Chapter Seven
Seven
Michelle
Saturday morning flies by, thanks to being well-rested for once. Well, that and the fact that if I stop to look at the clock, I’m going to get even further behind on everything.
I’m so immersed in double-checking the numbers our advertising team has put together on the upcoming season that I don’t even realize it’s ten after noon until someone clearing their throat startles me enough I nearly fall out of my chair.
Tristan’s standing in my office doorway, watching me work.
He’s wearing jeans for once, the fabric stretching deliciously over his sculpted thighs, paired with a black crewneck tee that somehow manages to look casual and chic all at once.
I have a sneaking suspicion it’s due to the fact that working out is his literal job, but I’m certainly not going to complain about it.
My heart’s practically beating out of my chest, and I lay a hand over it, like that’s going to help it calm down. He grins as I try to regain my composure.
“How long have you been standing there?” I finally say hoarsely, my voice raspy after not saying a word all morning.
“Long enough to know you were in the zone,” he admits. “You weren’t exaggerating about having a ton of work, huh?”
“It’s been ridiculous since Mark took over.”
“Bad ridiculous or good ridiculous?” he asks, a brow arching speculatively.
The chair creaks as I rock back in it, considering his question.
“Good, mostly. He isn’t an asshole, for one, at least not in any way we’ve seen yet, but he has different ideas about what we should be doing. Which is…” I shrug, searching for the words. “Fine, and not unexpected. It’s just taking a lot of work to get everything done to his standards.”
I close my eyes, my pulse increasing as I consider all the different tasks he’s assigned me for follow-up.
“His standards? I have a hard time believing they’re higher than your own, Oxford.”
“Ouch,” I say, opening my eyes.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he adds quickly. “I can’t imagine you’re not already doing everything by the book.” He sinks a world of meaning into the phrase, considering me with those hazel eyes.
“Of course I do things by the book,” I croak, trying to ignore the tension ratcheting up between us.
It’s probably all in my head anyway, so I give it a little shake and make myself smile up at him.
“Mark’s just making sure all the t’s are crossed and the i’s are dotted, and I’m the one in charge of ensuring everything is perfect. ”
My smile falters, pressure weighing down the corners of my lips.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You sure about heading out today? If you need to work, I understand, Oxford.”
Nodding, I stretch my arms overhead, stiff after sitting at my desk for the last five freakin’ hours, an uncontrollable yawn cracking my jaw and closing my eyes.
“I’m not a quitter,” I tell him as I finish the yawn.
He’s staring pointedly at the floor, and embarrassment ripples through me.
I basically just shoved my boobs at the guy. I glance down. In a white silk blouse, nonetheless. One that shouldn’t be paired with my favorite ballerina-pink bra, a choice I didn’t quite think through in the near-dark early this morning.
That’s what I get for not wanting to turn on my bathroom lights.
“I never said you were a quitter,” Tristan says quietly. “But I don’t want to force you to fulfill a bet you made when you were tipsy.” His eyes find mine again, and despite his serious tone, there’s a hint of humor there. “After chugging one of the strongest IPAs at that place, I might add.”
“It was certainly a choice,” I agree, my nose wrinkling at the memory. “I only had the one, though.”
He exhales, tipping his chin back to study the ceiling, like it’s fascinating.
I glance down at my boobs, making sure they’re still fully tucked away and not offending him by poking out or something. Nope. They’re fine. Covered up.
Well, at least there’s that.
“You aren’t forcing me to go out with you, if that’s what you’re trying to get at,” I add quietly, tilting my head and studying his strained expression. “I’m not vain enough to think I don’t need help when it comes to, well, what you offered.”
He chuckles, finally looking back at me. “To relax?”
“Yep. I was going to say chill out, but considering everyone I know seems to think I’m a frigid bitch, maybe warm up would be the better option.” I laugh, trying to make him smile again, but he frowns.
“Who said that?”
I blink, then lift a shoulder. “Everyone. Ice queen, HBIC with an RBF, devil in the front office—”
“Devil in the front office,” he repeats, and this time, he is laughing. “I have a hard time believing anyone has called you that.”
“That’s because you weren’t in the meeting with one of our hot dog vendors who didn’t want to abide by the team’s new nutritional guidelines.”
“Ah, yes, the evils of nutrition.” He clucks his tongue in sympathy. “I can see the horns, now that I’m looking for them.”
I laugh again, somewhat more at ease, while I save my work and close down my computer.
“It’s just—I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re as stressed as you seem. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a bitch. Or an ice queen.”
It shouldn’t mean something to me, to hear someone say that. To hear Tristan say that, especially, because he gets along with everyone.
But it does.
“Thank you,” I tell him softly, standing up and grabbing the huge purse that doubles as an overnight bag in case I have to crash in the office.
More like crash out in the office, ha.
“Don’t thank me yet. Jury’s still out on the devil-in-the-front-office accusation.” He makes the sign of the cross with his fingers, grinning like mad.
Doing my best and also my only devil impression, I hiss at him, pretending to flail backward as I laugh some more.
My heel snags on the ratty carpet, though, and I squeak as I lose my balance. I try to catch myself, but with the weighty bag on my shoulder, it’s a losing battle.
Strong hands wrap around me, and I suck in a sharp breath as I find myself in Tristan Gold’s arms. He’s warm—so warm compared to the climate-controlled air of my office—and the nearness of him sends a lightning bolt of awareness straight down my spine, tingling all the way to my toes.
A heartbeat passes.
Two. More.
And still he holds me, staring down at me like he can’t quite believe I’m there.
That makes two of us.
I exhale a ragged breath, blinking rapidly.
“Uh, thank you,” I mumble, pushing a hand against his chest to steady myself.
Wow. What a chest.
My cheeks flush red, and I know without a doubt that I’m blushing like a straight-up fool. Here I was worried about my pink bra, and now I’m practically feeling up poor Tristan Gold.
“Anytime,” he replies, his voice a lower rasp than normal before he clears his throat. “I mean, I’ll catch you again. If I have to, uh, if there’s a way to keep you from falling.”
He rakes a hand through his wavy golden hair, looking as off-balance as I feel.
I cough delicately, careful to avoid the snagged carpet, and readjust my bag.
“I’ll try not to fall again,” I say awkwardly, tension ratcheting through my body. “My knee’s a mess,” I continue, gesturing at the offending joint. “It’s usually not a problem, but sometimes it just doesn’t want to work.”
“Your college injury,” he says, frowning at my knee.
I understand the urge. If cussing out my knee made a difference, I wouldn’t need physical therapy every so often.
“Yeah.” It comes out on an exhale that sounds sad, even to me.
His gaze drifts back up, locking with mine. “You miss it?” he asks.
“Soccer?”
A nod.
I consider his question, ducking around his big body to get out the door of my office. It’s quiet today, as it usually is on the weekends without home games.
“It’s hard to miss something that still makes up my whole life,” I finally tell him. It’s not a real answer, not really.
He catches up to me easily, because of course he does—with his long legs and me in heels, there’s not much competition there.
“Is it the same?” His head tilts toward me as we walk out the back way, under the fluorescent lights, to the bigger parking garage employees use.
“Is working here and doing reports and making tables in Excel and fixing slide decks until my eyes bleed the same as playing soccer?” I have to laugh, because it’s about as absurd a question as anyone could ask.
He doesn’t laugh, though. His lips purse, and he keeps pace with me. “But you don’t miss it.”
“I can’t play anymore,” I tell him as we reach the heavy double doors that lead outside. “I tore my ACL not just once, but so many times that it’s completely beyond repair. Doing any kind of high-impact workout messes with it now.”
He shakes his head, his eyes soft, as he shoves open a door and holds it for me.
“I got to play in college,” I tell him, feeling slightly defensive. “Most people don’t even get to do that.”
Hearing what no athlete wants to hear—that I was done, and playing on the injury would only lead to a lifetime of problems—was bad. In some ways, worse than the pain.
But the pity nearly killed me.
Watching everyone act like my entire life was ending is what’s stuck with me more than anything.
“It’s okay to miss it, Oxford,” Tristan says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I know it is,” I retort, annoyed. “But I’m lucky, you know? I’m lucky this is what I get to do.”
“Of course,” he says quickly.
Too quickly.
I glare at him. “It’s easy for you to judge.” The words slip from me before I have time to pull them in, to think them over, to think better of spitting them out.
“I’m not judging you.” His expression’s quizzical, a wounded set to his mouth that I don’t like at all, his bottom lip just barely jutting out in a pout that makes me feel like the frigid bitch everyone loves to accuse me of being. “I wanted to know how you feel. That’s all, Oxford.”
I blow out a breath, standing still for a moment, letting the LA sunshine soak into my skin. It’s still winter, but it’s warm enough I don’t need a jacket, and at least there’s that.
“Why did you think I was judging you?”
“Because…you get to be on the field. You get to do what you love, and you’re good at it. You’ve done the damn thing, and you look damn good doing it.” The words come out more emphatically than I expected, and we stare at each other in slight surprise for a second.
“You think I’m good at it,” Tristan finally says in a teasing voice. “You think I look damn good in the goal.”
I roll my eyes, unable to keep in my laugh. “You think you look damn good in the goal, too.”
He flexes an arm, then points to the parking garage. “Is that the way to your car?” His eyebrows wiggle up and down, and I bite my cheeks to keep from encouraging his antics.
“Or is that the way to the gun show?” he continues, raising his other arm and flexing it, too.
I faux sigh, pinching my nose.
“Come on, Oxford, lighten up.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to be teaching me, right?” I ask archly.
“And look damn good doing it, too.” He kisses one bulging bicep, then the other.
I inhale loudly through my nose to keep from laughing.
“I see you trying not to laugh.”
I raise an eyebrow, but one side of my mouth ticks up slowly in spite of my best efforts.
He reaches out, swiping a thumb across the corner of my lips, then jerks back, as if surprised he’s touched me.
My smile disappears, and I just stare up at him, confused.
“Right. Well, you’re following me in your car, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to drop you off back here so you can work yourself to death this afternoon.”
“I wasn’t going to work more today—”
“Liar.”
“I was only thinking about it. That doesn’t mean I was going to—”
“Liar.”
He pulls his keys from his back pocket, and the car next to mine beeps, a vintage-looking Bronco.
“That’s a great car,” I say, distracted.
“You like cars?”
“As much as anyone likes cars. But that one is cool.”
“Thanks. I restored it.” He combs a wayward wave out of his face with his fingers, looking slightly self-conscious.
“Wow,” I say, gazing between him and the car. “You know how to do that?”
“It’s easier when you have a nice paycheck for being damn good at your job of standing in a goal,” he drawls. “Makes the whole thing a lot more doable.”
I roll my eyes, then fish my own keys from my purse. “All right. You lead the way. I assume you want this to be a surprise?”
“That’s right, young grasshopper. You’re going to wax my car.”
I pause, wrinkling my nose. “You’re joking.”
“Yes. I am joking. Come on, follow me out. It’s not far, and traffic is relatively light today.”
I frown. “Maybe we should carpool.”
“Nope. I’m not risking you undoing all of my hard work by coming straight back here.”
“It’s not like you can stop me from driving back here if I wanted to,” I scoff.
He affects a wounded expression, slapping his huge hand over his heart. “I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing. I can’t believe you think so little of my process—”
“Your process?” I practically choke on the word, I’m laughing so hard again. “Is this an accredited chill-out program? Are we risking the gurus of chill if I come back to work?”
“I am scandalized,” he stage whispers, an errant ray of sunlight a caress against his handsome face, glinting off the blonder streaks in his hair. “Don’t even say it too loud, or the gurus may hear you.”
“We can’t have that.”
“We absolutely cannot have that,” he agrees. “Trust the process.”
“Fine.”
He narrows his eyes. “Repeat after me: I trust Tristan Gold with all of my chillest vibes.”
“I’m not repeating that.”
He gasps, miming being stabbed in the heart. “If you don’t take this seriously, how am I supposed to help you?”
“You want me to be more serious about being less serious?” I deadpan.
He screws up his mouth to the side. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“I trust you, Tristan. I swear it on the doughnut debrief. Now get in your car and let’s go.”
A real smile spreads across his face, brighter than the February sun. “You remembered the sacred name of the doughnut debrief.” He nods approvingly.
Grinning back at him, I shake my head, unlock my car, and get in without another word.
At least hanging out with Tristan will be fun. And if it wins me some goodwill with the rest of the staff and team?
All the better.