Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
Michelle
The moment I park my car in the team’s parking garage the following Friday, I’m surrounded by the guys. Tristan’s at the helm, beaming as he holds up a sign that reads VIP Doughnut Parking in huge black letters.
A laugh bursts out of me.
The team looks hyped, which is unsurprising, considering they have an away game tomorrow.
According to the clock on my dash, they’ll be flying out to Virginia in about six hours.
They’ll spend the night at a hotel, our security flying with them, get to the field tomorrow morning, play an afternoon game, then hop back on a plane later tomorrow night.
And if all goes well, I’ll be able to touch down in time to make kickoff.
It’s something I haven’t told Tristan yet. I smile to myself, excited to see the look on his face when he finds me in the receiving area.
The car sputters indignantly as I turn it off, a sign it’s time to get the old girl back to the mechanic.
Tristan opens the door for me with an outrageous bow. “Milady,” he intones. “We hear tales of doughnuts.”
“You are such a dork,” I tell him, grinning ear to ear.
I want to kiss him, and judging by the way he’s looking at me, he wants to, too.
We’ve been avoiding each other at work, and I’ve been so slammed with projects from Mark, in what I suspect is a power play, that meeting up at night has been nearly impossible this week.
“Are we interrupting?” Djimon waggles his eyebrows at me, and I roll my eyes.
“Yes,” I tell him, and Tristan’s dimples deepen. “I was having a moment with my coffee.” I sip at the cup, trying not to notice how Tristan’s face goes blank.
We’ve texted every day, all day, it seems like, but we still haven’t broached the topic of how to act around the team.
As far as I can tell, there aren’t any strict policies about no fraternization between front office and the team, but I still feel…weird about it. Like it’s crossing an ethics line that our general counsel’s office would be only too happy to fire me over.
And I can’t get fired, not yet, with everything still so up in the air.
I’m frozen, staring at Tristan over my dented traveler’s cup, but the guys don’t seem to notice, scrambling to empty the doughnuts from my car.
“Thanks for the assist,” I tell them.
“Captain made us,” Logan calls out, earning an elbow in the ribs from Djimon. He coughs, rubbing his side, before he grabs two boxes. “We wanted to, though. Of course we did.”
“Yeah, we love you, Michelle, amore mio, signora capo,” Vincenzo chimes in, as effusive and over-the-top as ever.
Marino whacks him in the shoulders, hard enough that he doubles over.
That, or Vincenzo is just being as dramatic off the field as he is on it. “There’s no one here to call a foul on Marino,” I remind Vincenzo, fluttering my eyelashes.
True to theatrical form, Vincenzo falls to the parking garage floor, rolling around in mock anguish.
“Gross,” I tell him, stifling a laugh.
“Amore, you wound me. This is because of your words,” he says, clutching his chest. “Pain like I have never known.”
The laugh I’ve been holding in finally trickles out, and Vincenzo gets to his feet like an old man, puffed up like a peacock.
“Knock it off, Rossi,” Tristan barks. “Get the doughnuts and go. Coach is gonna be pissed if we don’t get this show on the road.”
The guys double-time it back to the building, the doughnut boxes all having disappeared from my car.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
The door to the building closes noisily, effectively cutting off the sound of the guys ragging on each other, and Tristan and I are alone for the first time since he dropped me off at my apartment late Sunday night.
Butterflies explode in my stomach.
He catches me up in his arms, and I sigh in contentment as he just holds me against him for a long, delicious moment.
The second we hear a car engine start, though, we break away, staring at each other guiltily.
“I hate this,” he says.
Guilt swims through me. “I know.”
“I don’t see why we can’t just…own it.” His voice is carefully neutral, and I know he’s trying not to hurt my feelings.
Which makes it so much worse.
I wince, and he sighs, clearly regretting his words. “Sorry, I shouldn’t push.”
“No, no, you should push, Tristan. Just like I have been working on chilling out, right?” I gesture to myself, like all the proof he needs is somewhere on my body.
A white sedan pulls into the garage, and I jerk my chin at Tristan, gesturing for him to walk with me into the building.
I’d like to think that my normal morning walking-into-work nausea wouldn’t be so bad with Tristan next to me, but I’d be wrong. I rub my stomach, wishing I had eaten something to dilute the effect of nearly an entire pot of coffee on my poor intestinal lining.
“Do you want to tell them?” he asks simply.
“That I shouldn’t drink massive amounts of coffee without food?” I ask, grimacing.
“I meant about us, but are you okay?” He squeezes my hip briefly.
“Oh.” I blink, feeling like an asshat. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just need something to eat.”
“You should’ve taken one of the doughnuts.”
“They’re for you guys,” I say, not sure why I’m arguing. God, I have so much to do today. My entire nervous system feels so keyed up every time I walk into this damned building. I blow out a long breath as he pushes the door open for me, holding it. “You’re right. I should have.”
Okay, today I need to do the doughnut debrief with the team, then I need to meet with Maddie and make sure we have the charity dinner completely hammered out, and then I need to meet with Mark around lunch, facilities needs direction on about ten different things, then I have a few sponsors who want follow-up calls…
“And the other thing?” Tristan derails my mental to-do list. His thick finger presses the elevator down button, and I blink up at him.
“Huh?”
“Are you okay?” His forehead wrinkles with concern.
“I want to hold your hand,” I tell him.
“That’s what’s wrong?” A goofy grin sends his dimples shining through, and he steps slightly behind me, blocking the camera’s view as he takes my hand. “It’s not because I want everyone to know you’re my girlfriend? You’re not having second thoughts about me? You just want to hold my hand?”
“Oh my gosh, Tristan.” I press the palm of my hand into my face, feeling like a total witch. “No, you’re wonderful. I’m proud to be your girlfriend. I hate that I feel like we have to be careful at work. I’m so sorry. I have, like, a million things to do today, and I’m just not fully awake yet.”
“Because you should have eaten,” he says. “You need someone to take care of you.”
I’m saved from responding as the elevator dings, and when the door begins to slide open, Tristan drops my hand.
I hate it. I hate that he feels like he can’t touch me, and it’s all my fault.
Shit.
Coach Garrett’s on the elevator, and he barely looks up from the iPad in his hand to register us getting on with him.
I avert my eyes, jabbing the door close button and wishing I knew nothing about him and Lauren hooking up. Not that Coach is ugly or rude or anything, because he’s not—he’s objectively good looking, in a salt-and-pepper way—but he’s the coach.
Weird. I suppress a shiver.
The doors open not long after, and Coach waits a second before walking past us, to the floor where the locker rooms and field entrance are.
The doors start to close on the fluorescent-lit hallway, and Tristan’s hand goes to the small of my back.
“Come on, Sweet Cheeks,” he whispers. “You need to eat. You sure you’re okay?”
“You asked if we should tell—” I start.
“There you are,” Maddie shouts, racing down the hall with her light blond hair fanning around her. She stops short, then gives me an appraising look that makes me twitch. “Oh, uh, I’ll see you up there.”
Tristan hits the door close button, and the elevator doors slide shut.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, completely perplexed.
My eyes widen as he pulls the stop button, which turns off the regular lights and leaves one emergency bulb on.
“I want to talk about this with you,” he says, the pulse in his neck jumping. “We should have talked about it this weekend.” His hand goes to my hip, and I back up, my body responding to his touch immediately.
His other hand goes above my head, and I’m fully in a cage of Tristan’s making.
His head dips, and I reach up, cupping the back of his neck, his warm breath ghosting over my lips.
“Do you need assistance?” A voice crackles over a speaker, and I practically jump out of my skin.
“Nope, nope,” I yell. “I just had a bug in my hair and panicked.”
Tristan grins lazily down at me, mouthing “A bug?” at me.
“Okay, please press the stop button back in then.”
I immediately do so, and Tristan snorts.
“You know, I suspected you were a Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes, but I didn’t know the extent of it,” he says in a low voice.
I pat my head, feeling even more out of sorts than ever.
“I suppose we’ll just keep it between us for now?” he asks, and I don’t dare glance back at him as the doors open again.
Instead, I give an efficient nod.
I missed him this week. I’m afraid that if I take the time to look back at him, I’ll say to hell with it, pull the emergency stop again, and jump his bones right there in the damned elevator.