Chapter 2
TWO
CAL
My head feels like someone’s using it as a tackling dummy.
I groan and cautiously open one eye. Vegas.
I close it again. I’m never drinking again.
Well... Probably not never. But I’m definitely never drinking that much again. I hadn’t meant to. God knows I don’t bounce back from a hangover the same way I did in college now that I’m almost thirty.
But the situation called for it. Bachelor party. Too many strangers. Way too many damn eyes and way too many people trying to talk to me.
With another moan, I roll onto my back and squint around the hotel suite.
The curtains are half-open. Sunlight pours through the windows in what feels like a personal attack.
I blindly reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand. Miss. I try again. Success.
Half the bottle disappears before I finally sit up. That’s when I notice my phone. It’s lying face down beside the lamp.
I vaguely remember... No. Actually, I don’t.
The bachelor party is mostly a blur after midnight. Which is strange for me. I don’t usually drink enough to forget anything.
Apparently that’s what happens when your best friend gets married. You make poor decisions in solidarity.
My phone buzzes. I frown. It’s a new message from someone called “Wrong Number.”
“What the fuck?”
I don’t remember saving anyone under that name. Curiosity gets the better of me. I unlock the screen.
“Oh, no.”
Please tell me I didn’t.
I did.
Someone accidentally texted me. I made a joke. And not a very good one. She apologized. I teased her again.
She laughed. And then... Somewhere around midnight, the conversation starts drifting.
Imagine my fingers slide up your smooth thigh. Are you wet for me?
Soaking. And are you hard?
Like a rock. Like I want to be inside you. Need to feel you around my—
I scroll through and read every message. Each one—from me—gets more and more X-rated. So much, I can feel my dick throbbing on the re-read. And the memory of last night, and a sexy dream, turns out to be real.
I drag both hands down my face. “I’ve lost my damn mind.”
A knock sounds on the suite door.
“Come in,” I mumble through my fingers.
Beau—one of the best wide receivers in the game—walks inside carrying a cardboard tray loaded with coffees, greasy breakfast sandwiches and enough electrolyte drinks to hydrate an entire offensive line.
He takes one look at me and laughs. “You look terrible.”
“You planned this.”
“I absolutely planned this.” He tosses me a breakfast sandwich. “Catering’s on its way with the IVs.”
“I love you.”
“I know.” He drops into the chair across from me. “So...”
“No.” I shake my head and immediately wish I hadn’t.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I do.”
“You really don’t.”
I hold up my phone. “You were going to ask about this.”
His grin grows. “I was.”
I sigh. “I should’ve stopped responding.”
“Probably.”
“I didn’t.”
“Nope.”
I scroll farther. “I definitely should’ve stopped responding.”
“You definitely should’ve.”
I glare at him. “You aren’t helping.”
“I don’t want to help.” He laughs. “I want details.”
“There aren’t any.”
“Cal.”
“There aren’t.”
“You spent two hours texting somebody.”
“I was drinking.”
“Exactly. Enough to finally let loose.” He leans back in his chair. “So who is she?”
“I have no idea.”
His brows shoot up. “You didn’t ask?”
“It never came up.”
“You flirted with a complete stranger whose name you don’t even know?”
I look down at the conversation again. He doesn’t know the half of it. “Looks like it.”
Beau starts laughing so hard he nearly spills his coffee. “This is incredible.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s the funniest thing that’s happened all offseason.”
“I’m glad somebody’s enjoying it.”
He studies me for another second before his expression softens. “You know...”
“What?”
“You actually sound happy.”
“I have a concussion.”
“You don’t.”
“It feels like I do.” Only worse, because now someone has messages from me that contain phrases like, “I want to slide my tongue up your thigh and taste you.”
“I’ve known you for six years.” He nods toward my phone. “I’ve never seen you smile at a text message.”
I immediately wipe all expression from my face. “I wasn’t smiling.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was...grimacing.”
“Sure.” He stands. “The IV people should be here any minute.”
He reaches the door. “Oh by the way.”
“What?”
“If ‘Wrong Number’ texts back, tell her to be gentle with you.”
I throw a pillow at him. He ducks. The door slams behind him.
Idiot.
My phone buzzes again. I stare at it. I shouldn’t answer. I barely remember last night.
She probably woke up this morning wondering why she’d spent half the night talking to an idiot.
I unlock the phone anyway.
Good morning. I hope you didn’t puke.
I smile. Damn it. I smile.
I type back.
Morning. Not as far as I know.
Head hurt?
How’d you know?
Lucky guess. Mine does too.
Something warm settles in my chest.
Somehow... knowing I’m not the only one with regrets makes mine feel a little smaller.
So, What’s your favorite movie?
That’s impossible to answer.
No it’s not.
Fine. “The Princess Bride.”
Shut up.
What?
That’s mine too.
Inconceivable.
lol Okay, that was pretty good.
Training camp starts two days later.
By then I fully expect the wrong number to become nothing more than a funny story. Instead, she replies to my texts before I finish breakfast.
Then again during lunch. Then after my day of training and meetings.
By the end of the week, checking my phone becomes part of my routine.
Wake up. Lift. Meetings. Practice. Film. Text.
What's your favorite food?
Cereal.
That's breakfast.
It's can be dinner if you eat it at night.
Are you twelve?
Emotionally? Probably.
I still don’t know her name yet. She’s still the woman I know as “Wrong Number.”
Did you have an imaginary friend?
No.
Boring.
I know. But I had a dog.
That’s something.
What about you?
Mine was a dragon named Hank.
Hank?
Short for Hanklin.
“You’re smiling again.”
I glance up from my locker. Three teammates are watching me.
One whistles. “Damn.”
My brow furrows. “I don’t smile.”
“You are right now.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, you were.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
One of them points at my phone. “She’s texting.”
I instinctively lock the screen.
That only makes them laugh harder. “I knew it!”
“There is a girl!”
“There isn’t.”
Coach walks into the locker room. “I want you all out there in five.”
Saved by the whistle.
Unfortunately, the locker room isn’t my only problem.
“You know what your issue is?” My agent falls into step beside me after practice. “You look angry.”
“I am.”
“Not right now.”
“I am about this conversation.”
He ignores that. “You need to smile more.”
“I smile plenty.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“When?”
I think about it. This morning. At lunch. During recovery.
Every single time my phone buzzed.
“I smile.”
“Not in public.” He hands me a folder. “Charity gala.”
“No.”
“Cal.”
“I’m here to win football games.”
“And I’m here to make sure America doesn’t think you’re a jerk.”
“They already do.”
“Exactly.”
He points at me.
“Which is why you need people to see the real you.”
If only he knew. The real me can barely make eye contact with strangers.
The real me has spent three weeks texting a woman I’ve never met because somehow that’s easier than talking to anyone in person.
Can I ask you something random?
Those are usually the best questions.
What's your biggest fear?
Being misunderstood.
How about you?
That nobody will ever choose me first.
By the third week of camp, I finally change her contact name.
Not because “Wrong Number” isn’t accurate.
Because it doesn’t fit anymore.
Jo.
She finally told me her first name. I still haven’t told her mine. Not because I’m trying to hide it.
Mostly because I like what we have. I like talking to someone who doesn’t know who I am.
Who doesn’t care what I do. Who doesn’t ask for tickets.
Who doesn’t assume she already knows me because she’s watched post-game interviews.
To Jo, I’m just... Cal.
Or at least, I will be.
The first preseason game ends with a loss.
I shower. Dress. Finally grab my phone.
Without thinking, I type.
Today sucked.
Her reply comes less than a minute later.
Bad day at the office?
I chuckle. If only she knew. I rub the back of my neck.
Maybe it’s time she does. After all, she’s told me about her marketing job. She’s told me her name. She’s even told me about the time she took the wrong bus home from school and ended up selling Shwarma at the mall. As a third grader
It’s not much of an office.
Do you watch any football?