Charlotte
“Want a Nerds Cluster?” I offer when we climb into Callan’s SUV at the airport in Denver.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I scroll through my playlists, looking for one that will help get Callan out of his funk.
The team lost a tough one to Las Vegas, and I know he’s blaming himself.
He threw an interception late in the game that allowed the Reapers to score their winning touchdown.
It’s a division game, so it’s a more important loss, but it’s only week four.
There are still a lot of games left to play.
I squint at my phone, trying to decide whether he needs a crying playlist or one to snap him out of his funk.
“Good God, could this traffic be any worse?” he snaps as we merge onto I-225.
Funk-snapping it is.
Callan gives me some strong side-eye when “Gives You Hell” by the All-American Rejects starts pumping through his expensive sound system, but I choose to ignore it, singing along softly.
By the time “Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)” by Kelly Clarkson comes on, he’s tapping a finger, his body slightly less tense than when we loaded up.
“What’s this playlist called?” he asks when “All Star” by Smash Mouth comes on.
I try to hide my smile. “‘Fix Your Face.’”
He only asks what I call a playlist when he likes it. He’s even started requesting “Nibble Noise”—one of the ones we listen to when we have dinner together—by name.
“Do you like it?” I bite my lips.
“It reminds me of high school.”
“And that’s… good, right?” I pull one of my feet under me, thankful I had some of the team tracksuits ordered for me to travel in, too.
Callan reaches over and grabs my hand, pulling it onto his lap, and I fight a victorious smile.
“My football team back then didn’t make it as far as I would’ve liked.
So, it mostly serves to remind me that you can always come back from a bad season.
No one expected me to go pro when I was in high school, but here I am. ”
I blink at him. “People seem to expect a lot of big things from you now.”
He tips his head from side to side. “Yeah. Or they did.”
“What do you mean?” I trace the line of his hard jaw with my eyes.
“I’m getting old, so anytime I have an off game, people question whether it’s time for me to hang up my helmet.”
I know quarterbacks tend to play for longer than other professional athletes, and certainly other football players, but Callan’s not wrong.
He’s reaching the end of his career. If he decided to retire—of his own volition, of course—it would sure make my life a lot easier.
I don’t think getting rid of Callan is what’s best for the team, but it’s clearly the fight Hugo has decided to pick.
I wonder if he already wanted to trade Callan before I came along, or whether it’s a direct response to him “dating” me.
“Is that something you’re interested in doing anytime soon?” I ask carefully.
“What? Retiring?” He shakes his head. “Not really. I feel good. I have a few more years in me.”
I stay silent, feeling that he has more to say.
Finally, I’m rewarded for my patience when he continues, “I love the game, and it’s not just about playing on Sundays.
I love the film sessions, dissecting another team’s defense, and figuring out how to best use the players on the team.
And then game days, there’s nothing like that high in the world.
The last-second adjustments, the routine.
And there’s the team. These guys give me purpose in a way I haven’t found anywhere else.
It’s not like retiring from a normal job that you’re only in for the money.
I love what I do. I love who I do it with. And I’m not ready to let that go yet.”
My heart drops at his words, even as I force a smile. Of course he loves his job. I’ve seen him interact with the other players. They all look up to him, and he treats them like he’s their big brother, offering advice and tough love in a way that only a teammate can.
The Stallions need him.
And, apparently, he needs the team.
I don’t know where that leaves me professionally, but I’m sure as hell not going to let Hugo and Dad bulldoze me into trading him just because they think I can’t be unbiased.
I can be.
Or maybe I am biased, but because of that, I can see how good he is for the team.
Callan clears his throat, and I jump.
I grasp for the last threads of our conversation.
“That makes complete sense. Honestly, it’s how I feel about Langford Entertainment.
I love every second I spend there. Sure, it’s hard work, and I spend a lot of nights and weekends there, but it’s what gives me purpose, not what keeps me from feeling fulfilled. ”
We pull into the garage, and Callan turns off the car. “Thanks for this.”
“For what?”
He turns to face me. “Making me feel better. Taking my mind off the Vegas game.”
I reach out and squeeze his forearm. “Of course. What are friends for?”
“Friends, huh?” he asks, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
I shrug nonchalantly, sliding out of the vehicle. “Something like that.”
An hour and one long, hot, solo shower later, I find Callan in his workout room, headphones on as he sits on a spin bike.
“Callan!” I wave my arms to get his attention and take in the space I almost never visit. It’s a real gym, complete with cardio machines, a squat rack, and free weights. And mirrors. Mirrors everywhere.
He pulls the headphones off, letting them hang around his neck. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you.”
Forcing my eyes away from the top of his thigh and the muscle bulging there, I ask, “What are you doing?” I know he cooled down after the game and received some treatment while we were on the plane.
I may have gone and sat with him while it was happening to help keep his mind off things.
I’m sure he found my rambling about the crazy items that people request on their riders highly interesting. Informative, too.
He wipes the sweat from his face with a black towel. “Trying to burn off some energy so I can sleep.”
I gape. “It’s nine thirty, and you had a massive day today. Almost fifty pass attempts and eighty-two snaps. And don’t get me started on those hits you took. What the fuck was Gunderson doing?”
Callan smiles, his legs slowing. “Wow, Princess. I appreciate that you’re in my corner, but Gunderson did his job. Their defensive end is damn good. I should’ve scrambled better.”
I pick up the lightest set of dumbbells he has and attempt to do a curl—nope. He watches me, amusement written all over his face as I scan the end to find out how heavy it is. Ten pounds should feel lighter than that, right?
“Why do you have so much energy?” I set the weights down carefully. Don’t need to drop one of those gigantic things on my toes. “I thought you’d be exhausted.”
“Post-game adrenaline is still riding me hard. This is the only way I can figure out to get rid of it.”
I nod. “That makes sense. I know it can be crazy.” I think about our time in the shower and realize I want to do it again. A lot. I glance at him over my shoulder as I wander through the space. “Though, I also know most players find a different way to take care of all that adrenaline.”
Callan’s gaze lasers in on me. “How do you happen to know that, Princess?” His voice is rough. Dangerous.
I shrug, returning to lightly run my fingers over the weights on their rack. “The only time I’ve hooked up with athletes is after games.” I wait for a snarky remark, but none comes.
I turn, and suddenly, he’s there, in front of me, his large body warm against mine as he grabs my chin lightly in his palm.
“Don’t. Don’t talk about them.” He presses his lips hard against mine.
Devouring, claiming. When I finally have to break the kiss and come up for air, Callan smooths his thumb over my cheek.
“I’m sorry. I know you had a life before me. ”
He pauses before gritting out, “And you’ll have one after me. But it makes me see fucking red.”
There’s a slutty little devil on my shoulder doing a scandalous happy dance—one that looks remarkably like a shimmy—at the thought. “Why don’t you do something about all the adrenaline, Ball Boy?”
His pupils widen at the suggestion. “Are you offering, Princess?” He leans closer, the heat from his body engulfing me as his chest rises and falls quickly. “Because we agreed, no one but us.”
I reach up and run my hand along his cheek. “I’m offering, Callan. Actually, if you want to get specific, I’m getting closer to begging. I want you to fuck me against these mirrors so I can watch those stupidly round ass cheeks clench as you thrust into me.”
His pupils flare. “Hell, yes,” he mutters before dropping a hot, open-mouthed kiss to my neck.
He continues to kiss up and down my neck as I lean into him, my stomach getting the friction from his hard ridge that my core so desperately wants. I bite my lip to keep from telling him to pick me up, to put me in the position I need.
God, yes. I love it when he plays with my nipples. I never thought callused hands would feel that good on the sensitive flesh, but he knows what he’s doing.
Callan pulls back abruptly and scans my face. He reaches out and gently tugs my lip out from between my teeth. “I told you, I want every thought. Your mouth has been free for the last thirty seconds at least, and you haven’t said a word, Princess. Talk to me.”
“Are you sure?” I know he was okay with it when we were in the shower last night, but… I don’t want to get to be too much. To annoy him.
He rubs the tip of his nose against mine. “Positive.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. “Pick me up. I’m too short, and you’re too tall for us to do more than kiss like this. Plus, I’m dying to feel your cock in me.”
He slides his hands under my ass and lifts me as if I weigh nothing.
“God, you’re so fucking strong.” I run my hands over the large expanses of his biceps. “Are you sure you can hold me like this after your game today?”
“Yes, Princess,” he growls into my ear as he presses the weight of his hips against my core.