2. Bella Rose
Chapter 2
Bella Rose
S trong arms snake around my waist, and my fall is curtailed by a lap. A gruff voice rumbles against my back. “Shit. I didn’t think you’d?—”
“Be so clumsy? No such luck,” I say, breathless and embarrassed, as I scramble from his hold and plop my ass next to him on the roof. I brace myself, heart racing, as I say a prayer of thanks that I didn’t fall to my death.
“Then maybe don’t try the roof?” he says, sounding both accusing and amused.
“Maybe don’t scare people climbing onto it?” The icy glare I mean to deliver is waylaid by the shock of connecting the deep voice to its owner. Even in the darkness and moonlight, I would recognize this alpha.
Nash Wells. He’s a six-four, two-hundred-fifty-pound defensive end. He has a reputation as a hothead and almost lost his scholarship to LU when he got kicked out of the state finals for fighting. Nash is as gorgeous as his teammate Dane Daniels, but in that brooding bad-boy kind of way. He’s already covered in tattoos, and his unruly brown hair sneaks out of a backward ball cap to curl around his ears. Just looking at him, I know he’s the type who lures people in with his charm and leaves them once they’re hooked.
And here I am, falling into his lap. Could I be any more embarrassing?
His lips twitch. “Maybe you’re right. It still begs the question of why you’re up here if you’re clumsy.”
I shrug, giving up any illusion of being cool. “I’d rather risk it out here than in there. What’s your excuse?”
“Same.” He barks an infectious laugh, forcing a begrudging smile onto my lips.
I cover the slip with a scoff, giving him a disbelieving, “Okay.”
“Hey, now.” He pretends offense, cocking his brow.
I shake my head, trying not to be amused by his antics. “Pleaseeee. What risk? Everyone knows you.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He latches onto my words, leaning in too close with an amused smirk, his voice so deep it makes butterflies swoop in my stomach. “Oh yeah? What do you know?”
Do I play it cool? Come off as charming or funny? No. I word-vomit like a total idiot. “You were Defensive Player of the Year for the state with twenty-one sacks and forty-five QB pressures. You had eighty-two tackles, four pass breakups, and a ninety-two win percentage.”
His eyes widen, and I realize my second—or is it third?—mistake on this roof. Maybe taking a fatal fall would have been less embarrassing than looking like a total psycho stalker.
“You’re either obsessed with football or me.” He leans in too close, that smirk still on his handsome face. The moment drags on, his nearness like a pause button on time. “I know which one I prefer.” His warm breath rustles my hair and sends a tingle up my spine.
Oh, gods. Is he flirting with me? It feels like he might be flirting with me.
I freeze, trying not to breathe him in, but he’s everywhere. Nash smells like grapefruit, sea salt, and driftwood, along with something homey I can’t name. It creates a deep warmth in my belly, making it feel as though I’m bathing in sunshine on a summer day.
He pulls away before I’m ready, a look of confusion on his face. “You use scent blockers?”
“Nope.” Shame burns my cheeks, and my arms fold reflexively around my middle. “I haven’t perfumed.”
I try to will my body into showing him how much I like his attention. If ever there was a time for my perfume to come in, now would be good. Instead, my neutral scent only gives the slightest indication of my mortification. I bite my tongue so I don’t cry. If one of the hottest guys in school flirting with me doesn’t make me perfume… I think I might be broken.
“Whoa.” Nash’s big hand grabs my chin, tugging until I meet his eyes in the dark. His alpha designation is at the forefront, his presence imposing. “You’re all right,” he reassures, his deep voice full of understanding. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”He lets go of my chin and looks away at the party raging below. “Besides, it’s not my business. I’m just a dumbass from Crawley. Blame it for my lack of manners.”
“I thought we didn’t have to explain ourselves,” I offer, not liking the darkness that has crept into his voice.
He chuckles, but it’s hollow. “Don’t explain yourself to those pricks.” He turns back to me, all the darkness bottled up into a rueful smile. “I’m the exception. You should tell me all your secrets.”
He’s back to being a flirt, but there’s no ridicule or pressure in it. I have a hunch he’s like this with everyone. It gives me the courage to tease him back. “You’re good at football and convinced of your own exceptionalism. That’s something you don’t see every day.”
“Guess you got me clocked.” He shrugs, completely unbothered. “I can’t say the same about you.”
Right. I’m a social misfit.
“What’s your name, football girl?” He fiddles with his ball cap, his hands sliding through his wild hair as he gives me a too-long once-over that makes my pulse trip. “Tell me why you know all my stats, or else I’ll have to assume it’s because you write them in your diary.”
My jaw drops and my cheeks flame.
That fuels him and he leans in, his voice so sinful it feels like a caress. “Do you memorize them while you doodle little hearts? Did you title the page ‘Mrs. Nash Wells’?”
I choke, spluttering. “Wow. Your delusions are detailed.”
“Very.” He chuckles and hooks his arm around his knee, giving me puppy dog eyes, all innocence and charm. “You seem to know everything about me while I have to guess. How is that fair?” He pouts, and it does something to me to see this alpha look like a scolded puppy.
Blowing out a breath, I decide it’s better to rip the bandage off and go all in. I know almost everything there is to know about our team. I rattle off stats for their last season, starting with first string. “Dane Daniels, quarterback. He was named Offensive Player of the Year for the state and finished the season with two hundred ninety-four completions in four hundred five attempts. He averaged more than ten yards per attempt and almost three hundred yards a game, with thirty-eight touchdowns and five interceptions. Timmy Roads, tight end?—”
Nash cuts in, rumbling with feigned outrage, “You know all the stats for the team? Well, now I don’t feel exceptional at all.” He shakes his head, staring at me as if I’m from another planet. “So, you’re, like, a mathematician? A genius?”
“No genius here. I just know football.” I brace myself on my palms, leaning back to look at the stars and away from Nash’s penetrating stare. It feels as though he’s the first person to really look at me in years, and it’s freaking me out.
“You’re killing me here!”
“Hardly.” I roll my eyes.
He leans in, and his weight presses me further against the roof. His eyes dip to my lips then flit immediately back to mine. “Put me out of my misery, beautiful, and tell me your name.”
My breath catches. He’s definitely flirting.
Bella Rose starts to fall from my lips. I bite it back, and before I think about it too hard, I say, “My name is Rosie, and the football stats aren’t a mystery. I’m at every game.”
“Band?” he guesses.
“Sadly, I can’t find a note or hold a tune. I film the games for one of my grandfathers. Friday night football is a standing family tradition I can’t avoid.”
My grandfather Rufus heads the defensive line, but the whole extended family comes to all the games to watch Marigold cheer. I’m the first omega in my family in decades not to be on the squad or named as one of the princesses of the homecoming court. I’ve become my mother’s greatest disappointment.
“Wait. Coach R is your grandpa?” Nash sits up, eyeing me. “You’re always up in the box?”
“That’s me. This season.”
“Nice game film. Now that I think about it, I can tell the difference.”
I brush it off even though my cheeks heat at his praise. Maybe it’s silly, but I take pride in my creations. “I like art. Football is a kind of art.”
I didn’t see that at first. One day, my grandpa’s intern from the college didn’t show, and I filled in in a pinch. It was a way to avoid the stands by hiding in the press box. That weekend gave me another boon when I realized I’d spent most of the dreaded family brunch talking with my grandpas about the game instead of being miserable with my cousin. My grandpa asked me to keep filming, so I took the opportunity to carve out a hiding spot, but the more I watched, the more I saw the beauty in the game.
Nash’s deep voice pulls me back to him, and he does that thing again with his ball cap. It’s so distracting it makes me miss his question.
“What?” I say, trying to control the urge to run my fingers through his hair.
“Doesn’t that mean Marigold is your cousin? Isn’t this her party?” he repeats.
The reminder plops me face-first back into reality. “Yup. Her sweet sixteen.”
“So, you two aren’t on good terms?” He raises his brow.
I look away from him, staring toward the lake. “We’re fine. This just isn’t my thing.”
“Rosie, why are you hiding up here?” he asks gruffly.
The weight of his stare makes me hot, but it’s a steaming pressure urging me to tell the truth. He lets the silence linger, but his alpha presence sucks up all the available air.
“It’s my sixteenth birthday too,” I say, quietly enough I can pretend I didn’t say it aloud. But the words sit heavy in the air anyway.
“Then why are you up here? What happened?”
I have no reason for why I blurt out the truth, except that it feels as though he might understand. “My family threw us a joint party, and she asked me to tag along afterward, but I’m not really friends with her friends.”I shrug it off but refuse to look his way. “I’m technically undesignated until my perfume comes in, remember?”
“Yeah, no. That’s bullshit.” He’s up, tugging me with him on unsteady feet. “No matter your designation, it’s still your birthday.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, giving in to the full force of an alpha on a mission.
He crawls back through the window before turning to hold out his hand for me. “To celebrate.”