CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dublin
“No. Yes. I promise.” I laugh as my mom sighs on the other end of the phone.
“I know you’re Miss I-can-handle-life-myself, but it won’t kill you to pick up a phone more often.”
“I text daily.” I grin. There’s nothing like a dose of Mom love to brighten my day.
“You do, but it’s not the same as hearing your voice,” my mom says. “Plus, I need a little more estrogen in my day to balance out all the testosterone now.”
Testosterone. My dad and two male dogs.
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you’re managing just fine. I’m the one surrounded by hulking football players all day, so I win the who deals with more of it contest.”
She laughs and one of the dogs barks in the background. “Dealing with it as in dating someone?”
“Oops. Look. It’s time for me to get back to work,” I joke but my mind immediately goes to Cole.
And I smile.
“You need to play a little more and work a little less. Balance is important.”
“Uh-huh. You just want a grandchild to dote over.”
“More like I just want my daughter to be happy and have someone who makes her laugh on tough days and celebrates with her on the good ones.”
“I am happy, Mom,” I say. “And I have to get back to work.”
“Is this the quarterback investigation? The one who was on the news?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, honey, he’s so handsome.”
“Oh my God. I’m going now.” I laugh, already seeing her wheels turning. “Tell Dad hi for me, and I’m sorry I missed him.”
“Will do. Love you.”
I hang up the phone with a stupid smile on my face and another roll of my eyes.
Of course, she’d notice how handsome Cole is and bring it up. It’s like my whole life is surrounded by him right now and I can’t escape it.
I sigh into the quiet, so grateful for the generous offer from the Rebels to use their offsite facility. Who would refuse the offer of absolute privacy?
No players wandering through. No shouting down the hallway. No sideways looks or whispered conversations that stop when I walk in.
Just silence. Just control.
Exactly what I need.
Besides, it’s nice to take a break and head to the restroom or stand outside to feel the sun on my face without having to take all my notes and laptop with me so wandering eyes don’t try and sneak a peek. I put nothing past people.
But the main reason I’m here is their state-of-the-art film room. Endless access to internal angles the broadcast never shows—tight shots, sideline cuts, reps broken down player by player because the team has a crew of workers dedicated to tracking and documenting one player the whole game.
The other bonus is there’s no chance of running into Cole while navigating the halls. No chance of seeing his gorgeous backside or a flash of his smile, reminding me exactly how his mouth felt like on mine.
It’s been a week since that night and this is exactly what I need.
Yes. I’m avoiding him.
Yes, I keep telling myself we finished what we started five years ago.
Yes, I’m pretending the line between us is still solid when I’m not entirely sure I want it to be.
So avoiding is so much easier than seeing the thing I want and not being able to have it.
The irony is that no matter how hard I avoid him in person, he’s all I’ve been staring at for hours upon hours.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat. They’re tired from straining, but I can’t stop. I’m onto something. I think. The same something that was niggling in the back of my mind the night I went to their headquarters in the rainstorm.
I cue up the next clip and double-check the timestamp on my spreadsheet of the betting line being placed.
Patterns are emerging.
One after another.
Click.
The door at my back opens and I jump, whipping my head up and expecting to see a serial killer standing there.
“Cole.” His name is a sigh of relief.
For a second.
And then my spine stiffens. “Wait? How did you know I was here?”
He shuts the door behind him like it’s nothing, like he belongs in whatever room he walks into.
In that split second, I notice everything I shouldn’t.
The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders.
His lips and the stubble on his jaw.
The faint fatigue in his eyes.
The way my body simply aches at the sight of him.
“Carter mentioned you were over here. Said you had some questions for me, so he gave me this,” he says, holding up a keycard.
“I didn’t . . .” I pause and can see how Carter might have misinterpreted what I said as needing to see Cole.
And of course, Cole came, because why wouldn’t he walk straight into the one place I came to get away from him?
It’s been seven nights of not seeing him. Since I touched him. Of not letting myself remember exactly how that felt.
My gaze lingers a fraction too long.
“You’re staring,” he says.
I clear my throat. “I’m assessing.” I turn back to the screen at the far end of the room before he can read anything else.
“Sure you are.”
I glance over my shoulder just in time to catch the corners of his lips turn up, but it’s the look in his eyes as they drag down my lips, to my chest, and then back up that has me shifting in my seat.
This place is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Great. That means he can probably hear how fast my heart is beating.
“You—uh—did well yesterday,” I say, desperate for a neutral topic.
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter when I know it did. “I played decent.”
“Completion percentage was up. No interceptions. You guys won.” I shrug. “That sounds more than decent to me.”
“It’s never good enough,” he says.
I immediately think of his father. Of the cruel words and the harsh insults.
“You have to take the wins when they come, Cole.”
“Hmm.” He nods but I can see he doesn’t believe it. How can he when I can assume he’s lived a life berated like that? “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He levels me with a stare. “Like you’re drawing conclusions that don’t need to be drawn.”
I open my mouth to refute him but then close it. He’s right. I’m not a therapist. I don’t get to assume. I hold my hands up. “You’re right.”
“Am I allowed to ask if there were any bets placed?” he asks, hand lifting to run through his hair, giving me a biceps show . . . and a perfect reminder of how they felt caged on either side of me.
Because that was hot.
I’d never seen myself as an arm girl, but his are pretty damn incredible.
“There weren’t any unusual spikes. No big movement or player props made that suggest inside information.”
He exhales and his shoulders sag, the relief visible. “So I played well and no one made money off me. I guess that’s a win, right?”
“Or,” I say, lifting the remote and rewinding the film a few seconds, “it means something else.”
His eyes narrow as he takes a step closer. “What?”
I motion toward the screen with the remote. “That’s why I’m watching film. Trying to prove a theory.”
“That’s not broadcast footage,” he says.
“No, you’d never catch it there. This is the team’s footage. It’s dedicated angles of you.”
I expect another question, a quip, something—what I don’t expect is him moving closer. Not just a step, but right up to me. My breath hitches, and my focus sharpens.
His hands brace on either side of me on the table in front of me—another innocent reminder of the other night that he’s oblivious to.
He doesn’t touch me though, but that doesn’t stop the scent of his soap from filling my nose.
“What are we looking at?” he murmurs, voice rough.
I don’t turn, don’t trust myself to, because if I do, I’ll know exactly how little space there is between us.
As it is, I can already feel him. The warmth of his body. The quiet presence of him standing at my back without actually touching me.
And he knows it.
That’s the problem.
He dips his head slightly, his mouth close to my ear so that the heat of his breath sends a shiver down my spine.
Every bit of it is intentional.
My grip on the remote tightens.
“Hmm?” he prompts.
What was the question, again? It’s not like I can think with him crowding my space and senses.
What are we looking at?
“Film,” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible. “You should try it sometime.”
He emits a soft huff of amusement. “I watch it all the time. But it’s hard to focus on this one when you’re blocking the view.”
“Then maybe you should stand up taller.” Please don’t touch me. I won’t be able refuse you. “I’m not blocking anything.”
“You’re blocking plenty,” he murmurs.
Don’t react, Dublin.
My pulse doesn’t listen. It jumps but at least I remain still outwardly.
His hands framing my arms scoot in closer so that now we’re so close I can feel the hair on his arms against mine and the fabric of his shirt against my back.
“Cole.” A warning. A plea. “I told you we can’t do this.”
“Do what?” he asks, voice threaded with just enough teasing to make my jaw tighten. “Watch film?”
I emit a slow exhale, refusing to take the bait. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Then maybe you should be more specific,” he murmurs softly. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re analyzing my performance without me.”
I shake my head as if the action will physically reset the moment. It doesn’t. My body still wants and my mind still remembers. “Cole—”
“Yes?” He lifts one of his hands and very carefully moves my hair off my neck without touching my skin. It’s intimate. Simple.
“You’re distracting me—”
“Good.” He traces a finger up and down the midline of my neck. I fight the urge to lean into it.
“What I’m trying to tell you is I might have something,” I say, deciding to let him in on this—especially if my hypothesis is true. Cole’s body tenses as I hit play before he can distract me even more. “Watch.”
The film rolls. Cole’s on the line of scrimmage positioned behind his center. He takes the snap and drops back into the pocket. He releases the ball. Incomplete.
I lean forward slightly, putting space between us—or trying to—while pointing at the screen.
“There!” I say quickly. “Did you see it?”
“Bad throw,” he mutters.
“Not the throw.” I rewind, pause just before the release, and point. “There.”