Chapter Fifteen
Flynn
My job comes with a natural high.
The stadium’s full of people. The yelling, the chanting.
The high after a win, after a play that shouldn’t have worked but pays off.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins. It makes me bounce on my toes and warms my body.
Every time I work out, train on the field, or play, I feel the high that is professional football.
In the early days of my career, I didn’t think anything else could feel this good.
Until Katie.
Fucking her. Laughing with her. Getting to be in her orbit.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
I crave her. I want to be around her constantly.
I want to touch her whenever she’s in the same room, to kiss her whenever she’ll let me.
In a matter of weeks, my life oriented itself around Katie Murphy.
Even now, I feel her presence before I see her.
I look over to the seats just behind the team’s bench on the fifty-yard line, and there she is.
She’s wearing a white knitted beanie and probably the largest puffer jacket I’ve ever seen.
Her curls fall over her shoulder, and the ends lift with the wind.
She and Ivy stand with the rest of the crowd, taking part in whatever celebration is going on as the offense walks off the field and changes over.
As we get closer, the red on the tip of her nose becomes clear, and I get the urge to run over to the barrier and kiss her.
She’s just so damn adorable.
I won’t. Coach would kill me. Hell, Scott would kill me, but only after reminding me how whipped I am by my girl. I grin, running a hand through my hair as I take off my helmet and shake the strands loose. One of the assistant coaches passes me a team beanie, and I shove it on and over my ears.
Since Thanksgiving, Katie and I have practically been playing house. She calls us friends with benefits, but I’ve decided to ignore that part. She sleeps in my bed. She lets me cook for her, lets me distract her at work, and lets me kiss her whenever I like.
I’m not sure what it is, but it’s definitely not fucking friends with benefits.
She laid out new rules. Don’t get too handsy in front of her family if they’re at the bar, don’t get attached, and don’t fall in love.
I waved them all off and grinned like an idiot.
Just as I had been dragging her out of the charity ball, bailing early so I could take her home and give her a few more orgasms, she’d said the one thing that could make my heart stop.
Don’t forget the end date. You get re-signed, I make a decision about the future, and we end after the season is over. Go our separate ways.
That’s the only rule I’m not sure I can brush off.
I don’t want to let her go now that I’ve got her. I don’t think I can.
We’re in the fourth quarter, and with less than a minute on the clock, my knee starts to bounce.
Not because it’s a relatively close game—we’re smashing them—but because I know as soon as the whistle goes, I get to have her back in my arms. She’s become the adrenaline I chase more so than football, the better natural high.
Kissing her, being with her, is better than anything, and I could probably be happy spending the rest of my days trying to convince her that she should want that with me, too.
So she’s put an end date on this fun—her words, not mine—that we’re having. And yes, she’s stubborn and opinionated and does whatever the hell she wants, so I have no doubt that if, at the end of this season, she wants to walk away, she’ll do it.
But I don’t want that.
I want her to stay.
The whistle goes, the game ends, and I clap my teammates on the back, celebrating a hard-earned win.
Another game that cements our position at the top of the leaderboards and will likely help us clinch an early playoffs spot.
Something I wanted before, but am desperate for now, because if Katie only wants to give me until the end of the season, then I’m going to make this season the longest one I possibly can.
***
I can hear the music the moment I step out of my car.
Wednesdays are annoyingly long, especially the closer we get to the playoffs.
We have morning practice, lunch, meetings, strength training, tape, and more meetings.
Game tape sessions can go on forever, knowing who else is likely to get through.
I practically ran from the stadium, sped home, just so I could make sure I was in time to cook Katie dinner.
Apart from when I’ve had to travel for away games this month, I’ve cooked her a meal every night.
I used to hate cooking; it seemed pointless when it was only me.
It was a waste because I never felt like eating all the leftovers.
But it feels easier now. Last weekend, as we flew home from Atlanta, I spent the entire time on a recipe website, saving all the meals I thought she might like.
I like knowing that I’m the one who gets to feed her, that I’m the only one who gets to see the way her face lights up and her eyes roll back when she really likes something.
So when I pull up to the house and hear the music, my first thought is that she’s invited Ivy over and she’s having a girls’ night. The second is that she’s decided to get drunk.
I never expected to find this. I lean on the hallway frame that opens up into the kitchen and living room. Music blasts through the speakers connected throughout the house—Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’.
There’s flour all over the kitchen countertop.
Eggs, cracked and discarded off to the side.
A few mixing bowls are piled in the sink.
A bag of icing sugar lies on its side, and a box of sprinkles leans on a plate, the contents spread across it.
I take a deep inhale. Cake. Or maybe, cupcakes. Definitely something chocolate.
Katie’s back is to me, her ponytail swaying from side to side as she dances around the kitchen.
Her hips shake, and when she turns, I can see the chocolate-covered spoon in her hand.
She actually sings aloud, matching the music perfectly before taking a break to stick her tongue out and lick the spoon.
I can’t help my laugh, and the sound carries across the music, loud enough that she spins, eyeing me. She smiles, chocolate stuck to the corner of her mouth, and I think a little on her cheek.
She sings about needing a man and a love that burns hot enough to last, the spoon held to her mouth as a microphone.
She smiles at me, curling her finger and beckoning me into the kitchen.
I drop the bag from my shoulder and cross the distance, meeting her just as the chorus hits, which she belts at the top of her voice.
My arms encircle her waist, and I spin her.
She laughs, holding her spoon microphone in the air as I lift her off her feet.
When she’s back on the ground, I take the spoon from her and throw it into the sink, grabbing both her hands.
We dance. The music is so loud, I can barely hear my own thoughts, but her laughter cuts through with ease.
She spins when I hold an arm up, lowering into one of the messiest dips, and her smile is so wide I think it might actually crack my chest open.
Before Katie, my routine was the same. I came home, I unpacked, and I showered. I ordered or made a boring dinner. I watched game tape. I went to bed.
Now, I come home and I’m with her. That’s all I need.
We dance to Whitney until the song ends and changes to something else. Katie wriggles free from me and goes to her phone at the other end of the counter, turning the music down. When she spins back around to face me, the smile is still intact. So is the chocolate.
“What happened to my kitchen, Rockstar?” I laugh as she makes her way back over to me. When she’s close enough, I tug her into my arms.
Katie looks around. “What? I’m baking.”
“I can see that.” I nod, dropping my forehead to hers. “How was your day?”
I feel her stiffen in my arms, but I just pull her in tighter and wait for her to relax again. I know that I likely won’t get anything out of her tonight. The baking, the music, the dancing. She is likely trying to forget whatever happened today while she was at the bar, so I don’t push.
I gently press a kiss to her lips, murmuring against them, “You destroyed my kitchen. Looks like a flour bomb has gone off.”
“The cupcakes will be worth it. Trust me.” She smiles and then leans up on her toes to kiss me properly. I sink into the taste of her. Our mouths move in unison, and her arms curl around my neck, hands tangling in my hair.
When we break apart, I kiss a path over her cheek, then I lick the leftover chocolate that she missed. Katie giggles, and I swear to god, it makes me hard.
Fuck.
My fingers dig into her hips, and I drag her around, pressing her against the island bench. She squeals when I grab her ass and lift her onto it, fitting myself between her legs. She tightens her thighs around me and lifts her ankles, crossing them behind my back and locking me in place.
I smile against her lips, biting down on her bottom lip.
“What flavor are they?” I say, pulling back and sinking my hands into her hair.
“Chocolate and gingerbread,” she replies, smiling widely. “It’s Christmas soon. I want to get in the spirit.”
“They smell delicious. How long have they been in the oven?”
“Almost done, maybe another minute?”
I reach around and gently uncross her ankles. Stepping away from her quickly, I bend to turn off the oven, leaving the cupcakes inside. When I step back between her legs, I don’t give her time to think. My hands cup her cheeks, and my mouth devours hers.