Chapter 15 Harlan #2
I groan. Men. What is wrong with some of them? “Well, I have a person to cook for.”
She sighs softly. “Tell me more about Abby. What she’s like?”
A smile takes over my face. “Are you trying to win my heart? Asking me to talk about my little lady? Well, if you insist,” I say, with an of course I’ll go on and on shrug.
“She’s feisty and snuggly and smart. She wants to get a dog, but that’s hard with me being on the road.
She’d take a cat, though, she says. Or a hedgehog, if that’s easier. ”
“Are hedgehogs easier on the road?”
I stop, raising the red plastic spatula, wondering what the hell the answer is to that. “You know, I have no idea about the care and feeding of hedgehogs. But I know this: She wants to name it Dolly. Cat, dog, or hedgie.”
Her eyes pop. “Shut the front door. She’s a Dolly Parton fan?”
I give her a look, complete with a full-on eye roll. “As if she’d be anything but. My kid has taste, Katie.”
Katie’s eyes twinkle, and I want to keep putting that light there. “The best taste,” she says.
“No doubt. And hey, I’d still think she was the bomb even if she loved Green Day or Nickelback, but whew.” I stop to wipe a hand across my brow. “Glad she does not.”
“Bless her heart,” Katie says, full-on Texas style, then her eyes sweep the kitchen and land on a framed photo of Abby on the edge of the island counter. My little bear is perched in a saddle on a pony, reins in her hands. “That is adorable. Does she want a pony too?”
“She might have mentioned it. But she says she’ll name it Mia.”
Katie tilts her head, RCA dog style. “That’s going to need a little more explanation. Not Dolly, or Cinnamon Apple, or Midnight Ranger, or some other very horselike name?”
Ah, this name might open a can of worms. But what’s the harm in bringing it up? I’m not getting my kid a pony, no matter how much of a softie I am. And my kid isn’t getting a sibling from me, so the reason Abby likes the name doesn’t truly matter.
I turn off the flame, slide the eggs onto a plate. “Apparently, Mia is her dream name for a little sister. She has a half brother, so she says”—I dip into my daughter’s sassy but sweet voice—“if you won’t give me a little sister, I’ll gladly take a pony named Mia instead.”
An awkward laugh falls from Katie’s lips, but she seems to pull it back quickly, rearranging her features into a gentle smile. “Well, I guess Abby knows what she wants.”
I’m glad Katie doesn’t ask about more kids.
Whether I want them.
Whether Abby’s dreams align with any potential reality.
It’s not exactly the easiest conversation to have with a woman I just slept with. Or took out on a date. Was tonight a date? It felt a little like one at the costume shop and the lounge.
“She definitely does,” I say, then serve my after-midnight guest her late dinner, handing her a red-and-white-checkered napkin and a fork. “Here you go, ma’am, courtesy of the chef extraordinaire at Harlan’s Late-Night Diner of Deliciousness.”
“Why thank you very much, sexy chef,” she says, then adds a little coyly, “I hope there’s dessert on the menu.”
I scoff as I sit next to her, setting a plate down for me too. “Of course you get multiple desserts, sweetheart.”
She takes a bite, then moans. “Mmm. This is delish. Also, you can screw like a very sexy beast,” she says with a naughty grin, and I shoot her an approving nod for using the best term ever.
“Plus, you can show a woman a good time, and you can change positions on the football field. What’s that all about, Mister Running Back Turned Receiver?
I read the news reports when you switched, but was curious if you liked it better. ”
I key in on one delicious detail she just revealed. “Ah, so you read about me? While you were off in Los Angeles being a flamingo in your tree pose or what-have-you, and sassing everyone with your funny yoga sayings?”
Her smile lights up the block. “So you read about me too?”
I shrug, all offhand and casual. “I checked you out from time to time.”
She dips her face, hiding a smile. Funny—Katie is not a shy woman. Not at all. But her temporary display of it is insanely adorable.
“I like that image,” she says, all soft and vulnerable. That’s something she’s been a lot of today, but now she’s vulnerable about us.
And I like it.
Except, I can’t like it too much.
The timing is still all wrong.
As much as I want to ask her out, not only am I leaving for training camp, but she’s clearly not in the place for how about dinner next month when I’m back?
At least, I don’t think so.
“And I like the image of you looking me up now and then,” I say, taking another bite of the eggs, then move on to her question.
“To answer, I love being a receiver. I played both positions in college, but receiver is way more fun than running back. Plus, there are many, many more opportunities for play-making when you have a passing QB. Which is most of the QBs these days, so it’s a helluva good time. ”
“But is that why the team switched you? So it’d be more fun?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “No, that’s just a bonus that I dig.
The coach had the idea after a game several years ago against the Hawks.
Cooper was throwing to Jones, but he was swarmed by the secondary.
I was open. Coop threw to me instead, and I ran it in for a touchdown. About a thirty-yard pass.”
“And that did it?”
“Started it at least. The next game we had an injured receiver, so I stepped into the role again. Boom. It was like magic.”
She grins, a little bit like she’s keeping a secret. “Definitely.”
I nudge her with my elbow, quirk a brow. “What’s that look for? Like you’ve got an ace up your sleeve?”
She raises her face, her smile magnetic. “Just that I’ve seen your games. You and Cooper are definitely like magic.”
That makes me feel damn good. Sure, my stats tell me I’m good at my job. The results make it clear. Two rings don’t lie either, especially since I was MVP in one of those games. But hell, hearing a woman you’re hot for say she admires the way you work elicits a special kind of thrill.
Because football isn’t just a game. It’s my livelihood. It’s my passion. It’s the thing that’s made me tick my whole damn life.
But…what will I do without it?
All good things come to an end, and eventually, this game will too.
The last thing I want is to overstay my welcome.
I do not want to be the guy who hobbles off the field, booed by fans shouting good riddance to an over-the-hill dude.
I want to go out on a high note.
End it on my terms.
But when? That’s the question, and it’s one I just don’t have the answer to.
Great.
Here I am, my mind cycling back to work issues on a night when I’d like to escape them.
“So, what about you?” I ask, since I’d much rather be her distraction tonight.
I’d rather be her distraction another night too. And maybe another after that.
But I’m pretty sure that’s not in the playbook.