Chapter Seven
Emily
“You know, we were released from this event an hour ago,” Marcus commented, arching a brow at where I was packing up my bag.
His eyes drifted to the family I’d just been in conversation with, and he lifted a hand in wave before his attention was back on me.
“I volunteered to be on cleanup crew. What’s your excuse for staying late? ”
“Masochism?”
“Sure, because you look so tortured at the moment.” He smirked, crossing his arms. “This is your thing, isn’t it?”
“Staying late? No.” I stood when my bag was zipped, tossing the strap over my shoulder and heaving the heavy sonofabitch up. “Actually, very unlike me, so don’t get used to it.”
“I meant this,” Marcus said, gesturing to the emptying field around us. There were just a few staff members left milling about now, but the energy from the jamboree lived on. “Giving back. Community events.” He paused. “You shined today.”
I narrowed my gaze. “All right. What do you want? This is far too many compliments in a row.”
“Stop deflecting, you little brat.”
I stuck my tongue out at him and then sighed happily, looking around the field. “It’s not all community events. I just… I really got to know some of the girls here today, and I guess I saw a lot of me in them.”
“How so?”
“They feel like they don’t fit in, like they don’t belong. And they don’t realize that’s their strength.” I let my gaze linger on Marcus for a beat, hoping he caught the little edge in my voice, a reminder that being different wasn’t a weakness. It was a super power.
Marcus’s eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth ticked up as he turned to walk with me toward the parking lot. “That’s sweet, Em.”
Like I did any time I talked about myself in a non-self-deprecating way, I shifted with discomfort, desperate to get the attention off me.
“Besides, we got to ogle the hot football players up close. Who wouldn’t be happy after that?”
“Do I have any dried drool at the corner of my mouth?” Marcus asked, thumbing his lip as he jumped in front of me like I was his own personal mirror.
I shoved him off with a laugh, the conversation turning to our next practice and the impossible dance we were currently learning as we exited the field.
The train was to the left, which was where Marcus was heading and where I should have been, too. Darcy had already headed out, and we had plans to shower, order from the vegan restaurant we loved, and curl up on the couch for the rest of the day.
But to the right, Braden Lock stood next to an old, silver Toyota Camry — which currently had smoke drifting up out of the hood.
“You coming?” Marcus asked, pausing where he’d been headed for the train.
“Go on without me.”
My feet were already moving toward Braden, and when Marcus’s eyes flitted to where I was heading, his smile turned devilish.
“Ah. So you are coming. In your pants, anyway.”
I turned and flipped him off with a saccharine smile before twirling back around. His laugh served as my soundtrack as I crossed the parking lot.
I reached Braden just in time to watch him hang his hands on his hips, his shoulders deflating in defeat as he stared at whatever was smoking under the car’s hood.
He’d changed after the event — maybe worked out, maybe showered.
Whatever the case, he was dressed in a matching athletic set, the short sleeves of his shirt hugging his biceps and a nice pair of Nike shoes on his feet.
He had a matching hat covering his hair, which looked a bit damp at the ends, and it was like the whole ensemble was meticulously planned out.
Maybe he had a stylist. If he did, I imagined they’d be pissed at him now from the way he’d mucked up his clothes in his efforts to do…
whatever it was he was doing with this old car.
His hands wore streaks of black now, and seeing him all shiny with sweat and greased up had my poor ovaries in a tizzy.
Down, girls.
“Hmm,” I said as I approached, letting my bag thunk to the ground to relieve my shoulder. “Pretty sure you shouldn’t add mechanic to your resumé.”
Braden turned to acknowledge me, but he didn’t smile or say a word. He just let his gaze wander back to the car, his face turning green as he did.
“Hey, it’s all right. We can call someone to help.
You don’t have to do it all, Superman.” I winked at him before I peeked around the hood to see who was in the car.
“I’m assuming this belongs to one of the families who were here today?
” I asked. “Did they find shelter somewhere just in case you blew it up with all your tinkering?”
“It’s mine.”
I laughed, sure it was a joke.
But when I turned to fire off another smart-ass comment, Braden’s eyes snapped to mine, and I realized he was as serious as a heart attack.
I couldn’t stop my brows from shooting up into my hairline, my thumb popping out and aiming at the smoking monster. “This is your car?”
Braden’s mouth pursed, his jaw tight. “Can you save your jokes at my expense for another time? Kind of have my hands full at the moment.”
The edge in his voice caught me off guard. I stilled, really looking at him this time — the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands flexed like he didn’t know what to do with them, the tightness around his eyes that had nothing to do with the smoke curling up from the engine.
Right. Not a joking moment.
Or… maybe exactly why I wanted it to be one.
I had a knack for discomfort in serious situations, and reaching for a quip was easier than tapping into actual feelings.
“No jokes,” I said, holding up my hands like a bank robber caught at the scene. To be fair, I had been loading up at least three more snarky comments, but the look on his face had me pausing to reconsider. “I just… am surprised. That’s all.”
His lips flattened, brows cresting like my surprise didn’t surprise him. “Well, now that you’ve had your fun, you can go.”
I deflated, matching his energy for a moment. It really did surprise me to see a professional football player, who likely had more money than God, driving an old beat-up car.
Then again, I didn’t know Braden past his stats and his (unfortunately for me) gorgeous face and body.
But I wanted to.
Against all warnings written in my contract, I desperately wanted to know why he drove this car, if he’d planned out what he was wearing right now, and why he’d made the comment to me earlier about not everyone being able to treat life like a party.
Maybe that’s what had me asking, “What are you going to do?”
“Call a car and get a tow to a mechanic.”
“I can drive you.”
“With what car?”
I opened my mouth and then shut it again. Well, shit. He had a point there.
“Fine. Then I’ll come with you.”
I pulled out my phone and opened a rideshare app.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling a car.”
“I’m fine, Emily. You don’t need to ruin your day dealing with this shit.”
Fuck. The way he said my name had me pausing where my thumb hovered over the phone screen.
It was half disciplinary and half devastating, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to yell at me or thank me.
It had me wondering how he’d say my name in a different setting, if he’d punish me for being so mouthy, or if he’d fall at my feet and worship me like a goddess.
“I’m not ruining anything,” I finally managed, the car called as I tucked my phone into the waistband of my joggers. “Besides, I want a front row seat to your face when they tell you this car is D.O.A.”
That made his lips flatten, but I saw it — how he was fighting a smile.
“Admit it. I’m funny and you like me.”
“Like I like turf toe.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it must be amazing if you’re comparing it to my presence. Car will be here in five.”
Braden sighed, and then wordlessly, he ducked into his car long enough to retrieve his bag before he picked mine up, too.
“I can—”
My words died when he looked at me, like he dared me to argue with him. There was no other option. He was obviously carrying my bag.
It was me biting back a smile this time.
Braden Lock.
A gentleman even in crisis.
“Told you it was fucked.”
Braden and the very kind mechanic who had just assessed his car both shot me disapproving glares at my language. I just shrugged, popping a stale piece of auto shop popcorn into my mouth before pointing a finger at Braden’s chest and whispering to the mechanic.
“I told him it was fucked.”
Me doubling down didn’t seem to impress either of them.
Braden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before his attention was on the mechanic again. I snuck a peek at his name tag that read Giovanni. “Are you sure it can’t be fixed?”
“Not for less than what the car is worth as a whole.” Giovanni scratched his neck, looking through the lobby glass to where Braden’s car was hoisted up and still smoking slightly.
“I can fix it, if you really care about the car, but honestly… I’d trade it in for parts and get a different vehicle if I were you. ”
Braden nodded, his face grim. “All right. Can I leave it here for the night until I figure out my next move?”
“Of course. I know a guy who buys parts. I can call him and see if he’s interested, and then you don’t have to pick it up at all.”
Braden still looked sick at the reality of the situation. “That would be great, if it’s no trouble.”
“No problem at all. Especially for you. I’m a twelve,” Giovanni said, shaking Braden’s hand when he offered it. “And you had a hell of a rookie season. Can’t wait to see what you do this year.”
Braden managed a smile, though it was weak. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Seattle Seahawk fans were coined twelves — in other words, the twelfth member of the team. It was our organization’s way of saying that we couldn’t win without them, that they are as important to us as the guys we pay to fill our roster.
I smiled at Giovanni when he made the comment. We had the best fans.
It made me even more proud to be a dancer.
Although, I would be prouder if our organization paid the dancers what we deserved.
We worked our asses off — tireless hours at practice, games, and community events in a grueling sport that put so much strain on our bodies, most of us would require years of physical therapy, if not surgery, when we left this job behind us.
And we made minimum wage.
It was an honor to dance for the team. But I was also of the belief that we shouldn’t have to balance multiple jobs, or depend on our families to bridge the gap between our wages and cost of living — especially during the season.
Then again, no one was asking me what I thought, and I signed my contract happy as a clam — so I guess I didn’t have room to complain.
“Hey, don’t look so glum,” Giovanni said when their handshake was done. “The car is twenty-seven years old. She had a good life.”
I coughed on a popcorn kernel. “Twenty-seven?! Jesus, Braden, that thing is older than you are.”
That made Giovanni chuckle, and he hooked a thumb toward me. “Tells it like it is, doesn’t she?”
“Unfortunately,” Braden grumbled in return.
The word landed heavier than it should have, and I caught the tension still lingering in his shoulders, the way his jaw hadn’t quite unclenched.
Right. Still a sore spot.
Once they’d talked out the details of what came next, Braden and I trekked outside with our bags.
He stopped by his car long enough to clear out the center console, glove box, and trunk with what little he had in there, and then he paused, his hand sliding over the roof of his car before he thumped it like it was a horse who’d gotten him through the Oregon Trail.
“Should we say a few words?” I teased. “Maybe get a wreath?”
“Do you ever tire of being crass?”
“Rarely. And usually long after I’ve crossed a line.”
Braden took one last longing look at his old car before he was pulling out his phone.
“Do you need a ride?” he asked. “I can add a stop.”
“The light rail is right here,” I said, pointing behind him. “I’m good.”
He nodded. “All right, well—”
“You should ride it with me. Where are you heading?”
“Green Lake.”
“I think the Roosevelt stop is the closest?”
“Still about a fifteen-minute walk to my place from there.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize your legs were broken. How dare I assume a pro athlete could walk a mile? Go ahead and call your car. Unless your thumbs are also—”
“You’ve made your point,” he said, exasperated. But he reached forward, sliding his hand under the strap of my bag and tugging it off until it was on his shoulder, instead. “Lead the way.”
“Why, so you can stare at my ass?”
His head fell back, eyes on the sky before he shut them with a long sigh. “Jesus Christ.”
“It’s okay. I saw you checking me out in my uniform today. These joggers aren’t as form fitting as the little bloomers under my cheer skirt, but the view is still pretty great.”
I sauntered away from him, making a show of my hips swinging.
And I swore I heard a delicious throaty laugh as he followed behind me.