pull into a parking lot behind a little place on Washington. Inside, it’s dark and crowded, lots of patrons standing at a long center table, the tables along one wall full, and more people at the bar.
“Yikes.” I survey the busy place.
“No worries. Hang on.” He disappears into the crowd and a moment later reappears, beckoning me to follow him. I make my way through the people and he leads me to a small table in the corner.
“Hi,” the pretty woman with him says to me. She obviously works there, as she’s holding menus, but she doesn’t look pleased to see me. She lays the menus down on the table. “Your server is Cam. He’ll be right with you.”
I raise my eyebrows at Wyatt as I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the back of my chair. “Special treatment?”
“I’m a regular.” As usual, he helps me with my chair before sitting himself.
“A regular here? Or with that woman?”
“That woman’s name is Abby, and she works here, and since I’m a regular here she knows me.” He holds my gaze steadily. “But that’s it.”
Win Big Page 12
