Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
Ambrosia
I’m not even done going through all the comments when my messaging app for fans to reach out about my podcast alerts me a new message has come through.
It’s DoesMyBreathStink60.
My newest and most vocal fan.
I ignore the swoop and the dip my gut does as I focus on the letters that form words.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Are you really Ambrosia Mercer or a bot?
Me: beeboop, bee, bop, boop, boop.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Ah. I knew it, a bot. Can you get your master?
Me: This is she.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Thank the force. Question, do you have a number one fan?
Me: Um, maybe not one fan, but a group of number ones. My tía would shank anyone who came close to her spot.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Okay, can they be your day ones and I be your number one fan?
I’m smiling, a big, toothy grin before I even finish their sentence.
Being inside The Penalty Perk calms me, which is why I come here to work when I need to read.
I don’t know if it’s the bustle of machines or the constant chatter, but it makes me focus on the way the letters make words.
It’s weird how my brain functions, but here we are.
I do what works.
Me: I mean, there are requirements for my number one fan.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Hit me with them. I’m pretty sure I can check off each one.
Me: Well, you have to listen to all the episodes I’ve done.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Okay, I’ve got about nine more to get through. What else?
Me: I feel you’d need a shirt.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Duh, and a hat.
Me: Oh, absolutely a hat.
Me: Probably a bumper sticker or some kind of sticker on something important.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Would on my phone and laptop suffice?
Me: I feel so.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Cool. Where do I get said shirt, hat, and stickers?
Me: I have a store, but I haven’t published it yet.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Beep, beep, beep, bop, bop, bop.
Me: ??
DoesMyBreathStink60: Sorry, I was telling your bot to do her job.
I snort out a laugh.
Me: I’ll get it done
DoesMyBreathStink60: Bet. Send me the link when you get it.
Me: Okay.
DoesMyBreathStink60: So, do you truly believe that even with Odder in goal, the Assassins will not be the number one team?
Me: So, hear me out. Odder can only do so much.
Without a good defense in front of him, he’s a lone man trying to protect a huge-ass goal.
What Adler needs to do is trade off these third- and fourth-line defensemen for some huge talent.
Or trade off some of her snipers. They need defense.
Or it’ll leave Odder to overcompensate and ultimately get hurt.
I smile to myself when I hit send. That was a lot of typing I just did like a damn pro! My dad would be proud. I didn’t even use voice-to-text.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Hmm, I think you may be right.
Me: I am. It’s okay to admit it.
DoesMyBreathStink60: I won’t, but too bad you couldn’t tell the Adlers that when they were there.
Me: I know, the trade happened two weeks after, but I did get a contact from FanDuel Sports Network South to try out for broadcasting for the Knoxville Bears, so I take my wins where I can.
DoesMyBreathStink60: So you’d move there?
Me: Probably, if I decide to go that direction. I don’t know yet. I have a lot of applications out right now.
DoesMyBreathStink60: That’s badass. You have a lot of sponsors, though, and a huge following. Why don’t you stay with the podcast?
Me: I plan to, but the goal is NHL.
DoesMyBreathStink60: That’s a huge goal.
Me: I’ll get there.
DoesMyBreathStink60: I don’t doubt you.
Why do his words make me feel like a fluffy white cloud?
I know in my soul this man is a bad idea.
Especially with how he spoke about fighting for the protection of athletes, I know he will ruin me.
It doesn’t matter that he seems like such a sweet dude; it’s all an act.
It has to be. He’ll wine and dine me, and then he’ll fuck me so good, I’ll end up using the dildos that I was given to make up for how royally desperate he’d leave me.
I know this. I do.
I’m not dumb.
Or maybe I am because I know exactly who DoesMyBreathStink60 is.
But for some reason, I don’t call him out.
I do smile like a fool at his words.
Which is so bad.
“So…”
I glance up into the sweet face of Ella Mae.
I swear she came out of the womb cool AF.
She has trendy dark hair that brushes her shoulders, with a piercing that is connected to a chain going across her pert nose.
Her lip is pierced too, and she looks just like her mom.
But her eyes are all her dad’s. She is stunning, and I’m lucky to call her a business confidante.
“Dawson Sinclair has been here a lot looking for you.”
I snort as I wave her off. “I’m just a shiny new toy that he wants and I won’t let him play with.”
She grins. “I love that for you. He’s a hottie.”
“He is,” I agree, shaking my head. I mean…he is, and it’s really unfair. “But it’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”
I give her a side-eye. “How’s your love life?”
She grimaces before flipping me the bird. “Have you met my dad? I have no love life. They take one look at my dad and run—or hear his name and still run.”
I grin even though I know sadness fills my features. I miss my dad so much. Ella must notice because her shoulders fall, and she puts her hand on my wrist. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be complain—”
“Ella.” I stop her. “It’s not your fault my dad passed, and I love how loving and protective your dad is. My dad was the same.”
The best.
I wonder what he’d think of Dawson.
Just thinking that, though, I know the truth. Dad would have loved him. It’s almost as if I can hear him in my head. “His past might be messy, but if he treats your heart like it’s gold, that’s what you pay attention to.”
He had said that to Tía one time, but Tía didn’t care. She dumped the guy anyway, but remembering his words warms my soul.
Doesn’t change my mind about the whole thing but warms me just the same.
“He’s here,” Ella says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I look up, that swooping feeling hitting me when he appears in front of me out of thin air.
My eyes widen when he leans back in the booth, his eyes trained on me as he takes a long pull of his coffee.
He’s wearing a hoodie, and I almost look underneath the table to see if he has shorts on.
I didn’t get a good look at his thirsty thigh tat the other day, and I wanted to check it out.
Just to make sure it was still there and not a figment of my imagination.
That’s the only reason.
Duh.
Our eyes lock, and I feel that staticky feeling again.
It’s the weirdest feeling ever and has my heart racing.
I don’t know why it happens. Neither of us says a word.
I don’t call him out for messaging me not seconds ago, and he doesn’t speak.
We only stare at each other. I think Ella says something, but I’m lost in Dawson’s eyes.
Needing to center myself, I move my hand down to pinch my thigh.
The pain reminds me this is real. I swallow as I feel his gaze moving along my face, taking in my every feature.
I have never felt a man do that, but I know he is.
I know he is memorizing me because he has the same look on his face he has before he makes a play on or off the ice.
I will not admit this to anyone, but I watched his game this past weekend.
When the camera zoomed in on his face, I could see his eyes moving and calculating through his facemask.
His hair was sweaty along his forehead, but it was the way he stood with such confidence that had me squirming on my couch.
After he threw a touchdown, he ran like he was skating on ice, fast and efficient, to his receiver before he wrapped him up in a hug.
They did some weird-ass handshake before doing a little dance that I’m sure they choreographed before they went off to the sidelines, the love between quarterback and receiver glowing on them.
I enjoyed watching him play.
A lot.
And I hate myself for it.
But as I did when I was watching him on TV, I find him captivating with those greenish-brown eyes, the tilt of his lips, and the big dick energy that just vibrates around him.
Can I call it big dick energy when I know he’s packing?
I don’t know, but Dawson Sinclair has it in spades.
Unable to handle the way he is drinking me in like he is his coffee, I say, “Hotshot.”
“Hey there, heart-stopper.”
Fucking hell, that nickname.
Why does it make me shudder?
“I thought I said stay away from me?”
He shrugs, like that was ludicrous of me to ask. “You see, there is a problem with that request.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, I can’t do it,” he says, leaning back and holding my gaze. “Like, I physically can’t.”
I gawk at him. “I’ll tell people what you said if you don’t.”
Do I sound childish? I sure do, but he doesn’t even care. His lips curve up higher.
“No, you won’t.”
“How do you know?” I challenge.
“Because you’re not an asshole, just a bit stabby.”
I blink and cross my arms over my chest, leaning back in the booth. “Fine. What can I do for you?”
Heat burns in his gaze, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore the dirty ideas that are swirling in his eyes. He swallows hard, and I watch the movement of his Adam’s apple, wishing like hell my nose were there to feel it move.
Yeah, he needs to go.
“I need to know something.”
I blink. “And why, pray tell, do you think I’d tell you?”
“Because it’s about us.”
“Oh, there is no us.” I smirk.
“Yet.”
“Jesus Christ above,” I mutter, shaking my head. “What is it, Dawson?”
“Why do you hate me?”
His question catches me off guard. I tilt my head in surprise before I admit, “I don’t hate you. I just want nothing to do with you.”
“Why?” he asks, his gaze full of yearning.
I swallow, unsure how to answer that. He leans in like he did the other day, and the veins of his arms call to me like a moth to a flame. His shoulders are so wide and full of muscle. He was smaller when I first met him, but now, he’s filled out.
He is not only built to take a hit.
Or throw a ball.
He’s also built to please. I swear it.
Just not me.
Can’t be me.
I take a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh as I try to come up with something to say, just as he asks, “Has someone hurt you?”
I look away, shaking my head. “That obvious?”
He nods, no pity or humor in his eyes. “You hated me on the spot, and while I don’t remember what you say happened, I’m sure that didn’t paint me in the greatest light.
I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t drink.
I’m getting my master’s with a 3.9 GPA. I am focused on my goals, and while, yeah, I don’t know what I want career-wise, I’m trying.
I know I may have gotten around, but that was before I met you. ”
I refuse to look at him. “Don’t change your ways for me,” I say, and then I do what I don’t want to do. I meet his gaze. “You won’t get me to change my mind, so don’t give up your extracurriculars when you don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says almost immediately. “I want to know you.”
“Don’t,” I say just as quickly. “I know your type. I know how men like you work and how deeply I’d fall when you’ll have no plans to. It’s the chase, the fact that I told you no, that has you wanting me.”
He shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he says, so fucking calm it’s making me want to scream.
“I want you because I love the fact that I have no idea what is going to come out of your mouth, and it gets me really excited to find out. I really like that you are wicked smart about hockey and don’t back down to me.
But most of all, I really enjoy the way your eyes light up when you smile. ”
I blink, and then I remember the truth. “Those are the same traits guys in the past have told me attracted them before I became too much. Or when they got in my pants, they realized I’d continue wanting attention, so they cut me off.”
When a slow grin moves across his lips, I feel my world exploding from the inside out. Such confidence rolls off him as he taps the table and nods. “Cool.”
Yeah, that doesn’t sound safe. “Cool?”
“Yup,” he says, slowly getting up, and of course, he has shorts on, and yes, the tattoo is still there, all sexy and lickable.
Wow. Someone needs to get off.
Me. I’m that someone.
When his palms come crashing down on the table, I sit back, surprised, as he locks his eyes with mine. Pure determination flows in those depths, leaving me fighting to remember how to breathe as I press back into the booth. These are the eyes of an athlete who will get what he wants.
Fuck. Me.
“This whole conversation has convinced me what I need to do.”
“What?” I ask breathlessly, my body vibrating with need for this man I shouldn’t want.
He moves his eyes from my eyes to my mouth, then back again, sending heat straight to my core.
“I’ve gotta prove I’m not like any other guy you know, have known, or been screwed over by.
I have to show you who I am. Who I can be for you.
With you. Because of you. That our plans will become one.
” My jaw goes slack, and his smile widens.
My eyes about fall out of my head when he reaches up, using the tip of his finger to shut my mouth.
“If you don’t want my tongue in your mouth, you’d better close it. ”
Then the asshole winks.
And he walks away like he didn’t just make me come with his words.
When he reaches the door, he looks back. “Oh, do you watch football?”
I’m still too shocked to answer and can only shake my head. It’s a lie. I know it, he knows it—hell, all of The Penalty Perk knows it, but his smirk is unstoppable.
“Maybe you can come watch me?”
Before I can even try to form words, he leaves, just as the sounds of The Penalty Perk come whirling back to life around me. I hadn’t even realized I’d tuned them out, only focusing on him.
Shit.
This is bad.
So bad.
Which is why I start DoorDashing my coffee and I block him on every social media outlet I have, except for my podcast messenger, because what if I’m wrong and it’s not him?
I like talking to DoesMyBreathStink60.
Who isn’t Dawson Sinclair.
I am such a glutton for punishment.