Chapter 10
RYDER
JOS: Ryder and Cole sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
LYLA: Get ready to be hated!!!!
LYLA: BTW. You looked cute today…even though you didn’t wear the CROP TOP I laid out.
JAMIE: Quit giving her a hard time. She doesn’t need more pressure.
VANESSA: Any luck scouting today?
JAMIE: You did look cute today. Can’t wait to hear about your new boyfriend. *Wink face emoji*
TRACKER: Shit. 4 days in, and you’re dating him now?
______
I pull on a T-shirt and some baggy sweatpants, ready to eat and decompress from an afternoon of overstimulation. After checking the apartment, Cole and I went our separate ways.
Attending the game was interesting. Watching fans scream his name, the interactions among his team, and the coach’s reliance on Cole were enlightening beyond my expectations.
I sat in the stands with thousands of people whose hope seemed to rest on one man—Cole. I don’t know much about football. Thanks to the loud, drunk guys next to me, I learned that his ability to continuously move the ball down the field and score won the game.
When he walked into the waiting room, he looked ragged and tired. Today, I saw Cole Matthews—the confident, self-assured man with the whole world at his fingertips, but who lives in a small, secluded world. I want to know if that’s by choice or circumstance.
I leave my room and find Cole in the kitchen in a white T-shirt and shorts, stirring something in a large skillet. His hair is mussed, and he looks just as tired as he did earlier.
I lean against the island, catching a whiff of something sweet and tangy mixed with his fresh, clean scent. “What are you making us?”
The knots in my stomach that stitched themselves together for comfort have started to loosen over the past few days, and I’m finding it easier to converse with this man.
“Us?” One dark eyebrow arches as he turns a burner off.
“Uh, yeah. It was our deal. Plus, I’ve been busy protecting your ass. All you’ve been doing is prancing around and tossing a ball.”
This hotshot is constantly smiling, as if life is grand, and tries to tease me. It’s time he understands two can play that game, at least the teasing part.
His gaze rises from the pan to meet mine, and it’s filled with what appears to be both amusement and challenge. Those little knots wiggle free a bit more.
He points a large wooden spoon at me. “You’re only getting away with that because I’m exhausted and starving. I couldn’t wait any longer. Next game day, we’re eating out, or you’re cooking.”
I lean around him, inspecting the contents in the skillet. “What is it?”
He scoffs, opening the rice cooker. “Stir-fried chicken and vegetables.”
It actually looks amazing, and I’m surprised. Cole Matthews can cook. “Okay, new rule. You’re making all the meals.”
“Not happening. You’re up next. Get planning. I eat a lot, so you need to make more.”
I roll my eyes, and he smiles, handing me a plate. “You’re kind of a diva. Clean food and large portions.” I scoop up some rice and pile the vegetables and chicken on top. “Maybe you should go back to your gourmet meal plan catered to your exact specifications.”
I’m not the best cook. Cole didn’t complain when I made spaghetti from a jar, especially when it’s clear he knows what he’s doing in the kitchen.
He leans against the counter. “Nah, this is more fun. I enjoyed hearing the colorful language you used, trying not to burn stuff.”
I glare at him out of the corner of my eye, and that damn grin returns.
Fun? He thinks this is fun?
I might not be a chef, but I sure as hell will keep his ass safe and likely saving him thousands of dollars in the process.
“Thanks for this,” I say, grabbing a fork and heading to my room.
“You want to. . . ” Cole starts, and I stop, peeking over my shoulder at him. “I was going to watch a game if you want to. . .hang out.”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. My nerves about this whole thing might be easing a teensy bit, but I’m not sure I’m to a place where I want to “hang out.”
“Hang out?” The two words coming out of my mouth feel a little. . .high schoolish, and some part of that makes me want to laugh. Cole Matthews, Mr. NFL himself, asked me if I wanted to “hang out.”
His gaze dips to his plate, and if I weren’t excellent at reading people, I’d miss the shyness that lies beneath. “Yeah.”
Maybe Cole and I aren’t so different when it comes to social awkwardness.
I let the internal debate commence. I could watch the game with Cole or go to my room and sit in silence while I research. It’d compromise my work mode, where I don’t have to converse or risk being asked to reveal something personal.
He carries his plate to the couch while I wait for the results of hanging out with Cole.
After a moment, my shoulders sag, and I follow him, tucking myself into the opposite end of the couch.
He turns on a football game and starts eating as if this is our routine—the two of us having dinner and watching TV.
If the girls knew about this, they’d need a picture to believe it, but my phone is already blowing up with their dramatics.
We eat, listening to the commentators discuss whatever is happening on the screen. When I’m finished, I set my plate to the side, pulling my knees to my chest and angling my body to keep Cole in my view.
He slouches down into the couch, his long legs bent and hanging off the edge. One arm is tucked behind his head, the other at his side, his fingers wrapped lazily around the remote. His face is smooth as his eyes capture the screen. He’s perfectly relaxed.
He told me he rarely sits out here, and I wonder what he does with his time. He goes to bed early, eats breakfast, and trains all morning. But what does he do with the rest of his time? This? Does he just watch game after game, studying?
I read about athletes playing video games to relax their bodies and minds. There was a game controller on his nightstand, so maybe that’s what he does besides watching football. I’ve seen no evidence that he spends time with friends, and I know his family doesn’t live here.
I want to figure this man out and understand why someone would target him beyond his wealth and fame. Obsession, maybe? A stalker? Both of those things make him an easy target, but something about these threats seems personal.
After seeing how his teammate spoke to him and called him Rocket Boy, I’m learning Cole has been dealing with more than some serious threats. He’s been trying to prove himself to a group of assholes who likely can’t stand that they won’t ever come close to matching his ability.
Cole Matthews is all football, all the time.
It’s what’s expected, not just of his team and fans.
I wonder if Cole expects it of himself. If he lets one thing slack, he’ll slip, too, and he’ll let all those people down.
He’ll let himself down. But what is he running or hiding from with this hyperfocus?
“Why are you staring at me?” His question startles me out of my thoughts.
“I’m not staring.”
One side of his mouth ticks. “Yes, you are.” His blue eyes remain on the screen, and mine never leave him.
“No, I’m not.” I am, but I’m not staring. I’m studying, learning, absorbing.
“Jones.”
It’s the first time he’s called me by my last name, and it feels a bit like payback for me always calling him Matthews. I could smile, but I don’t.
“Stop staring at me. It’s weirding me out, and I’m trying to concentrate.”
I allow my gaze to drift to the TV where the players are setting up. I wonder what he sees, what he’s studying.
My gaze wanders back to him. His eyes narrow slightly. He’s paying close attention. After fifteen seconds, whatever he wanted to see must be over, and he rubs his scruffy jaw.
His finger presses a button, and the picture stills. His head rolls in my direction.
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” I blurt, my curiosity getting the best of me.
It’s what I’ve wondered since I arrived. This man is surrounded by beautiful women. He smiles, nods, scribbles his name, and moves on.
I saw the way women watched and lingered today, poised to try to snatch his attention. Cole could have his pick, so why doesn’t he?
“Is that important to this assignment?” His question is direct but a tad tentative.
Is it?
Maybe not, but I’m intrigued, and the more I know about him, the better equipped I’ll be to protect him.
“Sort of.”
He shifts a little, studying me now.
“If media sources can be trusted, you’re expected to be one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL. You’re loaded and good-looking. . .enough. So why not?”
His dark eyebrows inch upward, and I won’t acknowledge it or let him know that “enough” doesn’t even scratch the surface.
When he doesn’t say anything, I press on, wanting to understand.
Is there a crazy ex I need to be worried about?
“You seem kind, smart, and dedicated. I’m just trying to figure out why you spend all your time here alone.
Out of all the gorgeous women willing to throw themselves at your feet, surely there has to be a few you’d want to spend time with. ”
He slides his arm out from behind his head and sits a little. His thumb traces over the buttons on the remote, and he tracks the movement.
I’ve made him uncomfortable, and my curiosity grows.
“My schedule, my life, doesn’t really leave time for getting to know people.”
I watch him. It sounds like an excuse, but I hold off calling bullshit just yet.
He leans forward, resting his arms on his legs.
I hit a raw nerve.
He sighs as if he’s surrendering. “Everyone has an expectation. They see my name and instantly expect me to be. . . ” He shakes his head, focused on the floor now.
“I don’t know. . .just like my dad. Great.
Larger-than-life but easy-going. They expect me to win and bring in money, fans, and sponsors.
” He pauses. “They demand greatness all the time. People don’t want me.
They want him or whoever they think I am. ”