Chapter Ten
The next morning, I finish up some social media posts and begin to schedule them into the online planner.
Because the season has just finished, I have to get creative with content.
Today’s post is a look back at the Real Miami season in statistics: records set, the accomplishments of academy players shining on the first team, every game sold out.
I created this one in a slide format, so you can flip from one photo to the next.
My goal this time of year is one post a day—and you think that would be easy, but it’s not.
So it’s some look backs, some funny engagement posts, things like that until actual things start happening. There will be some signings coming up, so then there’s press conferences and welcome posts. And goodbye and thank-you posts to players who are departing the club.
Then I have the challenge of finding the right content for each platform. What works on Connectivity Story Share and TikTok is different from what works for Instagram. During the season, this is easy.
But in November? It’s a bit of a challenge.
I select a post for next week. This one is of Keegan Donnley, a rising star for Real Miami. He grew up in the Real Miami academy, and he’s a talented striker. He’s not jaded by the media—yet—and will do anything you ask of him, and he seems to have fun with it.
Add in the fact that he’s incredibly good looking, with tattoos on his neck and full sleeves, wild, wavy dark brown hair, facial scruff, and killer green eyes?
It’s a huge social media win.
Which is why I’m excited he agreed to work our annual Feed the Family event next week.
Real Miami hosts a Thanksgiving meal for Miami-area families in need.
I can’t wait to be a part of that this year.
People from all our departments participate, from front office staff to players and coaches.
And my job is to create content from the event for social media.
Our goal is to use it to spur more community involvement for the cause, and I think getting Keegan onboard is going to give it a tremendous boost.
As Thanksgiving enters my mind, so does Aiden.
What will he do next Thursday? It’s not like he can go home and celebrate it, no different than my brothers can’t come home for our celebration, either.
At least he has Wyatt with him. I know players who have gone out together on Thanksgiving, so hopefully they will spend it together.
I wonder if they’ll invite Beckham Bailey to join them.
He’s so new in town, and it seems like Aiden is the closest one to him.
Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.
It’s like he’s always circulating in the back of my brain. I’ll work for a bit, but then I remember he’s coming over tonight and I can’t think of anything OTHER than Aiden. I remember the way he kissed me. Touched me. How I am desperate for more of that tonight …
I feel my face grow hot. I once again try to shove Aiden into the drawer at the back of my mind, telling myself I can only open it when I get stuff done today. Okay. After I finish all this scheduling, I can think of Aiden. That’s a reasonable goal.
Buzz!
My phone lights up on my desktop. I glace at the time, then I see who the text is from:
Brooks.
This is the first time I’ve heard from him today. I eagerly tap open his message:
Leaving practice with my lunch now. Are we still good for tonight?
Brooks is typing …
I hope the answer is yes, Claire. I’ve been thinking about you all day.
I can’t contain the smile on my face as my fingers fly across the keyboard to message him back:
I would be cruel if I denied you the opportunity to meet Mochi and Matcha.
I hit send, and I can see he’s already responding:
That would be mean. I’m dying to play with the chinchillas.
Aiden gets sooooooooooooo many bonus points for being interested in my chinchillas. They are my fur babies—and any man I’m going to date has to love them. Period. Non-negotiable.
Brooks is typing …
I’m also dying to play with you.
OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.
Another message drops in:
I can’t stop thinking about last night. All I want is more of that.
My stomach flips upside down reading his words. God, what a delicious feeling that is!
Brooks is typing …
All I want is more of you.
Heat flashes through me—both from his words and images of last night. His mouth on mine, his hands exploring my body—
Okay, no, you’re at work, Scarlett, I tell myself. Take this down a notch.
Or five hundred.
I text him back:
Come over around seven for dinner. You can play with Mochi and Matcha beforehand.
Then I send a follow-up text:
And play with me after.
It doesn’t take him long to reply to that:
Tonight can’t come fast enough.
I put my phone aside.
No, it can’t, I think excitedly.
* * *
My apartment smells so good.
Because my space is small, the scent of enchiladas baking in the oven permeates the air. I’m down the hall, in my bathroom getting ready, and I still smell them.
I run a flat iron through my hair with a frown. Crap, do I smell like enchiladas?
I put my flat iron down and stare at my reflection in the glass.
I’m wearing a red spaghetti-strapped tank top that hits above my hips, paired with a matching long red skirt that has a slit up the side.
A sliver of my skin is exposed between my tank and my skirt, and the look is completely sexy, yet casual. Perfect for a date night.
If it doesn’t smell like enchiladas.
I dip my head towards my shoulder, trying to see if the fabric of the strap smells like what I’ve been cooking, but I can’t tell. I stop. Am I actually trying to smell myself?
Yes. Yes I am.
I grab my bottle of Carolina Herrera’s Good Girl perfume and spray it on my neck. Instantly I smell the sensual blend of tuberose and jasmine mixed with cocoa and tonka bean. Then I lift up my hair and spray it on the back of my neck.
There. Fingers crossed my perfume should dominate over the scent of spicy chicken enchiladas.
I finish putting on my makeup, and when I check my phone, I see it’s nearly time for Aiden to be here.
I head back into the living room, which definitely smells like a Mexican restaurant.
I should put chips and salsa on the coffee table and ask Aiden if he prefers a booth or table when he walks in, it’s that bad.
I wrinkle my nose.
The upside of my apartment? The ability to see the ocean out of my living room window and be down the street from amazing restaurants, cafes, and shops—not to mention the beach.
The downside? It’s small.
And it takes on the smell of whatever you cook in the kitchen, even if you run the vent fan.
Buzz!
My phone vibrates on the kitchen countertop, and I pick it up. Excitement rushes through me when I see Brooks flash up on my phone. I tap open his message:
Just parked. On my way up.
I text him back that I will see him in a few.
He has the security code for access now so he can come straight up to my apartment.
Which is good, because I’d be worried someone at the concierge desk or in the lobby would eventually recognize him.
The quicker he can get into the elevator, the better.
Aiden told me he would wear a ballcap pulled down low, too.
Not that it would help much, with him being six four and incredibly good looking.
My warm, happy feeling is dulled by this thought.
Am I always going to have to worry when he comes over here?
Should we limit our dates to his apartment, where I can slip in and out much easier than he can?
Do I have to worry about him showing up on social media by doing this?
What could he say? That he happens to have a different friend in the building?
Or do we dare say we’re friends and hanging out?
No. I can’t do that. Dad would be all over that in a second, followed by my brothers, who would tell me to stay away from Aiden.
I feel more than dulled. I feel sick.
I fold my arms across my chest, my brain trying to sort this out. We are really going to have to plan for all scenarios. Or ways to be more careful.
Never would I have thought a man would be worth this kind of stress.
Or deceit.
Shame fills me when I think about what I’m doing. This is so against how I’m coded. I can’t believe I’m putting secret names into my phone for someone I want to date. That I’m dating a man my parents would completely disapprove of, and it’s a relationship that would infuriate my entire family.
And I’m definitely going to hurt Aiden’s career.
Yet I don’t question it.
Not after the way he kissed me last night.
There’s a knock at the door, and I eagerly go check through the peephole.
It. Is. Aiden.
And damn it, he looks freaking hot through a peephole.
I unlock the door and pull it open. Aiden has on the baseball cap, pulled down low. A black T-shirt stretches across his large, muscular frame. I allow my gaze to go lower, down past his waist to the massive, jean-clad thighs that are built from skating.
I lift my eyes to meet his.
And I see nothing but heat in them.
“Hi,” I manage to say. “Come on in.”
Aiden doesn’t say anything at first. Nor does he move. All he can do is stare at me with a look that tells me he wants to greet me in a completely different way this evening.
With his lips.
“Scarlett,” he says, his voice low. “You look freaking hot.”
Excitement races through me as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him. Aiden takes off his hat, and when he sees no place to immediately put it, he smirks and tosses it onto the floor.
“I’ll pick that up later. Because what I need to do can’t wait,” he says hungrily.
Ooh!
“What is that?” I ask.
“This,” Aiden says.
He puts his hands on my waist, his thumbs brushing cross the exposed sliver of skin on my midriff. I instinctively put my hands on his shoulders, feeling the sculpted muscle underneath my palms.